Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera)
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Authors: Rebecca Patrick-Howard
Windwood Farm
Rebecca Patrick-Howard
Copyright © 201
4 by Rebecca Patrick-Howard
www.rebeccaphoward.net
Published by Mistletoe Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
First Edition: April 2014
Printed in the United States of America
For Joann Stepp
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
She might
depend on her eyes for most of her work, but it was her strong sense of smell that often accosted her first; the scent of death never fully left a place. As Taryn slowly drove down the long, loosely graveled driveway, taking careful observation of her surroundings, she was immediately hit by the overpowering aroma of devastation. It was an old scent and one covered up by others along the way but the closer she got to the house, the more quickly the layers peeled back until she was almost crying inside her old Dodge.
Fighting the urge to
either burst into tears or throw up, she struggled to close off that part of her mind and ignore the stench and instead tried to focus on what was ahead. First impressions were always the most important to her in this job because that’s when she saw the big picture. She would never fully get it again. Later, once she had grown accustomed to the place and her surroundings, she would pay careful attention to the details and the little nuances she often fell in love with. But it was the first look that usually hit her the hardest.
Taryn
was not disappointed in the view. The low green hills and golden valleys spread out before her in all directions, giving her a panorama of beautiful countryside in the morning sun. She wasn’t much of a morning person but she did have an appreciation for the light offered early in the day; the land was cast with a faint yellow glow then, as though the fields had been set on fire. It wouldn’t happen again until sunset. The long driveway rambled off the main road and dipped down over a small rise and at the bottom of the hill there were woods she imagined led to the next farm. The trees were thick, dark and mysterious, adding to the ambience. She was glad that at least not everything was being developed around here, but how long would that last? Off in the distance, she saw the low rising buildings of town, creeping deliberately toward the farm in their urban sprawl, getting closer and closer as if they were ready to spring at any moment and capture the last remaining remnants of the farmland that lingered. Soon, it would be difficult to see any fields at all.
That was
partly why she was there.
The grounds were well-kept with the
ir sweet smelling grass thick and low and wild roses growing up wooden plank fences faded almost white in the summer sun. With her windows down, she could smell hay and the air was hot; sticky-sweet already and it was barely June. Someone was taking care of the property and not letting it get overgrown. That was good. Hopefully it meant there wouldn’t be too many snakes. She didn’t do snakes.
The barns and
smaller outbuildings caught her eye before the house. They were in disrepair, but stood solidly despite missing several key structural frames. A chicken coop had seen better days and was lopsided, but it was trying. She applauded its tenacity. The barn looked downright sturdy. She recalled seeing a leaning barn outside of Cleveland that rivaled the tower in Pisa, and this barn didn’t look as if it were going anywhere anytime soon, either. It was weathered and bleached in the sun, and several boards were missing, but she could easily imagine it filled with equipment and horses, their hooves beating on the dirt floor, ready to get the morning started. She loved exploring barns, even the unsafe ones. Perhaps because she’d grown up in the city, she’d always felt a calling for the countryside and enjoyed herself whenever she was in it.
The house itself
was set before her, peeking stoically out from behind two overgrown oak trees, their branches reaching up into the sky as if in prayer and their leaves full, almost overpowering the house.
It was a
timeworn stone structure, built in 1849, with an addition thoughtlessly tacked on the back. That part was painted a dingy white, the paint flaked off through the years, leaving it pock-marked and naked. Nobody ever bothered to fix it, that she could tell. Indeed, the house hadn’t been lived in since the 1930s for reasons that hadn’t yet been explained to her.
Dense
, feminine, ivy with delicate fingers curved her nails around the front doors but it didn’t really matter since the doors were nailed shut with thick, ugly wooden planks that peeked grotesquely through the vines.
The fact
that the house was constructed of stone was part of what set it apart from other houses built during the same era; the fact that the architect had gone on to achieve some critical acclaim was another. A young man when he designed this house, he went on to design several more in Washington, D.C. and New York City and then won the A1A Gold Medal, awarded by the American Institutes of Architects. His designs appeared in textbooks today across the country. The local historical society was proud of this fact, and rightly so. And, of course, it
was
a fine-looking house. Taryn was immediately in love with it, the same way she fell in love with most older homes that were in disrepair and needed a little love, despite the bad feelings she’d had when she’d first turned down the drive.
Unfortunately, although the house was solid and, in her mind
, easily fixable (all old buildings were worth preserving in Taryn’s mind), a couple of rooms on the front had collapsed years ago and now lay in a rumpled heap on the sunny grass.
Parking her old
Dodge in front, she got out with her Nikon (affectionately named Miss Dixie) slung over her shoulder and began walking around, taking shots when it suited her. She was paid to paint, but she always started with photographs of her subject. Not only did they help jog her memory later, but it was also how she got to know her surroundings. She had a special relationship with her camera and through the viewfinder, she saw architectural details she might otherwise miss. Miss Dixie was often her eyes and picked up on things that Taryn herself sometimes missed. They were a team.
