Chapter Twenty-One
Lunaria: A flowering herb in the mustard family with airy, delicate violet blossoms whose sweet scent inspires sincerity
I see Donovan the moment I step out of the rose garden that afternoon, my work finished for the week. He’s standing on the terrace, scanning the sunken garden, and he goes still when he sees me. He knows, I think immediately. He knows that Jill told me about his plans.
I walk up the steps toward him. Gully stays glued to my side and doesn’t amble ahead to meet Donovan the way I know he would if it were anyone else standing there.
“Done for the day?” Donovan asks.
I nod and walk past him. I’m near the doors to the home when my anger overwhelms me and I stop and spin toward him. “How can you do it?” I ask. “How can you kick all of these people out of their home?”
His expression reveals no emotion. “Jill shouldn’t have shared that information with you. If she worked at any of my other companies, she’d be collecting her last check.”
“Instead she’ll collect it in a couple of weeks, along with everyone else who works here.”
“They’ll have longer than that, Lucy. I’m not a monster. But I’m not sure why I should feel the need to explain anything to you, or why you should feel so invested.”
“Because I care about the residents. This is their home. Agatha Pike created these grounds for the people who live here, in this community.”
Donovan’s jaw twitches. I’ve angered him, and I’m glad. He shouldn’t manage to glide above all of this heartache he is creating without being bothered by a single emotion.
“Yes, and she’d be livid to see that my father ran her home right into the ground,” he says.
“He so mismanaged this place that it’s a wonder we have any residents who still live here.
The home’s reputation is abysmal.” He levels his gaze on mine.
“Tell me that you didn’t take one step into this place on that first day and want to turn right on your heel and leave. ”
“But that’s changing,” I say. “The whole spirit of the home is lifting. You must be able to see that.”
Donovan’s smile verges on a sneer. “Lucy, I’m afraid you can’t pay bills with lifted spirits.”
“No, but it’s a start. If you’d only give it a bit more time, I really think—”
“This deal will be signed in two weeks,” he interrupts, “and I will be sure it includes time for the residents and staff to make other arrangements. Now, if the deal doesn’t go through and there is no money to pay the staff, to settle the bills…
then we’re looking at an entirely different scenario.
One where I won’t have the leverage to ask anyone for more time. ”
I swallow his words like stones. “There must be something—”
He shakes his head. “Maybe if I’d stepped in years ago, I could have righted the ship, but that option was never offered to me. My father held tight to the helm, and now here we are.”
I’m surprised by the regret that rings in his words. “I’m worried about what going through a move, a change like this, will do to the residents,” I say quietly.
Donovan’s expression narrows. “You’re worried about them moving, but not about them walking around unsupervised out there?
” He gestures over the grounds. “I can’t get Jill—or anyone, for that matter—to heed my request to lock the doors, and now she has decided to put tables out here as even more of an invitation, but this is what you’re all worried about?
The elderly people who live here moving to a safer, more financially stable home? ”
“The paths are safe—”
“They are not!” Donovan’s voice is suddenly loud. “But who will be held responsible when someone gets hurt? You? The gardener? I don’t think so. I’m the one who will end up with the lawsuit.” He steps toward me. “But I suspect that you, Lucy, you will be the one who has to live with the guilt.”
“What is going on out here?” comes a voice like a growl.
Donovan and I both swing our heads toward the doors of the home. Fitz is hurtling himself toward us, his walker crunching over the terrace.
Donovan runs a hand through his hair, righting the one lock that has briefly fallen out of place. He takes a step back from me. “Just enjoying the view,” he says, his voice returned to its familiar, polished cadence. “How are you this afternoon, sir?”
Fitz stops inches from Donovan’s toes and looks him up and down with one of his cold blue stares. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. I don’t like the way you’re speaking to Lucy.”
Donovan smiles. “Oh, you misunderstand. We’re just chatting. Aren’t we, Lucy?”
Fitz looks at me.
“I’m fine, Mr. Fitz. Really,” I assure him.
He peers at my face for a beat, and when he seems satisfied with whatever he finds there, he reaches down to pet Gully. “Fine enough to play chess?” he asks, but it’s more of a demand than a question.
I take a deep breath. “Sure.”
He nods and heads toward one of the tables, but stops after a few steps and looks over his shoulder at Donovan, eyes narrowed. “Looks like your little ‘chat’ is over.”
Donovan opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at me, lips drawn in a tight line, and then lifts his chin, turns, and strides into the home.
“I don’t like him,” Fitz grumbles as we sit down at a table.
“Really? I couldn’t guess.” I smile at him. “I didn’t need rescuing, though.”
He stops setting up the chess set to look at me, disappointed. “Can’t you at least pretend you did? That was a good moment for me.”
I laugh. It’s true—there’s color in his cheeks and he’s carrying himself a little differently, his shoulders back, expression proud. “All right,” I say. “Thank you for saving me from that awful man.”
“It was nothing,” he replies, not looking at me, a smile flickering on his lips.
“Fitz,” I say as I watch him set up the chess pieces. “I have to tell you something.”
“Go on, then.”
“The Oceanview Home is being sold. It’s going to be turned into a hotel. You’re going to have to move somewhere else. Everyone will.”
Fitz knits his fingers together. The creases on his wrinkled brow deepen. He thinks for a moment and then says, “Is this what you’ve been worrying about? The other day, when we were playing chess, you seemed like you had something on your mind.”
I nod. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Fitz shrugs. “You told me. Now what?”
“I guess you’ll need to look into other homes,” I tell him gently. “I can help, if you’d like.”
He pulls a face. “I’m not talking about that. I’ll find a place to live. Who cares. One place or another. What’s the difference to me? I’m talking about you. Where will you go after this? Somewhere far away, I imagine.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I’m staying with my father right now. He’s having a hard time. Losing my mom… it’s been difficult for him. I don’t like the idea of him being alone.”
Fitz nods and is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You know, I really don’t like gardens.”
I blink. Then I laugh.
He watches me until I manage to stifle my laughter.
“I don’t like gardens,” he says again, pointedly, “but I see how hard you work. I see how this place has changed with you here. I think…” He presses his lips together for a beat and then carries on.
“I think that you should be proud of yourself. Proud of what you’ve done. No matter what happens next.”
“Oh, Mr. Fitz,” I say. “That’s very nice of you.”
He looks away, out over the grounds. We’re both quiet for a bit.
“Do you think you might have stayed here?” he asks eventually, still not looking at me. “If you could?”
I follow his gaze over the flowers, the sea, the three open gates tucked into the ivy-covered walls and the one that we’ve still yet to open. I breathe in, and the soft, sweet scent of the woodland garden’s lunaria blossoms tumbles toward me, through me, circling the truth in my heart.
“Yes,” I say. “If I could stay, I would.”
When Fitz looks at me, his pale blue eyes are shining, and I can’t help but suspect that for all of his stoicism, the very same words are echoing through his own thoughts:
If I could stay, I would.