Chapter Twenty #2
Adam and I watch them go, each of us shaking our heads and laughing a little before we set off to see what’s behind the next gate.
As we walk toward the northern wall, the sounds of residents chatting on the terrace drift down toward us.
On the far side of the reflecting pool, Eva pushes an elderly man in a wheelchair, and the two pause their animated conversation to wave to us.
We head for the gate that’s farthest away from the home. “Poor old thing,” Adam says, eyeing the mossy wood. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
I can’t help but smile at the affection in his voice. It’s almost old habit by now: I hold the gate in place as Adam slowly works the ancient pins loose from their hinges. A few minutes later, we lower the gate carefully to the ground.
“Oh,” I say softly.
Even in its current, neglected state, I can see that the garden is meant to be rambling and informal—a cottage garden.
Ribbons of pea-gravel pathways curl around funny little hills of mounded land.
The mounds are mostly overtaken by massive tufts of crabgrass, but here and there, sprays of tulips and daffodils push up from long-buried bulbs and speckle the small hills with color.
As Adam and I walk around, I breathe in the bouquet of flowers that I will find below the weeds—dahlias, cosmos, daisies, peonies.
The old brick walls are nearly entirely hidden within thick, tangled coats of honeysuckle and rock rose.
Adam lets out a low whistle. “This looks like a project. How much more time did you say you have on your contract?”
“Two weeks.” My chest aches as I say the words.
He’s quiet for a minute and then asks, “What happens when you’re finished? Do you have another project lined up?”
I think of my inbox, filled with emails from interested clients. Emails that I would usually respond to right away, but lately I’ve been ignoring.
“No. Not yet.” I tell Adam that I travel all over the West Coast, designing and installing gardens. “I’m not sure where I’ll go next.”
This news seems to surprise him. “But Bantom Bay is your home base?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a home base. I travel light, and my clients help me find a local, furnished apartment for the length of the project.”
“You’re a nomad,” Adam says. He sounds impressed, and also, I think, disappointed.
The word rings hollow in my ears. “I suppose,” I say quietly, slowing to a stop and turning to face him.
“For now I’m staying with my father in the house I grew up in in Bantom Bay.
My mom died a little over six months ago, and my dad…
Lately, he hasn’t been interacting with the world in any real way.
He’s become reclusive. And probably depressed.
I won’t leave until I know he’s feeling better. ”
Adam waits a beat, as though to make sure I’m finished speaking. His dark eyes are full of kindness and sorrow. “I’m sorry, Lucy. About your mom. And about your dad.”
I nod and thank him.
“Grief is a slippery thing,” he says. “The timeline is different for everyone.”
I wait for him to go on, and he does.
“My wife, Beth, died in a car accident two years ago. Sophie was only five at the time. She was with Beth in the car.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him softly.
He nods and looks out over the garden, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
“It’s been a hard couple of years,” he says eventually, meeting my eyes again.
“After the initial shock wore off and we both had time to grieve and to adjust to Beth being gone, Sophie seemed to be doing… okay. She went back to school. She seemed like a kid again. She seemed like herself. I went back to work, and I felt like we were starting to adjust to our new normal, just the two of us. We moved to this new house, and Sophie seemed… happy. But then a few months ago, something shifted. I still don’t understand what.
I began getting calls to pick her up from school.
They told me she couldn’t stop crying. She started speaking less and less until eventually she hardly spoke at all… ”
He trails off, swallows. “The doctors call it selective mutism. It can happen to children after a traumatic experience. No one can explain why it was so delayed. She stopped speaking more than a year and a half after Beth died.”
“Poor Sophie,” I say. I think of the shadow in her expression, the weary slope of her shoulders.
Adam draws in a deep breath. “That’s why she’s doing art therapy.
I can’t tell if it’s helping, but at least I know it’s not hurting.
And I have to do something. I’d try anything.
To be honest, the happiest I’ve seen her in months was when she was here, spending time with Gully last week.
” He smiles. “Maybe we should get a dog.”
“They do have a way of nudging one toward happiness,” I say, smiling.
“Dogs and gardens,” Adam says.
“Dogs and gardens,” I agree.
I look around, keenly aware of the flowers that await my attention below the weeds. It will be an exuberant garden, full of color and the bright, fragrant, breathtaking extravagance that is spring.
Agatha Pike is still here, in each of these carefully designed landscapes. I can feel her intention. This cottage garden—with its joyful abundance of flowers and whimsical hills—feels full of magic, and it’s meant to be experienced by the residents of the Oceanview Home.
When you’re young, it’s easy to believe that stuffed animals can speak, that the world brims with hope and goodness, that wishes can come true.
But who needs and deserves to feel hopeful just as much as the young?
People who have lived long lives. People who have worked hard, who have experienced loss and regret, who have made mistakes.
These gardens are meant for the residents of this home.
“Lucy,” Adam says, stepping closer. There’s a line of worry between his brows. “What’s wrong?”
I turn away, but it’s no use—I can’t hide my emotion.
I don’t really want to anyway. I don’t want to lie to Adam.
It doesn’t feel right, especially since the woman he considers to be his grandmother is about to have her entire life uprooted.
I think of Jill saying that she no longer cares to keep Donovan’s secret.
I hope her words mean that she’ll forgive me for what I’m about to do.
“Donovan Pike is selling the home,” I say quietly, and watch confusion churn within Adam’s eyes as he takes in my words.
“Jill Li told me everything a few days ago. All of this—the restoration of the grounds, the gates—it’s all for the sale.
The home is going to be turned into a hotel and all of that land”—I gesture toward the field of wildflowers and the woods that lead down to the ocean beyond the walls—“will become a golf course.”
“But what about everyone who lives here?” Adam asks, the furrow between his brows deepening.
“They’ll all have to find somewhere else to go. The home is closing. I’m so sorry, Adam. I know how Marjorie loves it here. And she belongs here, with Cynthia and all of their friends.”
Adam rubs the back of his neck. “Can he really do this?”
“Jill says he can. Apparently the developers are coming in two weeks to finalize the deal. I don’t know how long everyone will have to move out after that, but Donovan has promised to allow time for the residents to find new places to live.
” I cross my arms. “It’s hard to trust anything he says now. ”
Adam turns toward the home. He stares up at it, emotion passing over his face. “I’ll have to tell Marjorie,” he says. “I can’t keep this from her.”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
Adam looks at me searchingly. “And once Marjorie knows…”
We pass a sad smile between us.
“Everyone will know.”