Chapter Twenty-Four
Honeysuckle: A hardy flowering vine or shrub with sprays of tubular blossoms whose strong, honeyed scent offers protection from those who intend harm
It’s clear from the moment I arrive at the Oceanview Home on Monday that the spirit of the place has changed yet again.
“Did you hear?” Noreen asks, looking up from her enormous desk when Gully and I step into the lobby.
Her face is pinched with distress. “He’s selling the place,” she says, her tight bun quivering atop her head.
“He’s barely been in charge a minute and he’s already selling the home off to the highest bidder.
I bet this is why his father kept it out of his grips for as long he did.
He must have known his son was all greed and no heart. ”
I wonder if this is true. Donovan’s story is that his father ran the home into bankruptcy, and that he has no choice but to sell it, but should I really trust anything he says? Maybe even his own father couldn’t trust him.
I shake my head sadly and ask Noreen if she has any idea where she’ll go next.
“The truth is,” she tells me, her small face sagging, “I was just beginning to think of moving here. This past week, I’ve found I’m a little sad to leave at the end of the day.
My apartment is… well, it’s a bit lonely.
I thought I’d go on working here, but that maybe I’d see if I could live here, too.
I’m already well past retirement age; I just happen to quite enjoy this job.
I sit here, do my knitting, read my books, and say hello to visitors.
It’s a nice way to pass the time. But if the home closes…
” She frowns and sighs. “When the home closes, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Stay in my apartment. Look for another job, I suppose.
” She gives me a hopeful look. “If you hear of anything…”
“I’ll definitely let you know,” I tell her. How many job openings are there for seventy-somethings? I wonder.
When I pass the dining room, I see that while it’s filled with quite a few residents, the snippets of conversation that I overhear sound glum.
No music is playing today, and though the curtains are open, there’s no warmth in the light that falls into the room.
The buttery, yeasty scents drifting through the air tell me that Adele and Vikram are still hard at work in the kitchen—but there is an acrid smell as well, as though something has been left too long in the oven.
I don’t see Fitz anywhere, or Marjorie, or Cynthia.
I wonder if they are up in their apartments, crafting separate plans for separate futures.
I make my way slowly into the cottage garden, where I can’t manage to put my heart into my work.
Even Gully seems deflated, lying in the middle of the path with his head on his paws.
Every once in a while he lifts his head and looks toward the gate, but the morning creeps by quietly, and no one visits.
That afternoon, I spend hours pruning the honeysuckle, which, left to its own devices, has grown wildly over the brick walls.
It’s a relief to lose myself in the task, draped within the thick scent of honey.
Eventually I look back and see that the vine already looks better, its golden blooms like fireworks against a dark backdrop of green.
I hear the familiar sound of a cane thumping against the path, and turn to see Marjorie and Cynthia making their way toward me.
Relief washes over me at the sight of them.
I’ve had a terrible feeling that the residents have been avoiding coming outside since learning that the home is closing, as though they can’t bear to be reminded of the beauty they’re about to lose.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I call to them.
“Well, we have to make the most of every moment, don’t we?
” Marjorie asks. She looks around. “I remember this garden, with its funny little hills. It was always bursting with heaps of flowers. Like something from a dream.” Her expression hardens.
“And to think Donovan wants to turn all of this into a hotel! With a golf course!” She shakes her head angrily. “The nerve of that man!”
“If I’d known that this was the reason he wanted the grounds restored—”
“Oh, don’t even give that another thought. We know you’re on our side, Lucy.” Marjorie glances at Cynthia. “Cynthia and I spoke with her niece last night. Would you believe where she thinks Cynthia should go if the home closes? The Redwood Village!”
“Is that… not a nice place?” I ask, but really there’s no need; the answer is written all over Marjorie’s face.
She gives a dramatic shudder. “Look it up. Even in the online pictures, you can tell that the place has no soul. And certainly no gardens.” She draws herself up. “Cynthia doesn’t want to go there. No one would.”
“I’d like to stay here,” Cynthia says quietly.
“Of course you would,” Marjorie says. “We both would. This home… all of our friends… the staff… the beautiful terrace… the pastries from Adele and Vikram… Louis taking photos of us all the time now like we’re supermodels!” She shakes her head mournfully. “How can any of us leave? How can we?”
Marjorie looks up at Cynthia, and I watch her expression slowly shift from despair to determination.
“You’re right,” she says, looking straight into Cynthia’s eyes. “You’re absolutely right. Enough of this pity party. We’ll think of something. We have to.”
I have the sense that Cynthia was once as strong as Marjorie, and that Marjorie somehow still manages to draw on her friend’s strength, even now that it is gone.
I find myself looking out over the flowers, searching, a question in my mind. The scent of honeysuckle thickens in the air then, sweet and rich and soft. It rises and swirls, golden, around me… and around Cynthia.
“Cynthia,” I say. “Do you smell the honeysuckle?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I’m certain I see understanding pass over her face.
Marjorie looks between the two of us, her cheeks suddenly flushed with excitement. “You heard the lady!” she cries, guiding Cynthia closer to the wall. “She wants you to smell the honeysuckle!”
All three of us lean close to the flowers and collectively draw in a long breath.
“Mmm,” says Marjorie. “Doesn’t that smell divine?”
Cynthia stands tall between us, her eyes closed and her chin tilted up slightly so that the bright light of the sun, spilling over the mass of honeysuckle, washes over her face, illuminating her pale eyelashes and the cut of her cheekbones.
Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in the scent.
When at last she opens her eyes, the smile that plays on her lips is sly.
