Chapter Twenty-Five
California loosestrife: A flowering herb native to California with long spikes of purple flowers whose soapy, herbal aroma inspires strength in the face of adversity
Over the following days, Cynthia’s focus occasionally falters but never fades.
Each time I see her, she’s surrounded by a small group of residents and staff members, and she seems to be giving some version of a pep talk.
She’s taken to walking around with a clipboard, and she’s stopped using her cane—she says it slows her down.
Marjorie has a clipboard, too, and so does Jill, who is fully on board with our plan.
Whatever joy had drained from the home after word of Donovan’s intentions spread has now been pumped, ferociously, right back into place by the preparations for the spring party.
The home and its gardens buzz with activity, much of it whirring around Cynthia.
During lunch on Wednesday, I’m sitting with Fitz at one of the tables on the terrace, playing chess, when Louis comes out of the home. He’s accompanied by a tall, striking woman with a confident stride.
“Lucy,” Louis says, stopping at our table.
“Just the person I wanted to see. Do you know who this is?” he asks, beaming and nodding toward the woman beside him.
She wears wide navy trousers and a blouse with a big lace collar, and her short hair shows off the numerous tiny studs that run up the sides of each of her ears.
“Hmm,” I say, smiling up at her. “Are you—”
“She’s his granddaughter,” Fitz cuts in dryly, without looking up from the chessboard.
Louis’s smile falters. “Well, yes, Fitz. Good guess. This is my granddaughter, Katie. Katie, this is Lucy and Fitz.” He brightens again. “Now… guess what she does?”
“No need to guess,” Katie says with a laugh. “I’m a publicist. Pop told me about the imminent sale of the home, and the secret event you’re all planning. His friend Cynthia told him he should get me involved, and I’m glad she suggested it. I have ideas.”
“Katie bought me this,” Louis says, holding up the camera that’s slung over his shoulder.
“The camera ties into one of my ideas,” Katie says. She nods at the empty chairs at the table. “Do you mind if we sit for a moment?”
“Please,” I say.
Fitz scowls dramatically as Katie and Louis sit.
“So, the website for the home is horrific,” Katie says.
She knits her fingers together on the table and leans forward.
“And there’s zero social media presence.
Pop tells me that there are all sorts of new and exciting things happening here—the revitalization of the gardens, but also the pastry arts classes that are taught by a famous chef.
And Pop is hoping to run workshops to introduce some of the other residents to photography.
And apparently Cynthia is already thinking ahead to after the spring party when she wants the residents to start a letter-writing campaign to reach out to unregistered voters and let them know how important voting is to our democracy—the letters coming from the perspective, as she says, of old people ‘who’ve seen shit go down.
’ ” Katie smiles. “Oh, and Marjorie wants to start a social committee, which I think more or less means she thinks the spring party should be the first of many events that the home throws. She wants more parties. A lot more parties.”
“Maybe,” I say, grinning at Fitz, “you could start a chess club.”
He glares at me, horrified. “Maybe you should start a gardening club,” he shoots back.
“Fitz!” I say. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
Katie looks between us, nodding eagerly.
“It’s all incredibly inventive. It’s so heartwarming to hear how the residents are sharing their gifts with one another…
and that it all started with the reawakening of these beautiful gardens.
It’s exactly the sort of feel-good story that the Internet will eat up.
And once we let everyone know what a special place this is, it could entice more families to check out the home for their aging relatives.
And photographs of the grounds and the residents engaged in these activities will help lift ticket sales for the spring party. ”
I tell her that I worry that too much publicity could get Donovan’s attention. “If he catches wind of any of this,” I warn, “he’ll shut it down.”
“Right,” Katie says, considering this. “We’ll have to hold off on revamping the website. But I can still post photographs and videos and news about the party on my personal social media pages. I have a lot of followers, so we should get quite a bit of buzz just from those.”
She pauses, thinking, and then goes on excitedly.
“We’ll run the party as a pop-up event at an undisclosed location.
I won’t tag the home in my posts or say where my content is coming from, and since this place runs so far under the radar I bet only a few locals will know.
I think the mystery will actually work in our favor.
