Chapter Sixteen
Seaside daisy: A flowering plant native to the West Coast in the aster family with cushion, lavender-pink blossoms whose herbaceous, grassy scent inspires awakening
From the moment I step into the Oceanview Home lobby on Monday morning, I know that something has changed.
The air, normally laced with that awful starch-and-disinfectant scent, smells warm and malty with rich, sweet layers of chocolate and yeast. And instead of the usual heavy silence broken only by the lonely screech of utensils scraping against plates, I hear the rise and fall of voices and… is that jazz?
“Morning, Lucy!” Noreen calls from behind the large front desk. She’s wiping something from the corner of her lip, and her hair has fallen a bit from its usual scraped-back bun and now frames her face in soft wisps.
“Hi, Noreen.” I study her for a beat, thrown off by the change in her appearance, and then allow the scent of chocolate and yeast to pull me deeper into the home. Beside me, Gully sniffs the air hungrily.
I stop in front of the dining room’s open doors, and feel my mouth fall open in surprise.
There are more residents than I’ve ever seen in the room, and instead of tiredly leaning over their plates, they’re chatting in pairs and groups, exclaiming happily as they pick up—what are those?
Croissants? The bright sound of Ella Fitzgerald’s voice flits and soars over the room.
And the windows! They’re each open a couple of inches, the curtains thrown apart, and the scents of lavender and lemon and sea salt pour into the room, mixing in delicate swirls with the richer scents of butter and sugar, yeast and chocolate.
A door on the far wall of the dining room swings open and out steps Vikram, a crisp black apron tied around his waist and his silver hair neatly combed.
The sallowness I saw around his eyes has faded; his skin looks dewy and healthy, like soil that has been freshly watered.
Even the hollowness of his cheeks seems less dramatic than when I saw him last. He still moves stiffly, but he seems steadier now, his stride more purposeful and his expression relaxed. I hope it means he is in less pain.
“Lucy!” he calls from across the room, catching sight of me immediately.
All eyes in the room swing toward me then, and it seems as though the vibrant hum of chatter increases.
I walk toward Vikram, but before I can say a word the door behind him opens again and out steps Adele.
There is a beautiful dark green paisley apron tied around her waist and a gleaming wooden cane in one of her hands.
“Did I hear—oh! You are here!” she exclaims in her elegant voice, beaming at me. She’s still tiny and delicate-looking, but her face is all coy smile and sparkling blue eyes. “Well?” she says. “Did you try the croissants?”
I shake my head. “I just walked in. They smell divine, though. Did you make them?”
“Adele has been my hands in the kitchen all weekend,” Vikram tells me. His dark eyes glisten with emotion. “She is a natural.”
Adele blushes. “It’s only because I have such an accomplished teacher.” She looks at me. “I love baking. Who knew? I’ve really never tried it before.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say.
Vikram chuckles. “Don’t look so surprised, Lucy. It was your idea, after all.”
“Hardly,” I protest. “I thought Adele might like to hear about your recipes since I knew she enjoyed pastries. I didn’t suggest that you teach her.
But,” I add quickly, “I’m glad you did.” I look around the room.
“It seems like everyone is glad. What are you putting in these croissants, anyway? Everyone is very chatty.”
“Oh,” says Adele, “it’s just—”
“We’ll never tell,” Vikram interrupts, nudging Adele gently with his elbow. “The recipe is our secret now.”
“I was only going to say the secret is Ella Fitzgerald.” Adele tuts. Then she smiles at me. “It turns out Vikram likes listening to jazz while he bakes.”
“Oh yes,” Vikram says. “The croissants are made possible by Adele, Ella, and my secret recipe. Oh, and it will soon be Peter’s secret, too. That’s Adele’s grandson. We’re going to teach him the recipe when he visits in a few weeks.”
Adele nods. “I never know what to do with the poor boy. I know coming here bores him silly. What teenage boy wants to visit his dusty old grandmother in the retirement home? He’s a musician, and I know he’d rather be playing his music.
” She holds up one tiny finger, her eyes twinkling.
“But I also know he inherited my sweet tooth. And he’s clever—I think he’ll like the science of baking quite a bit. ”
“Maybe you’ll want to take Peter for a walk around the gardens, too,” Vikram suggests to Adele. He looks at me. “They’ll all be open by then, won’t they?”
“In a few weeks? Definitely.” I’m surprised to feel a slight pang as I say the words. In three weeks, my work here will be finished, and then what? I’ll move on, just as I always have.
“Well, you can’t get to work without a croissant,” insists Adele.
“Two!” says Vikram.
Adele takes my elbow and steers me to a sideboard where a silver tray is piled with golden croissants. “We might have made a few more than strictly necessary,” she admits. “It’s just such fun.”
“The way I’m eating them,” Vikram says, “they’ll be gone in an hour.” He picks up a croissant and bites into it, closing his eyes as he chews. “I can’t seem to stop,” he murmurs, smiling.
I try very hard not to stare, but I’m just so relieved that Vikram’s hunger strike is over.
“Better hurry before they’re gone,” Adele says, placing a croissant onto a dark blue paper napkin and handing it to me.
I bite right into the most buttery, flaky, chocolaty croissant I’ve ever tasted. It’s even better than the ones Roger makes at the Shark Bite Café, though I’d never admit it to him. “This is absolutely delicious.”
Adele lifts her chin proudly. “Soon Vikram is going to teach me how to make his famous chai spice cake.”
“Your mother’s favorite, yes?” Vikram asks me.
I nod. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“I hope I can pull it off,” Adele says, her voice faltering.
“Adele,” Vikram says solemnly, affection in his dark eyes and a flake of croissant on his top lip. “I have all the faith in the world in you.”
