Cynthia is still for a moment, her eyes thoughtful on mine, and then she nods. “Yes,” she says.
“She’s our resident vibe reader,” Marjorie explains. “Vibes aren’t my thing, but it’s hard to argue when the woman is always right. Almost everyone at the home has gotten Cynthia’s stamp of approval one way or another. Even the ones who shouldn’t,” she adds, shooting Cynthia a meaningful look.
“Do you mean Mr. Fitz?” I ask, remembering how rude he was to Marjorie on my first day at the home.
She looks at me, surprised, then nods. “I have been nothing but kind to that man, but he’s just mean all the way through.”
I think of the way Fitz’s expression becomes soft and very nearly loving when he sees Gully. He might be mean on the surface, but I don’t believe he’s mean all the way through.
“It’s no big shock that he never has any visitors,” Marjorie continues huffily. “He can’t stand people! Any and all people!”
“He never has visitors?”
Marjorie looks at me. “Oh boy. You want to befriend him, don’t you? Just be careful, dear. There were all sorts of rumors about Fitz’s past when he first came to live here.Darkrumors,” she says mysteriously, but then presses her lips together like she wouldn’t dream of gossiping.
I think of that crackle of darkness I heard in his voice when he spoke of his wife, Millie. It’s hard to imagine Fitz in his current, somewhat frail state being someone capable of actual violence. ButI know that he was once a different version of the man that I’ve met here at the home, just as quiet Cynthia was once someone Jill described as “mischievous,” and Adele was once a young woman on her honeymoon in France, and Vikram was a famous chef, and Marjorie… well, Marjorie might still be exactly who she’s always been. Tiny, strong, spirited Marjorie.
“Anyway, how did we get onto the subject ofFitz?” she asks, pulling a face. “Let’s talk more about my veryhandsomeandavailablegrandson.”
On my way home that afternoon, I stop at Corde’s Hardware. It’s an old-fashioned shop that carries everything from electric drills to bubble gum, and I follow the scent of potting soil straight back to the gardening aisle, Gully on my heels. How many afternoons did I pass here as a kid, spending my hard-earned chore money on bamboo plant stakes, seeds, and spades?
Roberta Corde, who has run the store for as long as I can remember, awaits me at the counter. She’s a brusque, no-nonsense lady around my dad’s age who has always treated me and my interests seriously, even when I was a little girl spending far too long deciding between the merits of two trowels. Her son Logan was a few years ahead of me in high school. I wonder if he’ll run the place once Roberta retires.
“Hey there, Lucy. I heard you were back in town. It’s good to see you.” She looks down at the assortment of biodegradable nursery pots I’ve set on the counter. “What’s all this for?”
As she digs into a jar of dog treats and tosses one to Gully, I explain that I’m working in the gardens of the Oceanview Home. “I need to thin out some of the overgrown plants, but I can’t bear to throw them away,” I tell her. “I’ll pot them until I figure out what to do with them.”
Roberta flashes a rare smile. “You’re just like your dad. He’s never one to throw anything away, either, is he? A repair-instead-of-replace guy. He’s always in here picking up something to help him with some project at home.”
“Has he been in lately?” I ask, hoping that maybe he’s been driving into town while I’m at work.
But Roberta thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. “I guess not, now that you mention it. He was on a roll there a while back. Keeping himself busy, I suppose.” She gives me a knowing, sympathetic look. “I’m sure he just has everything he needs now.”
I nod, thinking of how his tools have taken over the pantry. He certainly hasn’t run out of supplies, but he does seem to be running out of projects.
“Say,” Roberta says as she rings me up. “Do you keep in touch with Jack Harris? I know Logan did for a while, but I’m not sure he does anymore.”
I scoop up the pots from the counter so quickly that one drops to the floor, making a loud rattle that seems to echo my heart. I crouch down to pick it up, grateful to have a moment to collect myself. In all the towns I’ve lived in over the last ten years, no one has ever asked me about Jack. Of course they haven’t; no one knew him. But here in Bantom Bay, I wonder if anyone will ever look atme without thinking of him, if I’ll ever be able to walk into a shop without feeling like I’m keeping a terrible secret.
Gully presses his cold, wet nose to my cheek, and I stroke his head, then straighten. “No,” I tell Roberta quietly. In my head, I hear Jack shouting at me to stay away from him. I see the anger burning in his eyes, the way he ignored me in the halls in the week before his accident. “No, we’re not in touch.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lily of the valley: A woodland flowering plant with an arching stem and bell-shaped white flowers whose bright, lemony scent heralds a return to happiness
Every day, when I arrive at the home, I steel myself for the possibility that Donovan has finally managed to have the lock on the doors to the terrace fixed. Today, once again, I’m relieved when the doors whoosh right open at my approach. Before I step outside, Vince and Mario, the aide who accompanied Adele into the garden last week, appear from around the far corner of the sunroom. They carry a wrought-iron table between them.
“Morning, Lucy,” Mario calls.
I follow the men outside and see that three more tables are already in place on the terrace, each surrounded by chairs with pretty blue cushions trimmed in white.
“Isn’t it great?” Mario asks when he notices me staring. “Jill asked us to get all of this furniture cleaned up and out of storage. It’s going to be a big hit.”
I really can’t imagine that Donovan somehow changed his mind about the lock, let alone that he has agreed to these tables being placed outside. I suspect Jill made this decision all on her own. But why?
As I stand there trying to piece together this puzzle of ill-fitting pieces, two residents pushing walkers step outside. Eva, the aide I met on my first day, follows them, carrying a tray with glasses of juice and a plate of morning buns and fruit, and smiles when she sees me. I watch as she helps the residents settle into seats at one of the tables. The women wave hello to me and then clink their glasses together and begin to discuss the loveliness of the morning, how the mist that drifts sleepily over the flowers gives everything the feeling of a dream. Gully meanders to their table and grants them a few minutes to fuss over him before we head down to the gardens.
That afternoon, I’m wrenching free a mound of ivy from a bench that lines the path of the woodland garden when I hear a rustle and a grunt and then mild swearing coming from somewhere behind me. I turn to see a tall—averytall—man in a pale gray fedora rising slowly from the path, dusting off his knees.
