I cut him off with a shrug. “I’m happy to help.”
“He has alovelyhome in San Francisco that he purchased a year ago,” Marjorie says.
“But it only has a little scrap of a city yard,” Adam warns me. “It’s not like this.”
“Well, of course not,” scoffs Marjorie. “There’s nothing like this. Nothing at all. I’m sure Lucy doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t,” I say. “This is actually my first time working on a property of this size. My usual jobs are much smaller.”
Marjorie raises her eyebrows smugly in Adam’s direction.
“Really?” he asks, tilting his head as though he’s filing away this new bit of information. “Well, thank you. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”
I wave this thought away. “Will Sophie be there? Do you think she’d like if I brought Gully along?”
“I’m sure she’d love that.” Adam seems to relax a little at the idea, as though he’s only truly comfortable at the thought of me going out of my way to help him if it will bring Sophie happiness. We decide that I’ll stop by on Sunday afternoon, and he texts me his address.
By the time we’re through with this exchange, Marjorie looks very much like the cat who ate the canary. “Now that that’s all settled,” she says, clapping her hands together, “Cynthia and I can go on our walk.”
Adam and I watch them go, each of us shaking our heads and laughing a little before we set off to see what’s behind the next gate. As we walk toward the northern wall, the sounds of residents chatting on the terrace drift down toward us. On the far side of the reflecting pool, Eva pushes an elderly man in a wheelchair, and the two pause their animated conversation to wave to us.
We head for the gate that’s farthest away from the home. “Poor old thing,” Adam says, eyeing the mossy wood. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
I can’t help but smile at the affection in his voice. It’s almost old habit by now: I hold the gate in place as Adam slowly works the ancient pins loose from their hinges. A few minutes later, we lower the gate carefully to the ground.
“Oh,” I say softly.
Even in its current, neglected state, I can see that the garden is meant to be rambling and informal—a cottage garden. Ribbons of pea-gravel pathways curl around funny little hills of mounded land. The mounds are mostly overtaken by massive tufts of crabgrass, but here and there, sprays of tulips and daffodils push up from long-buried bulbs and speckle the small hills with color. As Adam and I walk around, I breathe in the bouquet of flowers that I will find below the weeds—dahlias, cosmos, daisies, peonies. The old brick walls are nearly entirely hidden within thick, tangled coats of honeysuckle and rock rose.
Adam lets out a low whistle. “This looks like a project. How much more time did you say you have on your contract?”
“Two weeks.” My chest aches as I say the words.
He’s quiet for a minute and then asks, “What happens when you’re finished? Do you have another project lined up?”
I think of my inbox, filled with emails from interested clients. Emails that I would usually respond to right away, but lately I’ve been ignoring.
“No. Not yet.” I tell Adam that I travel all over the West Coast, designing and installing gardens. “I’m not sure where I’ll go next.”
This news seems to surprise him. “But Bantom Bay is your home base?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a home base. I travel light, and my clients help me find a local, furnished apartment for the length of the project.”
“You’re a nomad,” Adam says. He sounds impressed, and also, I think, disappointed.
The word rings hollow in my ears. “I suppose,” I say quietly, slowing to a stop and turning to face him. “For now I’m staying with my father in the house I grew up in in Bantom Bay. My mom died a little over six months ago, and my dad… Lately, he hasn’t been interacting with the world in any real way. He’s become reclusive. And probably depressed. I won’t leave until I know he’s feeling better.”
Adam waits a beat, as though to make sure I’m finished speaking. His dark eyes are full of kindness and sorrow. “I’m sorry, Lucy. About your mom. And about your dad.”
I nod and thank him.
“Grief is a slippery thing,” he says. “The timeline is different for everyone.”
I wait for him to go on, and he does.
“My wife, Beth, died in a car accident two years ago. Sophie was only five at the time. She was with Beth in the car.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him softly.