As Adele boldly lifts a napkin to his lip, I turn and make my way outside.
My second surprise of the day occurs when I step onto the terrace.
Though I’d hoped that the much-discussed tables and chairs might have been returned to their rightful spots, the terrace remains sadly empty.
But after I take a few more steps, I see what does lie ahead and feel my breath catch in my chest.
The reflecting pool. It’s been cleaned and filled with water—impossibly still water that perfectly reflects the morning sky just as Marjorie described.
It’s extraordinary, that pool. A long ribbon of blue sky and cottony white clouds seem to stretch through the elegantly sculpted beds of lavender and lemon trees and pristine, crisscrossing green lines of boxwood hedges.
From somewhere I have not seen yet, the green, herbaceous scent of daisies, the scent of awakening, wafts toward me, and that’s when I realize the reflecting pool isn’t the only change out here.
There are residents everywhere. Not just one or two accompanied by an aide, but five, six… no, seven. Some strolling, some in wheelchairs, some pushing walkers. Laughing, chatting, or contentedly lost in their own thoughts.
A shiver of happiness travels through me.
This is a garden in its most beautiful state, being enjoyed by visitors.
The flowers seem to agree—their colors are bolder, their blooms larger, their fragrances headier than they were even last week, as though they are embracing the home’s residents, encouraging them to linger, to stay.
Marjorie and Cynthia are out walking, and when they spot me standing at the top of the stairs, they wave up to me as though they’ve known me forever. I lift my hand and wave back, a warm feeling spreading within me.
I glance down at Gully by my side, and he looks up at me, his expression patient, a slight breeze ruffling his shiny fawn-colored fur.
I remember that I have Donovan’s number now, and I take out my phone to text him.
Thank you for filling the reflecting pool. It looks beautiful.
I pause, then add:
This is Lucy.
I’m glad, he writes back immediately. I watch the three little dots indicating that he’s writing more appear and then disappear. I wait, but nothing more appears.
The residents love it, I write. Agatha Pike would be happy to see how her gardens are filled with visitors again.
Those dots rapidly appear again and then blink for a long while. He seems to be writing a lot.
And then all of a sudden, the dots once again disappear. As I stare at my phone, it begins to buzz with an incoming call.
I lift the phone to my ear. “Good morning, Donovan.”
“Lucy,” he says smoothly. “Is the lock still broken on the doors to the terrace? Jill assured me that she had it fixed over the weekend.”
“The lock?” I repeat. Why would Jill have lied to Donovan about having fixed the lock? I decide to evade his question with one of my own. “But don’t you want the residents outside enjoying the grounds? Isn’t that the whole point of restoring them?”
“The residents can enjoy the view from inside.” His voice is patient and a bit patronizing, but I sense that there are other more charged emotions pressing up from below the surface of his calm tone.
“There are large windows in the dining room, and in the sitting rooms, and in all of the apartments,” he goes on.
“The home is full of comfortable rooms from which the residents can enjoy the view.”
“But that’s not what your great-great-grandmother wanted,” I say, surprised. “She wanted the people who live here to go outside, to walk the grounds, to spend their days in nature.”
“Agatha Pike lived in a very different time, Lucy. The gardens are a hazard.”
“But they’re fully enclosed,” I press. “There’s no way for anyone to get lost or to leave.”
Now his voice edges toward impatience. “Someone could fall. Many of the residents have balance issues. They’re fragile. One fall could change everything. The home is meant to be beautiful, but most importantly, more than anything else, it needs to be safe.”
I suppose I can’t argue with that, but there’s something about his words that ring false to me.
I suspect that his concerns are related not so much to the health of the residents, but to his own liability.
Is this really about protecting the residents?
Or is it about protecting Donovan? His wealth? His business?
I think of how vibrant the home is this morning, and how cheerful the grounds appear now that they’re dotted with strolling residents.
I have a strong sense that this is only the beginning—that the home will continue to come to life, the happiness of the residents increasing, if its doors are left open.
“Being locked inside is not living,” I say. “You can’t keep the residents in a bubble. The people who live here still want to live. I’ve met them. I’ve talked to them. They’re so happy to be outside.”
Donovan sighs. “Lucy, it’s not that I don’t want the residents to be happy… but we can agree that the paths aren’t all cleared yet, can’t we? You’re just beginning your second week of work. You can’t tell me that you truly believe every garden is safe for visitors.”
I think of the branches that still hang low in the woodland garden. The slippery moss that grows on it path.
“Maybe not yet,” I admit. “But soon…”
“Soon,” Donovan agrees. “A few more weeks, and then…” He trails off, his voice heavy with meaning.
And then… what? Is it possible that Donovan wants the gardens to be revealed only when they are all restored? A grand unveiling, once he deems every corner “safe” and ready to be enjoyed?
“Are you planning to throw a spring party for the residents?” I ask. “The kind they used to have here?”
There is a long pause.
“Who told you about that?”
“One of the residents. Marjorie Swenson. She told me how much everyone used to enjoy the annual party, how wonderful it was to bring everyone together in the gardens with their families and friends.”
“Ah.” He pauses. “Well, Lucy, I have to be honest with you. I have absolutely”—he goes on slowly with something like a smile in his voice—“no intention of telling you what it is that I have up my sleeve.”
I release my breath. I’m disappointed, but I can’t help smiling. He’s all but said it, hasn’t he? There will be a spring party.
“I need to go,” he says. “We both have plenty of work to do over the next few weeks, don’t we?”
“We do,” I agree.
Am I delighted by the possibility of a spring party for the residents? Yes.
Does it mean that I think the residents should be kept inside until then? Of course not.
But it’s not my job to make sure the doors to the home are locked.
After all, as Jill keeps reminding me, I was only hired to restore the gardens.