“But they’re fully enclosed,” I press. “There’s no way for anyone to get lost or to leave.”
Now his voice edges toward impatience. “Someone could fall. Many of the residents have balance issues. They’re fragile. One fall could change everything. The home is meant to be beautiful, but most importantly, more than anything else, it needs to besafe.”
I suppose I can’t argue with that, but there’s something about his words that ring false to me. I suspect that his concerns are related not so much to the health of the residents, but to his own liability. Is this really about protecting the residents? Or is it about protecting Donovan? His wealth? His business?
I think of how vibrant the home is this morning, and how cheerful the grounds appear now that they’re dotted with strollingresidents. I have a strong sense that this is only the beginning—that the home will continue to come to life, the happiness of the residents increasing, if its doors are left open.
“Being locked inside is not living,” I say. “You can’t keep the residents in a bubble. The people who live here still want tolive. I’ve met them. I’ve talked to them. They’re sohappyto be outside.”
Donovan sighs. “Lucy, it’s not that I don’t want the residents to be happy… but we can agree that the paths aren’t all cleared yet, can’t we? You’re just beginning your second week of work. You can’t tell me that you truly believe every garden is safe for visitors.”
I think of the branches that still hang low in the woodland garden. The slippery moss that grows on it path.
“Maybe not yet,” I admit. “But soon…”
“Soon,” Donovan agrees. “A few more weeks, and then…” He trails off, his voice heavy with meaning.
And then… what? Is it possible that Donovan wants the gardens to be revealed only when they areallrestored? A grand unveiling, once he deems every corner “safe” and ready to be enjoyed?
“Are you planning to throw a spring party for the residents?” I ask. “The kind they used to have here?”
There is a long pause.
“Who told you about that?”
“One of the residents. Marjorie Swenson. She told me how much everyone used to enjoy the annual party, how wonderful it was to bring everyone together in the gardens with their families and friends.”
“Ah.” He pauses. “Well, Lucy, I have to be honest with you. I have absolutely”—he goes on slowly with something like a smile inhis voice—“nointention of telling you what it is that I have up my sleeve.”
I release my breath. I’m disappointed, but I can’t help smiling. He’s all but said it, hasn’t he? There will be a spring party.
“I need to go,” he says. “We both have plenty of work to do over the next few weeks, don’t we?”
“We do,” I agree.
Am I delighted by the possibility of a spring party for the residents? Yes.
Does it mean that I think the residents should be kept inside until then? Of course not.
But it’s not my job to make sure the doors to the home are locked.
After all, as Jill keeps reminding me, I was only hired to restore the gardens.
Chapter Seventeen
Climbing rose: A vigorous, flowering plant with an abundance of large blossoms whose heady, romantic scent stirs new love
I’m working in the woodland garden the next day when I hear low voices. I step through the gap in the wall to see Marjorie’s grandson, Adam, and Vince walking down the ramp, the gate between them. They’re trailed by a slower-moving Marjorie and Cynthia. I’m disappointed to not see Sophie with them. Gully seems disappointed as well—he hurries over and sniffs each of the visitors, tail wagging hopefully, but soon lies down on the path and rests his head sulkily on his paws.
“Hasn’t my Adam done a marvelous job?” Marjorie asks proudly before I can say a word. Adam throws an amused smile over his shoulder at me as he and Vince work together to put the gate back in place.
The gate does look beautiful. I can’t tell if Adam replaced the damaged wood with new planks or if he was able to salvage the old ones, but the gate is now richly stained, all signs of rot erased.The iron hardware is clean and solid-looking, the handle so black that it looks like velvet against the wood. There is nothing that draws attention to the fact that the gate has been repaired, and yet it doesn’t look new, either—he’s managed to keep its aura of age, its patina of history.
“It’s perfect,” I say, but the word isn’t quite right. The gate is much more interesting than perfect.
“It just needed a little encouragement to get it looking like itself again,” Adam says. Gate in place, he steps back and lets his hands fall to his sides.
Marjorie tsks. She’s wearing a bright red cardigan that matches her red eyeglasses, and big round pearls in her tiny ears. Cynthia, despite towering over her friend, practically fades into the background beside her, all beige clothing and pale skin and long, white hair.
