Elizabeth is a feisty ninety-year-old widow keeping a secret. Developers have tendered a lucrative offer for her beloved Blue Ridge mountain home in Asheville, North Carolina. She knows her children will pressure her to sell it against her wishes. But any hope of protecting it clashes with her gnawing awareness of the time she has left.
As Elizabeth agonizes over what to do, her granddaughter, Amanda, ends an unhappy relationship and yearns for a fresh start. She moves into the farmhouse with her grandmother, not far from the hospital where she works. Heartened by an exciting new relationship, Amanda examines her desires and intends not to repeat a history of foregoing her dream. She wants forever, but her unwillingness to compromise may mean losing out on a chance at true love.
Part 1950s historical romance and part contemporary romance, grandmother and granddaughter’s stories unfold and interlace, connecting past with present. As Elizabeth begins to see her younger self reflected in her granddaughter, she wonders if Amanda could hold the key to her legacy.
An emotional, heartwarming tale of resilience and hope, Elizabeth’s Mountain will charm and immerse readers in a dual timeline of interweaving romances.
Elizabeth is a feisty ninety-year-old widow keeping a secret. Developers have tendered a lucrative offer for her beloved Blue Ridge mountain home in Asheville, North Carolina. She knows her children will pressure her to sell it against her wishes. But any hope of protecting it clashes with her gnawing awareness of the time she has left.
As Elizabeth agonizes over what to do, her granddaughter, Amanda, ends an unhappy relationship and yearns for a fresh start. She moves into the farmhouse with her grandmother, not far from the hospital where she works. Heartened by an exciting new relationship, Amanda examines her desires and intends not to repeat a history of foregoing her dream. She wants forever, but her unwillingness to compromise may mean losing out on a chance at true love.
Part 1950s historical romance and part contemporary romance, grandmother and granddaughter’s stories unfold and interlace, connecting past with present. As Elizabeth begins to see her younger self reflected in her granddaughter, she wonders if Amanda could hold the key to her legacy.
An emotional, heartwarming tale of resilience and hope, Elizabeth’s Mountain will charm and immerse readers in a dual timeline of interweaving romances.
PROLOGUE
Ninety is older than I ever saw myself - nearly two decades longer than my parents lived. But here I am. I still go on . . .
I can hear the hullabaloo coming from my kitchen, my hearing aid picks up a word or two – cake . . . candles . . . the shushing of little ones. Squinting in the bathroom mirror, I push a wisp of hair off my forehead exposing an old scar under a thin white hairline. The face that looks back at me is etched with little creases and lines. Every one of them could tell a story. I wince. I know you’re still in there somewhere, Elizabeth.
“Nana, do you need any help?” Amanda raps on the door as I smear balm over my dry lips. Amanda is my daughter Caroline’s youngest. At thirty-four and unmarried, she’s a nurturer by nature and in her profession as a nurse practitioner. Also my loving caregiver and companion. I’ve always been independent and self-sufficient - a doer and a go-getter. I’m the driver, the navigator, the planner. Or I was. Old age is humbling. “Coming, dear,” I say as I reach for my cane.
Amanda and I walk toward my kitchen as lights are dimmed and singing erupts. It’s a miracle of sorts that we got the whole family together. The resounding voices of my great-grandchildren make me smile as the words “Make a wish” travel to my ears. How many wishes is a person afforded in their lifetime? Surely, I’ve used mine up.
I have but one wish left now. Ever since I received a query letter from developers interested in purchasing my house and the two acres of land it sits on, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I haven’t spoken of it to my children. Not yet. The initial purchase price offer would make their heads spin. Oh Lord, help me to know what to do while there’s still time. I puff out the candles on an elaborate sheet cake iced with pink roses.
Caroline and Amanda have taken care of everything, from the colossal family-photo collage to the beautiful bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses. For today I can relish all these niceties and put my dilemma aside.
I wobble over to my wingback chair dressed with lace doilies in my favorite part of the house – the sunroom off the kitchen. Looking out over my deck, I’m struck as if for the first time by the mesmerizing colors and forms on display. To think my children had wanted to celebrate out in a fancy hall when you can see beautiful mountains and streams right in my backyard. Good thing I quashed that idea, just as I did when they suggested an assisted living facility to me a few years back.
“I never tire of this view,” says my son, Joseph, inserting his hands inside his pants pockets while gazing outside. An explosion of wildflowers extending as far as the Appalachian Mountains waves to us. I’ve always believed the New Year starts with spring, the old supplanted with the new.
