Chapter Twenty-Eight
Purple hyacinth: A flowering plant in the lily family with low spikes of densely packed blossoms whose inescapably sweet scent thrums with a message of regret
“Lucy!” My father looks up from his usual spot on the sofa as I burst through the door. “I’m glad you’re home. I have to tell you something—”
I keep going up to my room. I shut the door and curl into myself on my bed. Gully climbs up beside me. In the silence of the house, I hear my father rise from the sofa and walk to the base of the stairs.
“Lucy?” he calls.
I don’t answer. After a minute, I hear him walk away.
Cynthia is dead. She is gone. I will never see her again.
What was I thinking, telling her to smell that honeysuckle?
She was fragile, vulnerable, and she trusted me—just as Jack Harris had once trusted me.
How have I done this again? How did I ever believe I might help Cynthia when I knew how I had destroyed Jack’s life?
I put Cynthia in danger, knowingly, and—
And Marjorie. Oh, Marjorie—I can’t bear to think of Marjorie.
The day passes slowly and blurs into the next.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, purple hyacinths push up through the soil; their cloying scent expands heavily in my chest, suffocating me with regret.
My father makes meals that I don’t eat. He asks if I want to play chess, and I shake my head.
I feel his eyes tracking me when I walk through the house.
He doesn’t ask what happened, and I’m grateful.
I don’t sleep. Over and over and over, my mind shows me Cynthia walking among the flowers, alone. I set this all into motion, and now she is gone.
The weekend passes.
On Monday morning, Gully looks at me expectantly. I bury myself deeper within the covers and do not get up.
On Monday afternoon, there are voices downstairs. Not just my father’s, but others’, too. A man’s and a woman’s.
Voices I recognize.
I walk slowly downstairs and into the living room.
“There you are,” Marjorie says softly, spotting me.
Adam and my father turn to look at me from the sofa.
Adam gives me a sad smile. My father looks perplexed.
Marjorie stands, walks to me, and wraps me in her arms. She is tiny, but she clings to me like she plans to never let me go, and after my surprise passes I find myself sinking into her arms. There’s a feeling of maternal love in her embrace that I had not believed I would ever feel again, and I let myself soak it in, borrowing it for as long as I can. She cries, and I do, too.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
She pulls away, shaking her head. Her face is wet with tears, but her expression is determined.
She takes hold of my hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Lucy. Cynthia lived a long, rewarding, exciting life. I cannot fathom that she is gone, and I will miss her every single day, but what a blessing it was that I had her for as long as I did—and that I had those last, wonderful days with her. She was herself again at the end, thanks to you and your flowers. She was so fulfilled. And to go out not in a slowly fading whisper but with a bang? More like a firecracker, really, those last days! She wouldn’t have changed a thing—not one thing. I promise you.”
I try to accept her words, but I am forever changed by what has happened.
I am responsible for Cynthia’s death. I will never again see her walking through the gardens, arm in arm with Marjorie.
I will never again hear the thump of her cane.
I will never again see the mischief that shone in her dark, youthful eyes in those final days.
“And you lost your mother recently, too,” Marjorie goes on, lifting her soft hand to my wet cheek. “Adam told me. It’s too much loss in such a short time.” She looks back at my father on the couch. “I’m so sorry. Your wife must have been a remarkable woman to raise someone as special as Lucy.”
My father nods. “She was.”
Marjorie looks at me again. “Cynthia’s niece is arranging a service just for family.
I don’t know what Cynthia said to her the last time they spoke, but whatever it was seems to have left her with only good feelings for the Oceanview Home.
I understand that there are no plans to sue—much to Donovan’s relief, I’m sure.
” Marjorie pulls a face. “Now, listen. We’re going to have our own service at Oceanview tomorrow.
Just for us. I hope you will come, Lucy. ”
I don’t know how I’m going to go back there, but I know I will only feel worse if I miss Cynthia’s service. I nod.
“Good,” Marjorie says.
I look past her. It’s strange to see Adam in my living room, but he looks comfortable there, sitting on the couch next to my father, Gully at his feet.
There’s a little plate of carrots, crackers, and hummus that my father has thought to put out on the coffee table. When I catch his eye, he gives a little shrug.
“Marjorie and her grandson were very concerned about you,” he says.
“We’ve all been worried about you,” Marjorie says. “Louis, Adele, Vikram, Noreen… everyone is beside themselves. We’ve become accustomed to seeing you out among your flowers, bright and early every weekday morning. We all really wish you’d come back.”
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“Jill gave me your address. Adam gave me the ride.”
“I thought Donovan put Jill on leave—”
To my surprise, Marjorie smiles. “Which is exactly why she didn’t give two figs about handing out the personal contact information of an employee.
” I must look upset, because she tsks and waves at the air.
“Oh, don’t worry about Jill. Donovan knows he can’t run the home without her; she’ll be back in action the moment we put a stop to this whole hotel fiasco on Friday. ”
I stare at her. “You’re going through with the party?”
“Well, of course we’re going through with the party. It’s what Cynthia would want. It’s what she would demand, really.” She holds my gaze. “You will come back, won’t you, Lucy? We can’t lose both Cynthia and you. And there’s still work to do in one of the gardens, isn’t there?”
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. The room falls quiet.
“Okay,” Adam says, setting his hands on his knees. “I think we should leave Lucy and her dad alone now.”
Marjorie looks disappointed and sad. “But I will see you at Cynthia’s service tomorrow, won’t I? Ten a.m.?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’ll be there.”
My father stands and leads Marjorie and Adam toward the door.
Adam stops in front of me. “I finished restoring the last gate,” he tells me quietly. “I’ll bring it to the home in the next couple of days.” He pauses. “I hope I’ll see you there.”
Again, I don’t know how to respond. How can I return to work now, after what I’ve done? “How’s Sophie?” I ask instead.
“She’s okay,” he says, but I can tell from his expression that she is not. After a moment, he brightens. “She loves your design for her garden. I wish you could have seen her face when she saw it, Lucy. I haven’t seen her that excited about anything in a long time.”
His words are a balm for the burning ache in my chest. “I’m so glad,” I say.
In the doorway, Marjorie pauses. She squints up at my father. “Gregory, are you absolutely sure we’ve never met?”
“I’m sure,” my father says, his expression vaguely bemused. “I think I’d remember you.”
Marjorie chuckles. “I suppose you would,” she says, but she gives him one last look before turning away.
The door has barely closed before my father faces me. “Lucy, I really need to tell you something.”
I’m not sure how much more I can take right now, but there is an urgent note in his voice that makes my throat grow tight. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” He looks steadily into my eyes and says, “I wrote to Jack Harris.”