“Jill,” I begin. “Do you think Donovan would be upset if I brought my dog with me to work? Gully is big but gentle, and he’s great with people of all ages.”
Jill’s hands freeze within the ivy. She turns toward me, her sculpted eyebrows high in her forehead. “Bring your dog? Here? Oh yes, I think that would make Donovan very upset.” She turns her attention back to the wall, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You should absolutely bring him.”
I smile. “Really?”
She shrugs. “If Donovan’s annoyed, it will be at me, and believe me, it won’t be the first time. Anyway, I’m told there was a time when some of the residents had dogs. It might be nice to have one on the property again.”
I nod and thank her. When I turn back to the wall, I spot a section of dark wood instead of brick below the vines. Jill hurries over and stands beside me as I carefully clip back the ivy with my pruners, slowly revealing a large, arched doorway with thick, damp-looking wood that is covered in wormy squiggles from where vines had long grown over it. Within me, I feel a flutter of anticipation. It’s a familiar feeling—for as long as I can remember, I’ve sensed that garden gates hold a bit of magic. Humble wooden gates with peeling white paint, heavy wrought-iron gates with ornate swirls, gently curved gates below rose-covered arbors, narrow gates half-hidden within jasmine-covered walls—I can’t help feeling that there is something enchanting about each and every one, something that makes a shiver dance along my spine as I open it and step through, leaving one world for another.
I feel it now as I pull off my gloves and touch the gate—that tremble of delight.
“Go on,” Jill says impatiently. “Open it.”
After so many years of being exposed to the elements and eaten away by ivy and moss, the wood is worrisomely soft. I press my thumb down on the iron handle and slowly, gently push the gate.
Right away, it groans and slumps closer to the earth, the soft old wood splitting and wrenching away from the hinges. I drop my hand, sucking in a disappointed breath. “I think it might fall apart.”
Jill’s shoulders sink. “We don’t want that. These gates are probably original.” She looks down the length of the wall. “I wonder if the others are in the same state.”
We walk along the wall, pushing aside ivy until we eventually find another gate that’s in such terrible shape that we don’t even try to open it. Along the northern wall, we locate two more gates that appear just as bad.
“I’ll have Vince take a look at them,” Jill says. “But I suspect we’ll need to get a professional carpenter involved. Hopefully they can be restored. Donovan won’t want this to hold you up, but he might not have much choice.” She seems to brighten a bit at the thought of Donovan’s irritation.
I gesture toward the weedy mess that surrounds us. “I can start here. There’s plenty to do.”
Jill nods, but a shadow passes over her expression. Then she seems to shake off whatever thought has troubled her, pulling off her work gloves and tossing them into the wheelbarrow.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll leave you to it.” Without another word, she turns and sets off toward the home.
And then, for the first time, I am alone in the garden.
Chapter Six
Purple salvia: A flowering herb in the mint family with upright spikes of violet blooms whose earthy, herbal scent enhances concentration
I start by walking around, getting a sense of the place, pushing aside tangles of oxalis and chickweed and crabgrass with my boots and following the paths of old pea gravel that I discover below. Straggly mounds of overgrown boxwood hedges line the paths. Lavender, leggy and gray with only a few meager purple blooms, presses up with admirable resilience through the weeds that have overtaken the old beds. Surrounding the empty reflecting pool, six diminutive trees are so completely covered with vines that I can’t tell what type they are until I am close enough to spot the small lemons hanging from their branches.
Minute by minute, the garden takes shape in my mind. It’s formal, with an axis of paths spanning out from the reflecting pool. The unruly, overgrown boxwood hedges that edge the geometric flower beds were once precisely trimmed, and the petite lemon trees shaped into tidy lollipops.
Every garden paints a portrait of the person who designed it. Agatha Pike, Donovan’s great-great-grandmother, must have been a woman who believed in the peace and beauty that can be found in symmetry and order. I imagine her as elegant and artistic—and, considering those brightly polka-dotted lemon trees, perhaps playful and free-spirited, too. The kind of generous woman who would insist that her friends be allowed to live out their days in her beautiful home.
I decide that I will tackle the paths first, and I spend the morning pulling and digging away at the stubborn weeds that have taken hold everywhere. As I settle into the work, my mind becomes both still and wandering in a way that is familiar to me. In the dark years after high school, after I left Bantom Bay and began my career, I learned that caring for plants is symbiotic; as you tend to them, helping them thrive, they soothe the broken parts within you, too. The work is meditative and exhausting, gratifying and healing.
At least, it used to be. Since my mother’s death, something has changed. The idea of moving to a new town, taking on a new project, feels less like an adventure than a repetition. For the first time in my life, I feel as though I am missing something, that my work is not enough.
Still, I carry on, pulling up one weed after another. In time, I am sure I will return to myself.
“Yoo-hoo!”
I lift my head at the sound of a woman’s voice, but I don’t see anyone. I straighten and put my hands on my lower back andstretch, groaning at the ache that is already settling into my muscles. I’ve been working for hours and most of the paths are now clear of weeds, a glimmer of order restored. I’m relieved to have discovered irrigation lines, but I’ll need to check them for leaks and broken parts. Later, I’ll amend the soil, adding mulch. I hope Donovan plans to fill the reflecting pool. The garden will look beautiful when it’s complete.
“Yoo-hoo!” I hear again.
This time, when I turn toward the home, I see two elderly women on the terrace. One waves enthusiastically. I lift a hand and wave back. As I watch the women begin to make their way to the ramp, I feel a flutter of worry remembering how Donovan and Jill shot silent daggers at each other over the unlocked doors to the terrace, and how Donovan insisted that the grounds were not safe for residents.
I hurriedly pull off my gloves, set them on the edge of the wheelbarrow, and jog toward the women, taking one of the newly cleared paths around the empty reflecting pool.
“Hello!” I call, waving. “Wait there, please! I’ll come to you.”
