“Did you hear?” Noreen asks, looking up from her enormous desk when Gully and I step into the lobby. Her face is pinched with distress. “He’ssellingthe place,” she says, her tight bun quivering atop her head. “He’s barely been in charge a minute and he’s already selling the home off to the highest bidder. I bet this is why his father kept it out of his grips for as long he did. He must have known his son was all greed and no heart.”
I wonder if this is true. Donovan’s story is that his father ran the home into bankruptcy, and that he has no choice but to sell it, but should I really trust anything he says? Maybe even his own father couldn’t trust him.
I shake my head sadly and ask Noreen if she has any idea where she’ll go next.
“The truth is,” she tells me, her small face sagging, “I was just beginning to think of movinghere. This past week, I’ve found I’m a little sad to leave at the end of the day. My apartment is… well, it’s a bit lonely. I thought I’d go on working here, but that maybe I’d see if I could live here, too. I’m already well past retirement age; I just happen to quite enjoy this job. I sit here, do my knitting, read my books, and say hello to visitors. It’s a nice way to pass the time. But if the home closes…” She frowns and sighs. “Whenthe home closes, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Stay in my apartment. Look for another job, I suppose.” She gives me a hopeful look. “If you hear of anything…”
“I’ll definitely let you know,” I tell her. How many job openings are there for seventy-somethings? I wonder.
When I pass the dining room, I see that while it’s filled with quite a few residents, the snippets of conversation that I overhear sound glum. No music is playing today, and though the curtains are open, there’s no warmth in the light that falls into the room. The buttery, yeasty scents drifting through the air tell me that Adele and Vikram are still hard at work in the kitchen—but there is an acrid smell as well, as though something has been left too long in the oven. I don’t see Fitz anywhere, or Marjorie, or Cynthia. I wonder if they are up in their apartments, crafting separate plans for separate futures.
I make my way slowly into the cottage garden, where I can’t manage to put my heart into my work. Even Gully seems deflated, lying in the middle of the path with his head on his paws. Every once in a while he lifts his head and looks toward the gate, but the morning creeps by quietly, and no one visits.
That afternoon, I spend hours pruning the honeysuckle, which, left to its own devices, has grown wildly over the brick walls. It’s a relief to lose myself in the task, draped within the thick scent of honey. Eventually I look back and see that the vine already looks better, its golden blooms like fireworks against a dark backdrop of green.
I hear the familiar sound of a cane thumping against the path, and turn to see Marjorie and Cynthia making their way toward me. Relief washes over me at the sight of them. I’ve had a terrible feeling that the residents have been avoiding coming outside since learning that the home is closing, as though they can’t bear to be reminded of the beauty they’re about to lose.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I call to them.
“Well, we have to make the most of every moment, don’t we?” Marjorie asks. She looks around. “I remember this garden, with its funny little hills. It was always bursting with heaps of flowers. Like something from a dream.” Her expression hardens. “And to think Donovan wants to turn all of this into a hotel! With a golf course!” She shakes her head angrily. “The nerve of that man!”
“If I’d known thatthiswas the reason he wanted the grounds restored—”
“Oh, don’t even give that another thought. We know you’re on our side, Lucy.” Marjorie glances at Cynthia. “Cynthia and I spoke with her niece last night. Would you believe where she thinks Cynthia should go if the home closes? TheRedwoodVillage!”
“Is that… not a nice place?” I ask, but really there’s no need; the answer is written all over Marjorie’s face.
She gives a dramatic shudder. “Look it up. Even in the online pictures, you can tell that the place has no soul. And certainly nogardens.” She draws herself up. “Cynthia doesn’t want to go there. No one would.”
“I’d like to stay here,” Cynthia says quietly.
“Ofcourseyou would,” Marjorie says. “We both would. This home… all of our friends… the staff… the beautiful terrace… the pastries from Adele and Vikram… Louis taking photos of us all the time now like we’re supermodels!” She shakes her head mournfully. “How can any of us leave? How can we?”
Marjorie looks up at Cynthia, and I watch her expression slowly shift from despair to determination.
“You’re right,” she says, looking straight into Cynthia’s eyes. “You’reabsolutelyright. