“They’ll have longer than that, Lucy. I’m not a monster. But I’m not sure why I should feel the need to explain anything to you, or why you should feel so invested.”
“Because I care about the residents. This is their home. Agatha Pike created these grounds for the people who live here, in this community.”
Donovan’s jaw twitches. I’ve angered him, and I’m glad. He shouldn’t manage to glide above all of this heartache he is creating without being bothered by a single emotion.
“Yes, and she’d be livid to see that my father ran her home right into the ground,” he says. “He so mismanaged this place that it’s a wonder we have any residents who still live here. The home’s reputation is abysmal.” He levels his gaze on mine. “Tell me that you didn’t take one step into this place on that first day and want to turn right on your heel and leave.”
“But that’s changing,” I say. “The whole spirit of the home is lifting. You must be able to see that.”
Donovan’s smile verges on a sneer. “Lucy, I’m afraid you can’t pay bills with lifted spirits.”
“No, but it’s a start. If you’d only give it a bit more time, I really think—”
“This deal will be signed in two weeks,” he interrupts, “and I will be sure it includes time for the residents and staff to make other arrangements. Now, if the deal doesn’t go through and there is nomoney to pay the staff, to settle the bills… then we’re looking at an entirely different scenario. One where I won’t have the leverage to ask anyone for more time.”
I swallow his words like stones. “There must be something—”
He shakes his head. “Maybe if I’d stepped in years ago, I could have righted the ship, but that option was never offered to me. My father held tight to the helm, and now here we are.”
I’m surprised by the regret that rings in his words. “I’m worried about what going through a move, a change like this, will do to the residents,” I say quietly.
Donovan’s expression narrows. “You’re worried about them moving, but not about them walking around unsupervised out there?” He gestures over the grounds. “I can’t get Jill—or anyone, for that matter—to heed my request to lock the doors, and now she has decided to put tables out here as even more of an invitation, butthisis what you’re all worried about? The elderly people who live here moving to a safer, more financially stable home?”
“The paths are safe—”
“They arenot!” Donovan’s voice is suddenly loud. “But who will be held responsible when someone gets hurt? You?The gardener?I don’t think so.I’mthe one who will end up with the lawsuit.” He steps toward me. “But I suspect thatyou, Lucy,youwill be the one who has to live with the guilt.”
“What is going on out here?” comes a voice like a growl.
Donovan and I both swing our heads toward the doors of the home. Fitz is hurtling himself toward us, his walker crunching over the terrace.
Donovan runs a hand through his hair, righting the one lockthat has briefly fallen out of place. He takes a step back from me. “Just enjoying the view,” he says, his voice returned to its familiar, polished cadence. “How are you this afternoon, sir?”
Fitz stops inches from Donovan’s toes and looks him up and down with one of his cold blue stares. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. I don’t like the way you’re speaking to Lucy.”
Donovan smiles. “Oh, you misunderstand. We’re just chatting. Aren’t we, Lucy?”
Fitz looks at me.
“I’m fine, Mr. Fitz. Really,” I assure him.
He peers at my face for a beat, and when he seems satisfied with whatever he finds there, he reaches down to pet Gully. “Fine enough to play chess?” he asks, but it’s more of a demand than a question.
I take a deep breath. “Sure.”
He nods and heads toward one of the tables, but stops after a few steps and looks over his shoulder at Donovan, eyes narrowed. “Looks like your little ‘chat’ is over.”
Donovan opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at me, lips drawn in a tight line, and then lifts his chin, turns, and strides into the home.
“I don’t like him,” Fitz grumbles as we sit down at a table.
“Really? I couldn’t guess.” I smile at him. “I didn’t need rescuing, though.”
He stops setting up the chess set to look at me, disappointed. “Can’t you at least pretend you did? That was a good moment for me.”
I laugh. It’s true—there’s color in his cheeks and he’s carrying himself a little differently, his shoulders back, expression proud. “All right,” I say. “Thank you for saving me from that awful man.”
“It was nothing,” he replies, not looking at me, a smile flickering on his lips.
