O’Hara was one of my favorite fictional characters. She was strong, a survivor, and if I owned my own Tara, I could be one too. This was not the home of a simpering, spineless female doormat. Owning Harmony Hill would somehow empower me to be who I needed to be.
At the beginning, I kept pinching myself as I walked across polished wooden floors, beneath vaulted ceilings, saying
I own this. I actually own this structure
. I took Arnie’s advice and hired a designer who filled my new home with furniture that looked like it had just arrived from a Parisian flea market. But—and this was nonnegotiable—I told him that everything had to be brand-spanking new. No holes or rips, no broken legs, no disgusting stains, and no rump-sprung cushions. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he’d laughed. “It’s all new. Some of it is distressed to
appear
old, but it’s new.”
Though I appreciated all my finery, it wasn’t cozy like my room at the Best Western, and for an entire month I felt like a puff of dandelion the wind had blown aloft, swirling around over an endless field. I’d walked the property of Harmony Hill with Mike before signing contracts, but I hadn’t really explored it. After the furniture trucks had come and gone, after the designer had finished his hanging of drapes and pictures, I stood at the back window with my arms crossed, looking out at my backyard. I’d always thrived on the
wildness
of the outdoors, on meandering creeks and undulating rivers and barbed-wire fences covered with honeysuckle, and the thought of such a manicured yard seemed silly. But I remembered my resolution to be strong like Scarlett, so I said,
Jennifer, bloom where you are planted
, and I went outside to explore my very own five acres.
The sun was warm, and there was a gentle breeze as I passed first the tennis courts, then a swimming pool surrounded by white pergolas, and a summerhouse with a brick terrace and built-in grill. I wandered the side yard, winding along between hedges in elegant shapes curled around bits of lawn and rock-bordered flowerbeds full of hollyhocks and snapdragons. Feeling this yearning, this ache for something I couldn’t name, I sat down on a wrought-iron bench overlooking a fish pond outlined with large stones. Arnie had claimed the pond was “a delightful addition that will give you hours of pleasure.” I stared at the orange bodies of a school of koi moving near the floating fountain in the center.
Finally I rose and went to dip my hand in the pond. That was when it hit me. What I grieved for, besides seeing Roy every day, was my daily trek to Riverfront Park. I missed grabbing my Best Western breakfast, then walking to the pedestrian bridge to be with the Cumberland River.
So, on Saturdays when I was not in the studio or on the road, I would lock the gate to Harmony Hill and drive my Lexus coupe (again, thanks to Mike Flint’s urgings) to downtown Nashville. Parking at the Best Western, I walked to Riverfront Park, and sat on the pedestrian bridge to meditate. Mostly the Cumberland glided by serenely, a shimmering thread with a reflective, calm surface, but sometimes she seemed a bit restless, cutting through the banks and hastening along. But no matter what her mood, the curve of her was indescribably beautiful, my assurance that some things in life were constants.
People asked me later if I ever felt scared hanging out at the river alone. And to be frank, I hadn’t. In the back of my mind were Roy’s cautions, along with the stories I’d heard all my life about women who were vulnerable targets for criminals, drunks, and the desperate. But none of this seemed to apply to me, because after all, I was on the path of my destiny.
Finding a Sunday routine took a little longer. There were many restless Sunday mornings of wandering around outside over the dew-drenched acres of Harmony Hill, searching for what, I did not know. The memory of the habit of attending church all my growing-up years began to yawn
At the beginning, I kept pinching myself as I walked across polished wooden floors, beneath vaulted ceilings, saying
I own this. I actually own this structure
. I took Arnie’s advice and hired a designer who filled my new home with furniture that looked like it had just arrived from a Parisian flea market. But—and this was nonnegotiable—I told him that everything had to be brand-spanking new. No holes or rips, no broken legs, no disgusting stains, and no rump-sprung cushions. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he’d laughed. “It’s all new. Some of it is distressed to
appear
old, but it’s new.”
Though I appreciated all my finery, it wasn’t cozy like my room at the Best Western, and for an entire month I felt like a puff of dandelion the wind had blown aloft, swirling around over an endless field. I’d walked the property of Harmony Hill with Mike before signing contracts, but I hadn’t really explored it. After the furniture trucks had come and gone, after the designer had finished his hanging of drapes and pictures, I stood at the back window with my arms crossed, looking out at my backyard. I’d always thrived on the
wildness
of the outdoors, on meandering creeks and undulating rivers and barbed-wire fences covered with honeysuckle, and the thought of such a manicured yard seemed silly. But I remembered my resolution to be strong like Scarlett, so I said,
Jennifer, bloom where you are planted
, and I went outside to explore my very own five acres.
The sun was warm, and there was a gentle breeze as I passed first the tennis courts, then a swimming pool surrounded by white pergolas, and a summerhouse with a brick terrace and built-in grill. I wandered the side yard, winding along between hedges in elegant shapes curled around bits of lawn and rock-bordered flowerbeds full of hollyhocks and snapdragons. Feeling this yearning, this ache for something I couldn’t name, I sat down on a wrought-iron bench overlooking a fish pond outlined with large stones. Arnie had claimed the pond was “a delightful addition that will give you hours of pleasure.” I stared at the orange bodies of a school of koi moving near the floating fountain in the center.
Finally I rose and went to dip my hand in the pond. That was when it hit me. What I grieved for, besides seeing Roy every day, was my daily trek to Riverfront Park. I missed grabbing my Best Western breakfast, then walking to the pedestrian bridge to be with the Cumberland River.
So, on Saturdays when I was not in the studio or on the road, I would lock the gate to Harmony Hill and drive my Lexus coupe (again, thanks to Mike Flint’s urgings) to downtown Nashville. Parking at the Best Western, I walked to Riverfront Park, and sat on the pedestrian bridge to meditate. Mostly the Cumberland glided by serenely, a shimmering thread with a reflective, calm surface, but sometimes she seemed a bit restless, cutting through the banks and hastening along. But no matter what her mood, the curve of her was indescribably beautiful, my assurance that some things in life were constants.
People asked me later if I ever felt scared hanging out at the river alone. And to be frank, I hadn’t. In the back of my mind were Roy’s cautions, along with the stories I’d heard all my life about women who were vulnerable targets for criminals, drunks, and the desperate. But none of this seemed to apply to me, because after all, I was on the path of my destiny.
Finding a Sunday routine took a little longer. There were many restless Sunday mornings of wandering around outside over the dew-drenched acres of Harmony Hill, searching for what, I did not know. The memory of the habit of attending church all my growing-up years began to yawn
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