Joseph plops himself down in the chair closest to me while some of the others trickle in. He reaches for my hand and leans in. “You were right, Mom . . . about having the party here.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say.
“Well, it’s official. You’re a nonagenarian.” It’s striking how my son’s sixty-five-year-old face resembles his father’s - the way he smiles with the right side of his mouth tilting up, his warm, intelligent brown eyes, silvery hairs framing his temples, his casual, approachable demeanor. It dazzles me.
“Nonagenarian . . . my foot.” His oldest daughter, Kathy, walks over to us. “I only know that ninety is amazing,” she says right before she snatches her youngest, high-spirited son, Tommy, in mid-fall, knocking into and upsetting a table display of some of my mementos. Raising two young kids after her recent divorce observably challenges her. “All that you’ve seen and lived through . . . it’s extraordinary when you think about it.”
“Every day’s a blessing,” I say.
“Ninety looks good on you, Nana,” Kathy says, while she rights some of the framed photos that had fallen over onto my lace-covered table. Among special photos are treasured keepsakes of some of the high points of my life, including a plaque of recognition for my twenty-five years of dedicated service as a nurse.
Amanda enters the sunroom and opens another window to give us a cross breeze. I take in a deep, measured breath, the whiff of fresh mountain air, honeysuckle, and azalea filling my nostrils. It greets me like an old friend.
Amanda moved in with me several months ago. She was in a relationship for three long, stagnant years before they mutually broke it off. I daresay, Amanda’s boyfriend was about as exciting as a yawn. Biased as I am, I know Amanda is a special person, giving and unselfish to the detriment sometimes of her own happiness. Is it wrong for me to want her to experience love? Not the half-hearted, tolerant kind, but real, true love in its most fervent form. I think not.
They were living together before Amanda moved in with me. I don’t like to judge, but I never understood the living-together-with-no-commitment mentality. Not one to hold back, I told her, several times, but Amanda would just heave a sigh and shake her head. Not in a dismissive, rude way, because Amanda was never unkind. Traits missing in her mother, who sapped the lot of us on many occasions.
My grandson, Joey, walks over to me with his wide-eyed fiancé, Olivia, his arm wrapped casually around her petite waist. There is nothing more joyous than watching two young people in love. You can see it in their eyes and in their smiles.
“I love your home,” Olivia says. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“Thank you. I’m glad we were all able to come together and celebrate your engagement to my grandson as well. It was such wonderful news to me. I haven’t seen my Joey in – well, it’s been too long.” I motion for her to come closer to my lips and whisper into her ear. “He was always my favorite.”
“Nana,” Joey overhears, shaking his head. “You say that to all of us.”
It’s true, but we do have our favorites, even if we don’t like to admit it. Joey’s approachable nature is so like his father’s and grandfather’s. It touches me.
“Say, you know those comic books you gave me when you and Amanda cleaned out your attic? I had a chance to look them up,” Joey says. “The 1952 Good Girl Art issue from GI in Battle is a real gem, but the one Superman first appeared in is even rarer. It dates back to 1938.”
“Are they valuable?” Amanda asks while she gathers up discarded cake plates.
“To a collector they are. And they’re in pretty decent shape too.”
“And to think we almost tossed them out,” Amanda lets slip.
“We do need to be on our way,” Joey says, his long-fingered hands clasping mine. He’s got his father’s and grandfather’s hands. “Olivia and I have to be at work tomorrow.” He gives me a careful hug, the new normal since the pandemic. But it’s still a really good hug. “I love you, Nana.”
My son and I exchange a secretive look. Joey and Olivia plan to wed sometime next spring. I’m giving Joey the keys to my husband’s ‘53 Chevy Corvette, still sitting in my three-car garage, as a surprise wedding gift.
Amanda rushes over with her phone camera. “One more picture of everyone before you go.”
Another memento for my overflowing table.
***
Evening falls and I look out through the trees of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Caroline and Amanda are in the kitchen straightening up. The others left in a string of tender hugs and goodbyes, leaving me alone and retrospective in the sunroom.
I talk to my husband in my mind as I often do in my dreams.
“I felt your presence at my party today - the essence of you. Look at how our family continues to grow, flourishing in ways we never could have foreseen. Amanda is our nurse practitioner, more than four years now. Joey is finishing medical school. He wants to be an orthopedic surgeon. Might you and I have had some influence on them perhaps?”
