I put my hand on my chin and pretend to study Gully. “He does love carrots.”
Sophie watches Gully intently but doesn’t venture from her father’s side.
Adam turns, taking in the garden. “This all looks great. Night and day compared to how it looked when I was here a couple of weeks ago.”
“There’s still a ways to go. I appreciate you coming out so quickly.”
He grins wryly. “Lucy, I’m as helpless as the next person when it comes to my grandmother’s powers of persuasion. She called me in a panic about some gate emergency, so here I am.”
“I appreciate her sense of urgency,” I tell him. “I have four weeks to get all of the gardens in shape, but when I tried to open one of the gates, it practically fell apart in my hand.”
He peers over to the nearest wall where one of the old, arched gates peeks out from within the ivy. “Let’s take a look.”
I nod and start to walk with him toward the wall, but stop when I notice that Sophie still has her gaze locked on Gully.
“He’s reallyverygentle,” I assure her. “Well, except his snoring, which nearly blew me out of bed last night. Did you know that dogs snore?”
Sophie flicks her hazel eyes up at me, a glimmer of interest in her serious expression, and then drops her chin again and gives a barely perceptible shake of her head.
“I didn’t know either before Gully came into my life,” I tell her. “But they do. Or at least this one does. He’s a pretty special guy.”
I watch as she reaches a tentative hand forward. Gully sniffs her fingers and then nudges her palm with his nose until she begins to pet him.
“Ah, he likes you. And he has excellent taste, so that tells me all I need to know about you, Sophie. If you’d like, you’re welcome to take him for a walk while your dad and I look at the gates.”
When Sophie glances at her father but still doesn’t say a word, I wonder if she is unable to speak or if she simply doesn’t want to.
“That’s a great idea,” Adam tells his daughter. As they look at each other, I sense that there is something complicated and pleading and sad between them. It’s as though each of them is asking a question the other can’t—or won’t—answer.
I take Gully’s leash from a pocket of my gardening belt, clip itonto his collar, and give the handle to Sophie. For a moment, the little girl doesn’t move. Then, with a last glance at her father, she turns and walks away, heading slowly down one of the paths with Gully at her side.
Adam watches her. “Thanks,” he says eventually, turning toward me. “That was nice of you.”
I shrug and smile. “It’s about time Gully got some exercise. He’s been napping out here all day.”
“Living the good life,” Adam says. “Who can blame him?”
We walk toward the wall, our boots crunching against the gravel path.
“I don’t think I’ve actually been able to see these walkways in years,” he tells me. “I almost forgot they existed. This place has seemed pretty rough around the edges lately. It’s nice to see at least a piece of it starting to look like its old self again. I can’t believe you’ve only been here a few days.” He gives me that wry smile again. “But I guess I should have known. Marjorie told me that you’re the best.”
I laugh. “She toldmethat you’re a world-famous restoration carpenter.”
Adam slides his hand over his face, shaking his head, and I note the wedding ring on his finger.
“Please tell me she did not actually say that I’m world-famous,” he groans.
I press my lips together and don’t say a word.
He shakes his head again. “I assure you that I’m not. I run a local design-build firm with my brother. Rob’s the architect. I’m the contractor and carpenter. We specialize in restoring older homes to meet contemporary needs, marrying the old and the new.”
I hear the affection in his voice when he speaks about his brother, and it makes me feel a twinge of envy. It was always just the three of us—my mother, my father, and me. A small knot of family that has only grown smaller.
“You and your brother must get along well,” I say.
“Oh, we have our moments. But I think what makes our company work is that we approach our projects from different angles. Rob is usually pushing to modernize the design more than I’d like, and I’m always angling to restore what he affectionately calls ‘the moldy bits.’?”
We’re in front of the wall now. I wave my hands toward the gate like I’m a game show host. “If you like moldy bits,” I say, “have I got a project for you.”
