Chapter 39 guānxì
guānxì
The bicentennial came in a rush of—well, rain, actually.
Only in the morning, thank goodness, but that was enough of a setback for Juliette to absolutely lose her shit for the rest of the day.
Not even Damnit could distract her, and the goose tried valiantly, and instead got a Birkenstock thrown at her.
At least Juliette didn’t have to worry about a quartet showing up late, because Wykofski arrived at work with a tux in tow, and when she asked what color it was, he replied, “The color of my soul.”
Which boded well for the rest of us.
I did my rounds after the rain, making sure the garden was watered and fed, and no unsuspecting animals had upended anything in the night, and I kept a lookout for the door, the real door, even though I knew it was pointless.
Still, I finished marking up the rest of the brochure’s map, going through the Rose Court, over the Moon Bridge, and even to the Willow Grove, ducking into every unaccounted alcove, standing on every rock, looking for the door, the garden, the willow—anything.
But the secret garden refused to be found.
I think everyone at Lilymoor knew something was wrong, because Juliette suggested that I accompany Eula into the gardens while everyone else—the caterers and hired staff—set up in the Willow Grove.
Eula wanted to have one last walk through the Hedges as Lilymoor’s steward, so I was honored to loop her arm through mine and wander the maze with her.
We walked a little, and then sat on a bench, and then went on a little more.
Her hip had healed rather nicely so far, but she still needed either someone’s arm or a walker to move around.
She likely would for the rest of her life.
As we moved through the maze, it became very apparent that like me, she was a wreck.
“Perhaps all this was a mistake,” she fretted as she sat down at another bench. She was dressed in a sparkling pink dress, her hair done and pearls in her ears, and she kept twisting her fingers. “My hip’s acting up, and I can’t get my hair right, and I think I’m coming down with something . . .”
I sat down beside her. “Everything will be fine, Eula. You have the best planner, Juliette, and you have Wykofski, the best banjo player in Maine. Why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous,” she replied petulantly, clearly nervous.
At least now I knew where both Oliver and Cyrus got their stubbornness.
“I’m just . . .” And she made a motion with her hand.
The bracelet around her wrist jingled. “Maybe I just don’t want to let go.
I’m just not ready, though I should be. I’m tired.
I’m so very tired, Sophie. But . . . this is all I have.
I don’t have anything else. I don’t know who I am if I don’t have this. ”
I squeezed her hand tightly. “You’re Eula Beck, one of the most generous and thoughtful people I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say, dear.”
“It’s not kind, it’s true. And even if you don’t have Lily-moor, you have us. You have Wykofski and Juliette and Oliver and Cyrus”—my voice wavered at his name—“and me. You’re not alone,” I said. “I mean, over five hundred people are coming tonight.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You did send out all those invites,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I didn’t think they’d all show up! Bunch of freeloaders,” she added, teasing to lighten her own mood. She tried to fight off a smile, but she couldn’t. “Five hundred, huh?”
“They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t love you and all you’ve done here.
You’ve given so many people a gift with this garden.
” Including me, for what little time I had in it.
Because now I knew that I wasn’t just brittle and broken bits, but someone who could grow in those conditions, too.
I held on to the feeling of that Someday Garden, and the softness I found in myself there.
“That’s why they’re all coming. Well, and for the cheese board because it’s a great cheese board, but mostly for you.
” I bumped my shoulder against hers gently.
“It’s okay to let other people in. To let other people help.
We might make gardens, but we shouldn’t keep ourselves behind them forever. ”
Eula hummed. “You’re pretty wise for your age, Sophie.”
“I learned a lot this summer from someone who gave me the chance to.” Even though it was coming to an end, like all things did—a train on a track I couldn’t stop.
“I’m glad you think so.” Finally, she squeezed my hand back, a thank-you, and we sat there quietly in the shade of the afternoon, listening to the yell of bugs and the hum of bees and the wind through the trees.
There was a surety in the sound of this place.
The promise of a sprout, the slowness of a bud unfurling.
There was something patient in it all. Something that let me, and my racing mind, finally quiet just to feel the dirt in my hands and the sun on my back, everything working in a symphony together, screeching with life.
This was what I wanted, I realized, like a tree shivering off its cloak of snow. This was what I’d been looking for all these years.
