At the top of the ramp, on the terrace, the smaller of the two women grins and holds out a glass of what looks like lemonade in her slightly quivering hand. She is petite and impeccably dressed, wearing a purple blouse tucked tidily into dark trousers. Her silver hair is pulled into a smooth bouffant that adds a couple of inches to her height. Behind her red glasses, her gaze is sharp and observant, keen but warm.
The tall woman beside her is thin and a little stooped—older, I think, than the petite woman, and swathed in a beige sweater andloose slacks, a floaty, pale scarf weightless around her long neck. She leans on a cane and peers down toward me with a vague, somewhat puzzled expression.
“Welcome!” the small woman says in a surprisingly commanding voice. “We thought you might be thirsty.”
“How thoughtful,” I say, taking the glass. “Thank you. I’m Lucy.”
“Marjorie Swenson,” the woman says, pressing a tiny hand to her bosom. “And this is my dear friend Cynthia.” The tall woman beside her nods and smiles slightly, but does not speak.
I take a long drink of the cool lemonade. “Oh, that’s delicious. Thank you,” I say again. I’d been so wrapped up in my work that I’d forgotten to have lunch, and had also forgotten to call and check on my father. I feel a pang of guilt.
“It’s been such a long time since we’ve been out here,” Marjorie says. She looks appraisingly around the terrace. “Long enough that it seems everything has changed. What happened to the tables?”
I glance around at the empty terrace. “Tables?”
She nods. “There used to be tables. Maybe someone put them away in the fall and forgot to bring them back out now that it’s spring. Or maybe…” She pauses, frowning. “Or maybe they’ve been gone longer than a season or two. There have been so many changes it’s hard to keep up. I’ve been here… oh, ten years now. It’s difficult to keep track of all the goings-on.”
Cynthia still has not said a word but she seems to be listening. Her long hair is white and a bit wild, but her eyes and eyelashes are dark and almost youthful. I have the strange thought that there are two different versions of the woman, one young and one old, looking out from the confines of her frail form.
“Ten years,” I repeat. “Then you’re just the person to tell me everything I need to know about this place.”
Marjorie looks delighted. “Why, that’s what Cynthia did forme, when I moved in!” She presses her hand to her chest again. “I was devastated—I’d just lost my husband—but Cynthia took me under her wing. She knew absolutely everyone… and all of their secrets.” At this, Marjorie raises her eyebrows meaningfully. “She introduced me around, got me settled. We were thick as thieves, weren’t we, Cynthia?”
Cynthia looks at her and seems to realize that it is her turn to speak. “Oh yes,” she murmurs, nodding.
“This all must have looked very different back then,” I say.
“Goodness, yes,” Marjorie says. “The grounds were magnificent. They were one of the main reasons I moved here. Cynthia and I used to marvel at how we could sit up here on the terrace and look down into the reflecting pool and see the sky.” She shakes her head, her eyes wide, as though she’s still struck by the spectacle of this, all these years later. “That was when we were younger, of course,” she goes on, “and there were more of us and—oh, if you only knew the trouble Cynthia and I used to get into around here.” She laughs, looking slyly at her friend. “You always used to say that some rules were meant to be broken. Do you remember that?”
“Yes,” Cynthia says again, but her tone is uncertain. Marjorie gives her a small, somewhat sad smile and then turns back to me.
“And we used to have a party every spring,” she says. “We’d invite all of our friends and family and have champagne and little tea sandwiches and live music. Vikram Neel—he’s a resident, still—would make the most divine cakes. Remember that, Cynthia? He was a very fancy pastry chef in his day.”
“Vikram Neel?” I say, astonished. “The chef from Jackson Place? That was my parents’ favorite restaurant. My mother used to rave about him all the time.”
Marjorie’s dark eyes twinkle. “Oh, I bet she did! The whole world was a little in love with him for a while there.”
Had my mother planned to visit Vikram Neel, I wonder? Had she known him personally? I hadn’t heard her speak of him in years, and even then only in the context of visiting his restaurant with my father.
“I knowwewere, weren’t we, Cynthia?” Marjorie chatters on. “Now, though…” Her face falls as she lowers her voice and leans toward me. “Well, poor Vikram developed terrible arthritis in his hands a few years ago. They’ve tried everything, but he just hasn’t responded to treatment. Baking was his passion, his heartbeat, his magic. Not being able to use his hands has been devastating for him.” She pitches her voice lower still. “I overheard Isobel—she’s a caregiver here—say that he’s gone on a hunger strike. He simply doesn’t want to live without his great love. If he can’t cook, he won’t eat.” She clucks her tongue sadly. “A hunger strike! Can you believe it? The poor, poor man.”
“How awful,” I say. I don’t want to imagine how I would feel if I weren’t able to sink my hands into the soil and help plants grow.
After allowing for a short, mournful pause, Marjorie goes on. “Well, the spring party was always absolutelywonderful. The grounds were bursting with flowers, and everyone was dressed to the nines and toasting another year around the sun. Goodness, I haven’t thought of that party in ages.”
I think of Donovan’s hard date for the completion of therestoration. Is it possible he is thinking of resurrecting the spring party? I look out over the garden, picturing it—the landscape bright with flowers, the air soft and fragrant with all of the hope of spring, delighted grandchildren and their even more delighted grandparents wandering through open gates and along the paths….
“Do you remember what the gardens behind the walls looked like?” I ask the women. “I haven’t been able to see them yet.”
“One of them was full of roses,” Cynthia says slowly, as though just remembering.
Marjorie and I both look at her encouragingly, but she doesn’t go on.
“That’s right,” says Marjorie, taking over. “It was absolutely full of roses. But that was back before the Gloom.” She gives me a meaningful look.
I tilt my head. “The Gloom?”
“That’s what Cynthia and I call it. Whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely toward the home. “I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s not just the grounds. I can’t recall exactly when it started, but the light at the heart of this place has dimmed. The Oceanview Home used to be lively, but at a certain point residents started leaving, several very lovely people passed away, the gardener was let go, and the grounds became overgrown and off-limits….” She trails off. “Maybe it’s just that we all got old and no one new came in. I don’t know.” She sighs. “The spirit of the place has changed.”