Goosebumps
dotted her arms and thighs as she walked through the grass. As she’d sprained her ankle once in a gopher hole while walking backward trying to get a shot of a gable, she was now mindful of any critters or mole holes that might be lurking. She knew she needed to pull herself together. The initial feeling she got when she first pulled into the driveway was waning and she tried hard to ignore it further. Her connection with the properties she worked with was both her strongest asset and her weakest link. She felt for old houses and buildings the way many people felt for animals and children. In some ways, the old houses she became attached to
were
her children, or at least her foster kids for a little while. Taryn didn’t understand how anyone couldn’t love these remnants from the past with their heartbreaking beauty and grace. And when they were abandoned and neglected, they were almost even more beautiful to her. They all had pasts and stories to her; sometimes, she let herself become close to them before she even got to know them. For someone who wasn’t much of a romantic when it came to men, she had no qualms when it came to love at first sight with buildings.
For whatever reason,
this house and farm tugged at her through the photographs the Stokes County Historical Society sent her before she’d even had the chance to see it in person. Now, seeing it in person and finding it sadly neglected, this beautiful farm had taken her a little by surprise. And it
had
been a long drive up from Tennessee. That could be the only plausible explanation for the sudden emotions she’d experienced when she’d entered the property.
She hoped.
Taryn didn’t spook easily but she did pick up on the past. It’s what made her good at her job: the ability to empathize with her subjects.
It’s not
real
death you’re sensing
, she told herself as she walked around,
it’s the death of this grand house
.
It didn’t matter that
she’d only been commissioned to paint the front of the house: She would take photos inside and out of the entire thing. She’d even spend time photographing the surrounding farm and outbuildings. Taryn believed that in order to paint anything, you must know it completely. Although the back door might not be in her finished painting, it didn’t mean it wasn’t important. She had to understand how it fit into the overall structure. Her degree in Historical Preservation taught her that everything about the building (and in this case, the entire farm) was important. Her degree in Art helped taught her appreciation of the details. Her own sense of curiosity and adventure filled in the rest.
The owner, Re
agan Jones, would meet her there tomorrow and show her around, but she’d had a hankering to get on the road and arrived a day earlier than expected, wanting to see it for herself. She worked best without an audience.
The scent was still there, picking at the edge of her mind, but she ignored it. It would come and go as long as she was there and learning to push it down was something she’d perfected over the years. She wasn’t there to talk
or think about death; she was there to bring a moment of the past to life again.
The house
appeared to be structurally sound as far as she could tell. She’d worked with enough architects to know what to look for, and a quick tour of the cellar didn’t give any indication that the floors might collapse under her should she decide to walk around upstairs. However, the wolf spiders down there were more than enough to satisfy her curiosity of that particular part of the house. (She didn’t really do spiders, either.)
It wasn’t the most beautiful house
she’d ever seen, but the stone frame made it visually interesting and the fluttering torn curtains on the second floor made her sad. The worst part of her job was in knowing that many of the structures she painted would be demolished and gone soon after she left, but it gave her solace to know at least someone cared enough to document their existence. Without that, she wouldn’t have a job.
A
stroll around the back showed her the addition; a jolting white plank work that she was sure embarrassed the original home. She imagined buildings had memories and feelings and held onto them the same way people did, although this wasn’t something she normally shared with people she didn’t know (or most she
did)
. Most people might find this romanticism a little nutty. She had just turned thirty, but she’d learned a long time ago that not everyone shared her sentiments when it came to inanimate objects.
Strangely enough, considering the fact the front doors were so tightly bound, the back door was standing wide open.
The screen door had fallen off its hinges and lay across the grass where dandelions grew through the tears and holes. She could see all the way into what appeared to be a darkened kitchen and through the small window on the other side of the room, which was not boarded up like the other windows.
She stood there on the wooden steps, a little rotted through but they still held her, and weighed her options. Should she invite herself in? After all, she
was hired to do a job here, although, to be fair, it wasn’t by the owner himself but by the Stokes County Historical Society. (She figured they must’ve come into some grant money to afford her fees.)
She wasn’t exactly a stranger when it came to inviting herself into empty, deserted places.
She’d been known to scale a fence or two and climbing into windows of abandoned houses was not unheard of back when she was younger and more nimble. But she wasn’t the spring chicken she once was and here she felt as though there were eyes on her, watching each move she made and the feeling was an uncomfortable one. A quick look around revealed hers was the only vehicle for as far as she could see, but Taryn nevertheless got the feeling she wasn’t alone.
However, t
he sense of adventure finally won out.
Figuring that asking for forgiveness was always easier than asking for permission, she decided to give it a go and continue her exploration.
Gently, she stepped up onto the cracked cement landing and peered into the darkened doorway. A peek into the shadowy room confirmed that it was a kitchen. An old tin coffee pot still set on the ancient stove and a round table was covered by a plastic red checkered table cloth that was starting to mildew. There were bird and rodent droppings all over it, and most of it was black but the pattern was still visible through the stains and debris. Some tin cans littered the table and counters, as if someone had recently walked away from them.