“Do you know,” she says, her voice low but quite clear, “that there was a period of time in my life when I swallowed a spoonful of honey every day? And it wasn’t to wash down any medicine.
” She shakes her head. “I’d forgotten all about the honey.
The honey! How could I forget something I tasted every day for such a long time? ”
“Oh, Cynthia,” Marjorie says breathlessly, and Cynthia turns toward her. Marjorie presses her hands on either side of Cynthia’s face and looks into her friend’s eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“Do you know why I ate that honey?” Cynthia asks Marjorie, her expression affectionate. “Did I ever tell you about this?”
“No,” Marjorie says, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you did.”
“Because I talked so much!” Cynthia says with a laugh.
“My throat was always sore!” She looks at me and says, “This was when I was in law school. I had only one female professor, Professor Lane. It was the sixties, and I was one of five female law students in my class, so we were all rarities of a sort, Professor Lane included. All of us—all of the women—spent long nights in her office, talking and talking and talking, only falling silent when Professor Lane spoke.”
Cynthia glances at the honeysuckle vine, a faraway look in her eyes.
“She was a remarkable woman, Professor Lane. I saw her again, just now. I’m sure of it.
I was with her. She was speaking about equality like the idea was a living person, a person who would live or die depending on whether people marched and made their voices heard.
Professor Lane was a go-getter, and the smartest person in any room.
If something was wrong she didn’t look the other way, and she certainly didn’t wait around for anyone else to fix it.
She taught us about strategy. The power of surprise.
‘When they underestimate you, they don’t see you coming,’ she said. ‘Use that to your advantage.’ ”
Cynthia’s eyes glitter. She is feisty and sharp and nearly crackling with energy.
“Did you spend your entire career in law?” I ask. I have the sense that every bit of Cynthia’s life has been interesting.
“In, under, over, and against,” she says with a wink. “I was a community organizer.”
Marjorie stares at Cynthia. “I haven’t heard you speak like this in ages,” she says.
Cynthia arches one pale, thin eyebrow. “Well, it can be a bit hard to get a word in.”
Marjorie’s laughter bursts from her. “You dear, awful woman. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Liar,” Cynthia says.
Marjorie is still laughing when Cynthia swings her gaze to meet mine.
“Now what,” she asks, “are we going to do about this Donovan Pike character?”
“The spring party,” Cynthia says. The three of us have been sitting together on a bench in a corner of the cottage garden, trying and failing to come up with an idea to save the home while Gully moves between us, receiving pets.
“Yes,” Marjorie says, giving Cynthia a questioning look. “It was always my favorite event of the year.”
“Let’s do it,” Cynthia says.
We both look at her. “Do… what exactly?” I ask.
Cynthia stands and begins pacing, her cane thumping emphatically, rhythmically against the path.
“The spring party!” she says. “We’ll throw it on the same day that the developers are coming to sign the contract.
Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for them?
To see all of our friends and family gathered together in the place we call home?
Won’t they just love having to tell us to our faces that we’re being kicked out? ”
Marjorie squeals and claps her hands. “Oh, that’s perfect. Donovan will feel just like the Scrooge he is.”
“I love the idea, too,” I say cautiously. “But I suppose it would be a farewell party.”
“No,” Cynthia says emphatically. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“But the home is losing money,” I tell her. “I don’t think guilt alone will stop Donovan from proceeding with the sale. He’ll say that his hands are tied.”
Marjorie’s face falls, but Cynthia only narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “The party,” she says after a moment, holding up a finger, “will be one prong of a multipronged approach.”
I tilt my head. “And the other prongs…?”
Cynthia looks around at the flowers that surround us. We’re all quiet then, listening to the birds, and the buzzing of insects, and the faint tumble of the sea. The honeysuckle in the air is less urgent now, just one note within the soft layers of scents drifting around us.
“These gardens,” Cynthia says, almost as though she is only just noticing, “are so beautiful.”
I sigh. “And soon they’ll only be seen by people able to pay at least one thousand dollars a night.”
She blinks, astonished. “One thousand dollars a night? Is that really true?”
“According to Jill.”
“Agatha Pike is screaming from her grave,” Marjorie says, shaking her head.
Cynthia resumes her pacing. Marjorie and I exchange a glance. I can see by the look on her face that no matter what happens, this moment, this afternoon when Cynthia remembered herself, means the world to her.
Cynthia stops, planting her cane with a thump in front of her.
“If they expect to charge one thousand dollars a night, who is to say that we can’t charge a far more reasonable entry fee for our spring party?
Agatha Pike wanted to share the grounds with the residents.
Why don’t we think bigger? Why don’t we share them with everyone?
Not just our friends and family, but all of Bantom Bay.
Anyone who would like to have a peek at these magical gardens can purchase a ticket. ”
“Oh, Cynthia!” says Marjorie. “What a marvelous idea.”
I think about it for a moment. “I lived in Bantom Bay my entire childhood and never even knew these gardens existed,” I tell them.
“I’m sure there are lots of people like me who would love to learn about the history of the home and see the grounds.
I think we should talk to Jill about all of this, but I agree with Marjorie. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Oh, we should talk to everyone,” Marjorie says. “We’ll need every resident and staff member on board if we want to spread the word.”
“But we’ll have to keep it a secret from Donovan,” Cynthia warns. “We need the element of surprise. He’s underestimated us all along, so I can’t imagine it will be too hard.”
Marjorie and I nod in agreement.
Cynthia touches her hand to her throat. “I have a feeling,” she says, “that I’m going to need a whole jarful of honey for the days ahead.”