Chapter Seventeen #2
“Adam?” Vince calls from beyond the wall. “Need a hand carrying this up to your truck?”
“I’ll be right there,” Adam calls back. He looks a little regretful, and I have the feeling that he wouldn’t have minded staying with me a bit longer. He nods toward the gate that separates the woodland and rose gardens. “Should we leave it open or shut?”
I think for a moment.
“Open,” I decide.
Marjorie and Cynthia walk over to join me as Adam is leaving, and I notice with pleasure that Cynthia’s face now has a healthy flush. We stand together, watching as Adam and Vince carry the gate up the ramp.
“Such a good man,” Marjorie says proudly.
“We just discovered another gate in the rose garden,” I tell her, “and he said he’s happy to restore it, too. You definitely won the grandson lotto with that one.”
Marjorie pets Gully. Then she looks up at me and says, “Actually Adam isn’t really my grandson.”
I tilt my head. “He’s not?”
“I think of him like a grandson, but we’re not related by blood.
He was married to my granddaughter, Beth.
She died in a car accident two years ago.
Little Sophie was in the car with her. Terrible, just terrible.
” Marjorie takes a deep breath. “It’s an absolute miracle that Sophie survived, that she’s here with us today. ”
My body feels heavy with sadness. I’d suspected that Adam’s wife had died, but I had not known that Sophie was with her when it happened. It’s no wonder the little girl is troubled.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “For all of you. I had no idea.”
“How could you know?” Marjorie asks. “Adam isn’t exactly a chatterbox, and Sophie—well, she doesn’t say much of anything these days, does she?
I’d love to say I’ve taken Adam under my wing and watched over him, but really the opposite is true.
Do you know he calls me every morning? Every single morning.
Just to say hello. My daughter, Joanne—Beth’s mother—lives on the East Coast, and I don’t see her nearly as often as I’d like.
Adam has… well, he’s adopted me—there’s no other way to put it, really—and I don’t think I’ve ever received a greater gift in my entire life than that.
” She takes another deep breath, and I see Cynthia’s arm tighten around hers. Marjorie smiles sadly at her friend.
“Cynthia has heard me go on and on about all of this for a long time now,” she says.
“Beth was my only grandchild. Until Adam, that is. She was a lovely girl. Whip-smart and practical and a fantastic mother. She and Adam had a great love. But it’s been two years, and I hate to see how sad the two of them—Adam and Sophie—remain.
I don’t expect them to just move on and leave their memories of my darling Beth in the dust, but my goodness, they have a lot of life left ahead of them!
What a waste it would be if they spent even one more day stuck in the past.”
I’m not at all sure what to say to this.
There’s not a day that goes by without me thinking of my mother, wishing she were still here.
It’s not so easy to let go, when what you really want is for the past to remain in the present, to remain secure within your heart.
I think of the wedding ring that I noticed Adam wearing.
If I had a piece of jewelry that symbolized the love I felt for my mother, I would wear it forever.
I think of the pain I’d seen in Sophie’s eyes and realize why the little girl looked so familiar to me. I was looking at a girl who had lost her mom suddenly. A girl who had not had the chance to say goodbye. A girl a lot like the one I see when I look in the mirror.
“Anyway,” Marjorie goes on, reaching out to give my hand a robust squeeze.
“I’ll admit it wasn’t entirely for the benefit of the home that I volunteered Adam for the restoration job.
He seems to be in a rut with his work, and could stand to shake his life up a bit and do something outside his usual routine.
I know he thinks I’m too pushy, but I can’t help wanting to help the people I love.
” She shrugs, her eyes twinkling as she puffs out her chest and lifts her chin. “I’m pushy because I care.”
“You should definitely embroider that on a pillow,” I tell her, smiling.
Marjorie throws her head back and laughs. “I should! It would look great in my apartment. Oh, I like you, Lucy.” She turns to Cynthia and nods. “You were right, as usual.” Then she leans close to me. “Cynthia had a good feeling about you from the moment she laid eyes on you.”
I look at Cynthia. “You did?”
Cynthia is still for a moment, her eyes thoughtful on mine, and then she nods. “Yes,” she says.
