Adam’s amused, curious smile lingers on me for a beat before he turns his attention to the gate. As he steps forward and places his palm against it, his expression grows thoughtful. He moves his hand over the wood, then leans closer to the gate and peers at its hinges. He holds the handle but doesn’t try to open it. For a moment, he’s completely still, and I find myself wishing that I knew what he is thinking.
“It’s beautiful,” he says eventually. “And definitely original to the home.”
“Can you can repair it?”
“I think so. I’ll have to bring it up to my workshop in the city, though.” He looks around, taking note of the three other gates visible along the walls. “I should take them one at a time; I don’t want to stack them in my truck and risk damaging them more. If you have a minute to give me a hand, we can lower this one off its hinges now. I’ll take it with me today.”
Adam has me brace the gate with my hands. He pulls a hammer from the tool belt around his waist and begins to gently tap the pins out of the old hinges. Standing beside him, I breathe in his layered scent. Something in that barely-there trace of rain-soaked grass makes me forget myself for a moment… I want to lean in closer, just to be sure it’s really there.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s lower it down.”
We slowly lower the gate onto the gravel path. As we do, the deep shadows beyond the wall reveal themselves inch by inch. By the time we set down the gate fully, I don’t have an ounce of patience left; I walk quickly around it and slip through the opening.
The walled garden is dark and lush and sheltered. Ghostly white trunks of birch trees are tent poles holding up a low, shaggy canopy of leaves. The air is soft and cool, scented with damp earth and green, growing things. The landscape feels otherworldly, almost prehistoric. I pick my way around waist-high ostrich ferns and hostas in every shade of green, feeling as though I’m wading into a silken pool, sinking deeper with every step.
There’s color here, too—flowers like jewels sewn onto green silk. Rhododendron shrubs laden with magenta clusters of ruffled blossoms. Fronds of emerald ferns, luminous even in deep shadow. Weeds, tangled and exuberant, are flourishing most of all, but among them I sense the vibrant blossoms of periwinkle, primroses, and lunaria, small buds of white anemone nodding atop tall, thin stems, speckled hellebores and toad lilies pressing toward the light.
And the viburnum! They’re thriving—ten feet tall and just as wide. Along the walls, and now and then along the edges of the path, their creamy-white, pink-tinged blossoms float atop dark green leaves, and their spicy vanilla fragrance threads through every shadow.
I duck below a low birch branch that hangs across the mossy, overgrown path. I’ll have my work cut out for me here. There’s a line between a curated woodland garden and woods, and years of neglect have pushed this place over it. I’ll have to thin some of the flowers, and divide the shrubs—
I startle at a sound behind me, and turn to see Adam ducking below the branch.
“I can’t believe how different it is,” he says, his voice full of awe.
“It’s a woodland garden,” I tell him, nodding. “It’s meant to feel much more natural than the formal one we were just in.”
We walk single file through the suspended, underwater quiet. It’s hard to believe that the sun-filled, sunken garden is just over the wall, a stone’s throw away. People talk about gardens being outdoor rooms, how you can step from one room to another, but this feels more like an entirely new planet—the layered green shadows are worlds away from the wide-open precision on the other side of the wall. Even the sky that is visible around the edges of the tree canopy seems a darker, deeper blue than the one I worked under this morning.
The path is a meandering circle, but the space is small, and it’s not long before I spot the shaft of sunlight that falls through the gap in the wall ahead where the old gate had been.
“It’s so peaceful,” I hear Adam say behind me.
I turn to face him and see that emotion moves darkly behind his eyes. I can tell that he wants to say more, and after a moment, he does.
“My daughter, Sophie… she doesn’t really speak these days. Our house is quiet, but I wouldn’t say it’s peaceful. Not like this.”
Before I can reply, a slight breeze rustles the leaves, sweeping the scent of hellebores toward me, dark and loamy and slightly sour. It is the scent of grief. The scent of loss.Adam’s wifeI think. Sophie’s mom. I think of Sophie’s big, sad eyes, her fingers anxiously working the edges of her sweater, how tentative she was with Gully.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
Adam nods. He squints up at the tree canopy and takes a deep breath. “She’s in therapy. Art therapy. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s helping.” He drops his gaze to meet mine and shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I think there’s just something about this place. It’s nice to have a peaceful moment. And I probably wouldn’t be enjoying it so much if I didn’t know Sophie was happy right now, spending time with your dog. You’re only as happy as your child. Grandma Marjorie told me that.”
I tell him that he and Sophie are welcome to stay as long as they’d like. I look around at the sea of weeds surrounding us. “I think these plants could use the company. They’ve been alone long enough.”
Adam gives me that amused, curious smile again, and I feel my skin grow warm. “You think the plants could use company?”
“Oh, I have lots of opinions about flowers,” I say, laughing a little. “Don’t get me started.”
“I’m intrigued,” he says. “Go on. Please.”
I run my finger over a tall fern frond, feeling its feathery little leaves tremble below my touch, and breathe in the gentle aroma of the plants that surround us.
“Well, for one thing,” I say slowly, “I think a garden is a bit likeart in that a piece of the person who created it, who cared for it, lives on within it after she’s gone. A woman named Agatha Pike designed these grounds over a century ago, and I feel like I’m getting to know her by working here. A piece of a person’s soul remains in her garden. At least, I like to think so.”
“So a piece ofyouwill be here always then, too,” Adam says after a moment. “Long after your work is done.”
I nod. “Anyway, I think Agatha Pike created all of this for people to enjoy. I think that’s true of most gardens, maybe all—they’re made to be shared.”
