Chapter Two
Lupine: A flowering plant in the pea family with upright, showy spikes of colorful blossoms whose sweet scent inspires restoration and renewal
Two days later, I head south out of Bantom Bay.
Free of town, the sun-dappled road slackens and curves through a dense forest of oaks and pines, coastal scrub and manzanita.
Bush lupines thread the dark underbrush, their tall stems of golden blossoms fluttering like candles along the way.
Here and there the trees suddenly thin, offering a glimpse of the sea.
Within hours of sending a brief email expressing my interest in learning more about the gardening job, I received an even briefer reply from a man named Donovan Pike asking me to meet him at the home.
After seeing the bland website, I had not expected much—an institutional building with a few anemic garden beds in need of plants.
Instead, when I spot the sign for the Oceanview Home and turn off the road, I’m happily astonished to discover that what awaits me at the end of a long black ribbon of driveway is a beautiful, if timeworn, country estate.
A columned portico anchors two symmetrical wings below a tiled roof.
Dreamy swaths of white roses clamber over the faded-brick facade, lending it a soft, vital glow.
Tucked in among the blossoms, rows of tall casement windows reflect the bright sky.
My spirits lift further still when I step out of my truck and find myself practically swimming in the thick perfume of those roses.
I stop and breathe in, noting wisps of other scents that gild the air—the soft comfort of lavender, the fresh spring wash of lily of the valley, the silver flash of sea salt, the bright hint of lemon.
When I step inside the home, though, all of those lovely scents are immediately snuffed out by an aroma of antiseptic so overpowering that it makes my nose wrinkle.
A heavy, somber feeling permeates the dark-paneled, oval-shaped lobby.
Behind a mahogany desk, a small woman with salt-and-pepper hair scraped back from her lined face peers at me.
She’s the only other person in the room—possibly the building, given how quiet it is.
“Hello,” she calls in a wavering voice. “Can I help you?”
My rubber boots are loud against the marble floor as I cross the lobby toward her. “Hello,” I say, smiling. “My name is Lucy. I’m here to meet with Donovan Pike.”
The woman introduces herself as Noreen and then nods toward a pair of beige armchairs that sag against the far wall. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Pike know you’re here.”
I thank her and cross the foyer. As I sink into the armchair, the strange stillness of the room makes the back of my neck prickle.
It feels more like a morgue than a home.
Why did my mother plan a visit here? I asked my father if he knew anything about the circled note in her calendar, but he seemed as baffled as I was.
“Lucy. Hello.” A tall, handsome man in a suit appears from a hallway and strides across the lobby toward me. “Donovan Pike,” he says, holding out his hand and offering me a polished smile. “Owner of the Oceanview Home. Thank you for coming in.”
I stand. Owner. I’d assumed I’d emailed with someone who managed the home’s grounds, not the owner himself. In fact, it had not occurred to me that the home had an individual owner.
Donovan’s handshake is firm, but his skin is cool and soft—far softer, I’m sure, than my own.
I tell him that I grew up in Bantom Bay, but had had no idea that the home was so beautiful.
“I’m looking forward to seeing more of the property,” I say.
As quickly as possible, I’m tempted to add.
The antiseptic smell of the lobby is making my temples throb.
“A local,” Donovan says smoothly, smile deepening. “How fitting.”
He’s in his forties or early fifties with an impressively square jaw and neat brown hair that is silver at the temples.
And his scent? Confusing. There are elements that are both refined and cunning—eucalyptus and green tea—dancing over his skin…
and lurking below, something that makes me think of blackberry brambles, of dark, ripe fruit and hidden thorns.
A beautiful woman wearing a deeply annoyed expression appears at Donovan’s side.
“Jill Li,” she says in a clipped voice, her shiny black bob swinging forward as she gives my hand a brief, chilly shake. “Director of the Oceanview Home.”
I have the distinct sense that my presence irritates her, though I can’t begin to imagine why. And what kind of garden project is this, that it requires an interview with both the owner and the director of the home?
“Please, come this way,” Donovan tells me, gesturing across the lobby. “We’ll head outside through the rear terrace doors.”
