“And totally harmless. I did ask Jill if I could bring him with me. She said it was fine.”
“Ah,” says Donovan, still eying Gully warily. “Of course she did.” When he holds out his hand for Gully to sniff, I can’t help thinking of a king resignedly allowing his subject to kiss his ring. Gully of course, obliges, absolutely delighted.
“Jill told me that some of the residents used to have dogs,” I say.
“That’s true,” Donovan admits with a frown. “I suppose it’s fine to bring him, so long as he doesn’t get in the way of your schedule—which, clearly, he isn’t.”
I nod. “I’ll start work in the woodland garden tomorrow.”
He gives me a blank look.
“It’s the one beyond that wall,” I say, pointing.
“Ah. Well, good. I’m glad things are moving along.”
I think about Donovan’s strict timeline for the restoration of the grounds, and the spring party that Marjorie told me used to be a tradition. I wonder again if he is planning to revive the event. I’m hesitant to ask outright—Donovan seems like the type to tell you what you need to know and nothing more.
Instead, thinking of Marjorie’s fond memory of sitting on the terrace with Cynthia, the two of them looking down into the pool and seeing the reflected sky, I ask Donovan if he’s planning to fill the pool again.
He cups his hand over his eyes and squints toward it. “I should, shouldn’t I?” he says slowly, thoughtfully. “I wonder if it needs a bit of repair first. I’ll get Vince to take a look.”
I tell him that I think it’s wonderful he’s restoring the grounds. “I have a feeling,” I say, “that your great-great-grandmother would be very grateful.”
“Grateful?” he repeats, one eyebrow raised.
“Well, she clearly put so much of herself into designing the gardens. They’re her legacy. Along with the home. I have to think that she’d be grateful to know that you’re working to keep that legacy alive.”
Donovan looks out at the horizon. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “She was a remarkable woman,” he says eventually. “Full of big, beautiful ideas.” He looks back at me then. “Can you imagine expecting your family to carry out your wishes for eternity? What an ego! You have to admire it, really.”
The possibility that the home might be a burden on Donovan had not occurred to me.
“Has it been difficult?” I ask. “Taking over everything after your father passed away?”
“I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been a challenge,” he tells me. “My father always had a very tight grip on this place. He never brought me in on any of his decisions. That was just his way. But I would never have let it get to this point. I’d never have let the property go the way he did. Now there’s so much to do that it feels…” He trails off as though searching for the right word.
“Impossible?” I supply. It’s not a word that holds much weight for me. I think of the scent of lavender returning Adele to a forgotten moment from her past. Some might say that flowers can’t do this, thatIcan’t do this—and yet.
Anything is possible, my mom used to say, that knowing, mischievous glint in her eye.
“Well, yes,” Donovan says.
“But it’s not,” I tell him. “It’s not impossible. The grounds aren’t in as bad a shape as you might think. Maybe that holds true to other aspects of the home—things might appear worse than they actually are. I have a feeling you’ll have this place looking great sooner than you think.”
Donovan gives me a look of tolerant bemusement. “You’re awfully optimistic, Lucy.”
I think about this for a moment, and then say, “Maybe that’s because in gardens, storms always pass. The season eventually changes and flowers grow again.”
Donovan smiles. “How different our worlds are,” he muses.
I give him a questioning look, and he goes on.
“I spend all of my time cleaning up other people’s messes,” he says. “That’s what my firm does—the work I was doing long beforeI took over this place. We buy troubled companies and figure out how to turn them around—or how to fold them in the neatest, most profitable way possible. There tends to be a lot of firing involved. A lot of dream crushing. It might just be the opposite of gardening.”
“Why do you do it?” I ask before I can think better of it.
There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs. “I have a feeling you’re not going to like my answer.”
“You make a lot of money,” I say, answering for him.