I’ll say we’re holding a fundraiser to keep a home for seniors open, and if you buy a ticket to the upcoming event, you’ll receive location and timing details the morning of the party.
I still think we can go analog with some advertising—signs up in town, that kind of thing.
Louis says the owner is rarely around, so I don’t see how that could hurt. ”
“Too risky,” Fitz grumbles. “Donovan Pike will have his ear to the ground about anything and everything related to the home over the next week and a half. He won’t want to miss anything that could jeopardize the sale.”
We all fall quiet for a moment.
“I think we have to take that risk,” I say eventually. “If Donovan finds out, we’re in no worse shape than we already were. But if he doesn’t…”
“… we could show him how much money this place could take in with a little creativity,” Katie finishes.
“Katie’s a social media whiz,” Louis says proudly. “She’s going to make the home viral in no time.”
Katie and I exchange a smile. I feel quite certain that Louis has absolutely no idea what “viral” means. Fitz stares at him as though he is speaking another language entirely.
“If our posts go viral,” Katie tells her grandfather, “it will be thanks to your gorgeous photographs. I don’t know why you’ve been hiding this talent away for so long.”
Louis shakes his head, a bloom creeping up his neck.
“I haven’t been hiding it,” he says. “I forgot all about it.” He looks over at me and then at Fitz, something in his expression shifting.
He leans back and holds up his fingers to form a square, peering at us through the little frame he makes.
“This is actually a nice vignette. The two of you, the chess set, Gully at your feet, and the flowers and view in the background.” He lifts his camera. “May I?”
“Sure,” I say.
At the same moment, Fitz says, “Absolutely not.”
I look at Fitz. “Oh, come on. Just one photo. Maybe Louis will even print it out for you,” I say teasingly. “So you’ll always remember me.”
Fitz scoffs and looks away. But then, to my surprise, he mutters, “Fine.”
I wonder if he has any photographs in his apartment, any tokens from the life he has led, any remembrances of the people who were important to him at some point.
He must have been close to someone once.
Someone other than Millie. She couldn’t really be the only person he has ever cared for, could she?
I hear several clicks and, realizing Louis is taking photographs, I try and rearrange my expression from one of worry to one that conveys only the affection I feel for the thorny, solitary man who sits beside me.
That afternoon, Adam returns with the cottage garden gate. As I hold it in place and he hammers its pins back into the hinges, I tell him that I’ve finished the design for Sophie’s garden.
“Already?” he asks, surprised. “Don’t tell any of my clients how quickly you work; they’ll start wondering why I take weeks to design a wall of living room built-ins.”
“Well, I had to start right away,” I tell him. “The situation was dire.”
I realize how much I enjoy making Adam laugh—seeing the sadness in his dark eyes disappear, the lines in his handsome face deepen.
We walk over to where I left my bag, and I pull out the drawing that I tucked inside a folder. I point out the different elements of the design, showing him the list of plants that correspond to the numbers marked on the drawing.
Adam is quiet for a moment, studying everything. Then he looks up at me. “This is amazing, Lucy. Really. A candy shop garden? A fort made of real flowers? Sophie is going to love it.”
“I hope so,” I say. “It’s her design, after all.”
Amusement flickers in Adam’s eyes. “Right. I only wish I could work such wonders with my clients’ crayon drawings.”
“Do they give you drawings?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head. “But I do get a lot of Pinterest boards, which are maybe the adult version of a crayon drawing.” He looks down at the design again and then back at me. “Thank you,” he says. “It really is perfect.”
His soft, unwavering expression, his dark, messy hair curling at his temples, that smile playing on his lips—it’s its own sort of spell, in a way, and it’s all I can do to not step into his arms. But the sounds of conversation float toward us, residents walk on the sunken garden’s paths in every direction, and so I just smile up at him and say, “You’re welcome.
” I gesture further along the wall, where the gate to the last garden awaits.
“Should we find out what’s behind door number four? ”
As we walk toward the gate, I glance over at Adam, and when our eyes meet we both look away, smiling. The gate has warmed in the sun, and the heat of the wood travels through me as I press my palms to it, holding it in place while Adam taps the pins out of the hinges.