“Are you ready to retire for the night?” Amanda asks, coming into the sunroom and gazing out the windows at the festive lights strung over the deck for my party. “Mom’s almost through in the kitchen. There’s so much food left over; I told her to take most of it. You and I could never eat it all.” She turns to face me. “Did you enjoy your special day?”
“Oh, yes. Having everyone together again like old times - that was the best part.”
“It was really nice seeing everybody,” Amanda says. “Joey and Olivia’s wedding next spring will be the next time, I suppose.”
“I’m almost done in here,” Caroline shouts from the kitchen.
“I’ll finish the rest,” Amanda says.
Caroline joins us in the sunroom. “We’re heading out now.”
“Sure you and Dad don’t want to spend the night?” Amanda asks her. “You can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Dad says he’s fine to drive home tonight. Besides, he has some things he wants to do tomorrow.”
Things to do. I haven’t uttered those words in a long while. A lifetime ago, when my days were filled with so many things to do it seemed like I never had enough time for it all. And now, I’m forced to make some very hard decisions that will impact my family. Decisions filling up every part of my mind. If only this were easy.
Caroline flurries over to Amanda and gives her a parting hug. “Dad’s waiting.” Then she comes over to me and pecks me on the cheek. “You looked really nice today, Mom. Blue is your color.” Caroline’s energy from today is unwavering. I imagine her collapsing as soon as her car rolls out of Asheville. Stopping short of the doorway, she turns around and walks back toward the vase of pink roses on my portraits table. “This would make a lovely centerpiece on your dining room table,” she says, snatching it up as she heads out of the room with it.
“But Nana rarely goes into the dining room,” Amanda calls after her.
Amanda meets my eyes. “For goodness sake,” she says once Caroline is out of earshot. “What good are the roses going to do you in the dining room where you won’t even see them?” She comes over to help me out of my chair. “Soon as the coast is clear I’m moving them back in here, where you can at least appreciate them.”
I chuckle. Caroline has my mother-in-law’s traits – possessive and interfering. Now, in her late sixties, she could be her grandmother’s clone. The power of genetics is an amazing thing to watch.
“She wouldn’t be my daughter and your mother if she didn’t have a say in things,” I say. “Can’t blame her for trying.”
Steadying my arm with one hand, Amanda passes my cane over to me with her other. “Sure I can.”
Amanda assists me with getting ready for bed.
“Besides the roses, I think maybe my bed should also be moved into the sunroom since that’s where I always want to be,” I say, reclining into my pillow.
“Nana, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were kidding.”
I give her an affectionate gaze, ever more grateful for our shared living arrangement. The dispirited loneliness I felt during the Coronavirus lockdown is still too recent in my memory, lingering like the dreams that transported me back to when I was eighteen years old, the persistent threat of polio on everyone’s mind, triggering genuine fear and worry.
“Night, Nana,” Amanda says, turning to leave.
“Good night, dear.”
In the hodgepodge of my memories, it astounds me that seventy years ago can seem like only yesterday, but as I reminisce about my past I don’t focus on the hardships anymore. It wasn’t always that way.
I was young during the worst years of the Great Depression, where my story begins, at a time when despair and gloom were strongly felt and unconsciously passed down to the children. Back then, I didn’t know there were other ways to feel . . . until I did.
As someone who has found more than a modicum of magic nestled in the mountains, the opportunity to read this book before publication was like the shining light on the side of the mountain on its front cover: irresistible.
The themes of love and loss are explored deeply across several generations, a moving reminder that both are timeless and fundamental elements of the human condition. Each of the characters is well developed and the prose is poetically composed, leaving the reader captivated at times by the power of thoughts and words when arranged in a way that breaks through an outer shell and burrows deep.
The way the lives of the two main characters, Elizabeth and Amanda, parallel each other while being separated by several generations serves as proof that as much as things change around us with time, what happens on the inside of each of us is universal. The need for love and acceptance never changes.
If there is one thing that kept me from enjoying this offering more, it was the number of plot points and dramatic twists that occurred around every bend. Everything that could happen seemingly did. It almost created a sense of anticipatory anxiety for what might come next, personally keeping me from becoming fully immersed in the emotional ups and downs of each character. While most of the relationship elements in this story were predictable, Ms. Guarino navigated each of them with subtle twists and details that added to the story’s charm.
In the end, my immersion in the setting of this story was more compelling than that of the characters, but that’s only because my personal preference for more depth as opposed to breadth in terms of plot points impacted my experience while reading this novel. For someone who enjoys lots of dramatic twists without becoming distracted by them and the overarching theme of a story, Elizabeth’s Mountain could be one worth exploring.