“She’s our resident vibe reader,” Marjorie explains. “Vibes aren’t my thing, but it’s hard to argue when the woman is always right. Almost everyone at the home has gotten Cynthia’s stamp of approval one way or another. Even the ones who shouldn’t,” she adds, shooting Cynthia a meaningful look.
“Do you mean Mr. Fitz?” I ask, remembering how rude he was to Marjorie on my first day at the home.
She looks at me, surprised, then nods. “I have been nothing but kind to that man, but he’s just mean all the way through.”
I think of the way Fitz’s expression becomes soft and very nearly loving when he sees Gully. He might be mean on the surface, but I don’t believe he’s mean all the way through.
“It’s no big shock that he never has any visitors,” Marjorie continues huffily. “He can’t stand people! Any and all people!”
“He never has visitors?”
Marjorie looks at me. “Oh boy. You want to befriend him, don’t you? Just be careful, dear. There were all sorts of rumors about Fitz’s past when he first came to live here. Dark rumors,” she says mysteriously, but then presses her lips together like she wouldn’t dream of gossiping.
I think of that crackle of darkness I heard in his voice when he spoke of his wife, Millie.
It’s hard to imagine Fitz in his current, somewhat frail state being someone capable of actual violence.
But I know that he was once a different version of the man that I’ve met here at the home, just as quiet Cynthia was once someone Jill described as “mischievous,” and Adele was once a young woman on her honeymoon in France, and Vikram was a famous chef, and Marjorie…
well, Marjorie might still be exactly who she’s always been. Tiny, strong, spirited Marjorie.
“Anyway, how did we get onto the subject of Fitz?” she asks, pulling a face. “Let’s talk more about my very handsome and available grandson.”
On my way home that afternoon, I stop at Corde’s Hardware.
It’s an old-fashioned shop that carries everything from electric drills to bubble gum, and I follow the scent of potting soil straight back to the gardening aisle, Gully on my heels.
How many afternoons did I pass here as a kid, spending my hard-earned chore money on bamboo plant stakes, seeds, and spades?
Roberta Corde, who has run the store for as long as I can remember, awaits me at the counter.
She’s a brusque, no-nonsense lady around my dad’s age who has always treated me and my interests seriously, even when I was a little girl spending far too long deciding between the merits of two trowels.
Her son Logan was a few years ahead of me in high school.
I wonder if he’ll run the place once Roberta retires.
“Hey there, Lucy. I heard you were back in town. It’s good to see you.” She looks down at the assortment of biodegradable nursery pots I’ve set on the counter. “What’s all this for?”
As she digs into a jar of dog treats and tosses one to Gully, I explain that I’m working in the gardens of the Oceanview Home. “I need to thin out some of the overgrown plants, but I can’t bear to throw them away,” I tell her. “I’ll pot them until I figure out what to do with them.”
Roberta flashes a rare smile. “You’re just like your dad. He’s never one to throw anything away, either, is he? A repair-instead-of-replace guy. He’s always in here picking up something to help him with some project at home.”
“Has he been in lately?” I ask, hoping that maybe he’s been driving into town while I’m at work.
But Roberta thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. “I guess not, now that you mention it. He was on a roll there a while back. Keeping himself busy, I suppose.” She gives me a knowing, sympathetic look. “I’m sure he just has everything he needs now.”
I nod, thinking of how his tools have taken over the pantry. He certainly hasn’t run out of supplies, but he does seem to be running out of projects.
“Say,” Roberta says as she rings me up. “Do you keep in touch with Jack Harris? I know Logan did for a while, but I’m not sure he does anymore.”
I scoop up the pots from the counter so quickly that one drops to the floor, making a loud rattle that seems to echo my heart.
I crouch down to pick it up, grateful to have a moment to collect myself.
In all the towns I’ve lived in over the last ten years, no one has ever asked me about Jack.
Of course they haven’t; no one knew him.
But here in Bantom Bay, I wonder if anyone will ever look at me without thinking of him, if I’ll ever be able to walk into a shop without feeling like I’m keeping a terrible secret.
Gully presses his cold, wet nose to my cheek, and I stroke his head, then straighten.
“No,” I tell Roberta quietly. In my head, I hear Jack shouting at me to stay away from him.
I see the anger burning in his eyes, the way he ignored me in the halls in the week before his accident. “No, we’re not in touch.”