A love like warm sunshine.
I’d forgotten this feeling, so afraid to feel again. But once I let it back in, the world rattled me back to life.
“I think . . .” she murmured, and reached behind her neck.
She unclasped her necklace—the one with the skeleton key attached—and unwound the chain from it.
“My Henry gave me this. He said that we will all plant gardens someday that we’ll never see grow.
” Her old and gnarled hands, calloused with care, pressed the key into my hands.
I stared down at the key. “Eula, I . . .”
“It’s just a key, dear, but I’d like you to have it. Also . . .” She leveled a look at me, sharp and sincere. “Sophie, will you stay on as my head gardener for another season while Lilymoor goes through the transition to her new steward?”
My heart leapt into my throat.
“You don’t have to tell me this second. Think on it,” she went on at my prolonged silence, and closed my fingers around the key. The metal was heavier than I expected, dark and brassy, with a design of vines curling across it. “Regardless, thank you.”
I was at a loss for words.
And before I could find them again, she struck her knees with her hands and pushed herself to her feet. She outstretched her arm for me to take. “Let’s keep walking, or my hip’ll start to lock up! Besides, we should go greet Cyrus. He said he would be coming a bit early.”
I steeled myself and looped her arm through mine. “Let’s go greet him, then.”
“Let’s!” So we finished our rounds of the garden. It was easy enough to lead her back to the house, since every path wrapped back around to the Central Garden. I helped her up the stairs of the veranda, slow and steady. Out of breath, she said, “I can’t remember so many stairs!”
“You’re almost there,” I reassured her.
“It’s taking ages!”
“What are you doing?” a cold and stern voice interrupted us. Gooseflesh prickled on my skin. I knew that voice. I glanced to the top of the veranda—
And there was Cyrus Beck.
There was nothing familiar in his face. It was clean-shaven, coppery hair styled back from his forehead, perfectly curated, eyes flat and dark. The layers that the garden had peeled away had returned, tucking all of his wildness into refined edges.
Standing below him, in my sneakers and hand-me-down dress, I felt him judge me the moment he raked his eyes over my body. I fisted my hands. He tore his gaze from me and quickly hurried down the steps to his aunt, taking her other arm. “Are you supposed to be walking up steps?”
“Oh hush, Sunny dear was just helping me,” Eula replied as he helped her up the rest of the way without me.
“The question stands, Eula.”
“I’m fine!” she groused as he sat her down in one of the rocking chairs, then she smiled as she took him by the arm and squeezed it tightly. “It’s nice to see you, Rus.”
The indifference of his face melted a little. It seemed even the great Cyrus Beck couldn’t withstand the power of Eula. “It’s good to see you, too, Aunt Eula.”
She reached up and hugged him tightly around the neck. “You’re all skin and bones! What have you been eating? Have you been eating?”
“I’ve been eating,” he assured her dryly.
Probably sad desk salads, and protein bars between meetings.
“Oh, this is Miss Sophie Drear! She’s the one I’ve been telling you about,” she said, motioning to me. “She’s quite talented.”
His gaze finally returned to me, sharp and annoyed. I resisted the urge to wince, remembering the letter. “Miss Drear,” he said in greeting, as cold as an arctic tundra.
“Mr. Beck,” I replied, and there was a tense energy between us. What did Eula tell you about me? I thought, and wondered whether I lived up to it, here or in the garden.
Eula glanced between the two of us. “Well, isn’t this lovely. Rus, you have Sophie’s new contract?”
“I left it on your desk upstairs,” he replied, though he was looking at my tennis shoes. I guess he disapproved of them. There was a buzzing sound, and he reached into his pocket for his phone. He frowned at the number.
“Always working,” said Eula knowingly.
“Excuse me,” he said in reply, and answered the phone as he left down the steps again. I resisted the urge to stop him, having to remind myself that it wasn’t golden hour yet, though it was still a relief when he stopped at the base of the steps and decided to pace there instead.
Eula caught me by the hand. “Dear,” she said in a hushed tone, “I’ve got a sneaky request for you. Show him what you did in the gardens? If someone as passionate as you shows him what he’s missing, maybe then …” She trailed off hopefully.
I was actually going to keep him out of the gardens. “Sure, I’d love to,” I lied.