Jill falls into step beside me, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
We follow Donovan past a wide, curving staircase and the doors to an elevator, out of the lobby, and deeper into the home.
I’m beginning to think no one actually lives here when at last we pass the entrance to a large dining room.
I glance inside to see a scattering of elderly men and women sitting alone or in pairs at small tables throughout the room, here and there accompanied by a younger person in a navy caregiver uniform.
There are a few low conversations, but the room is mostly silent, and heavy curtains cover the windows, blocking the natural light.
Everything about the room seems muted. My heart clenches.
It would be very difficult to see someone I love in a place like this, sitting among people who seem to move in slow motion, colored only in grayscale, the air so heavy and still and medicinal.
“It’s so quiet,” I whisper.
Jill looks at me sharply. “It’s peaceful,” she says with such insistence that I can’t help but wonder who it is that she’s trying to convince. “Which is what the residents love about living here. We only have twenty-two residents now, but many have lived here for more than—”
Donovan shoots a pointed look over his shoulder at Jill, and she immediately clamps her mouth into a scowl, her cheeks reddening.
A silent battle strains the air; the tension between them feels long-standing and intricate, a dance they’ve been locked in for some time.
I glance between them, curious, but can gather no hints of what has put them at such odds.
We’ve entered a long, narrow room, a sunroom of sorts, with an entire wall of French doors that are nearly all covered by drawn curtains.
Donovan pulls a key card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, but as he approaches the one set of doors that isn’t covered by curtains, the doors open automatically with a swift, startling whoosh.
He turns and pins his dark eyes on Jill’s. “These doors,” he says in a controlled voice, “should be locked.”
Jill gives him a blistering look, but when she responds her voice is cool. “The lock must be broken. I’ll have Vince take a look at it.”
For a moment, ice spreads, crackling dangerously between them, but then Donovan seems to remember my presence. He flashes me a swift, apologetic smile. “Locked doors are strictly for the residents’ safety,” he explains. “You’ll see what I mean in a moment….”
He gestures for me to walk through the open doors ahead of him, and I happily oblige, practically racing out onto a large stone terrace in my eagerness to escape the harsh smell and gloominess of the home.
And then, not quite believing my own eyes, I keep going right to the terrace’s edge, my pulse quickening with every deeply fragrant breath I take.
Ahead, a wide stone stairway leads down to a vast sunken garden—well, what was once a garden.
Now it’s a frayed expanse of overgrown plants, a teeming sea of green.
As my eyes skate over the matted mounds of weeds and small, vine-enshrouded trees and the shallow, empty pool that cuts like a long, blue gash through the greenery, I see hints of what once was.
Even in its ragged state, the garden is astonishingly beautiful.
The untended, untouched look of it—and the ivy-covered walls that protect it on three sides—only add to the air of enchantment, of mystery, that rises from it like a shimmer of heat.
It looks like something from a fairy tale, like it could have been torn from one of the picture books my mother read to me when I was a child.
Here and there within the tangle of green, I spot flashes of purple.
Is this the lavender that I caught a hint of earlier when I stepped out of my truck?
I breathe in. Yes. The scent is as gentle, as soothing, as a warm bath.
There are other scents, too… alluring notes that drift toward me in soft waves.
Viburnum. Honeysuckle. Sage. Phlox. Roses, so many roses…
“You don’t even see the view, do you?” I hadn’t heard Donovan walk up beside me, and his smooth voice suddenly so close to my ear makes a shiver run down my spine. “All you see is this jungle.”
He’s right. My eye had been drawn immediately to the garden, but now I lift my gaze and see that beyond the low, ivy-covered brick wall along its western edge, past a sloping meadow and then a thick line of trees, the ocean glints like a sheet of metal.
I feel a strange shifting in my mind, a disorienting flash of déjà vu.
There’s something familiar about all of this, but I don’t know what it is.
The feeling slips away as quickly as it arrived.
“It’s stunning,” I tell Donovan. I mean all of it—the distant sea, yes, but mostly the remarkable ruin spread below us. I’ve never seen anything like it. I have to stop myself from walking straight down the steps and wading into the weeds.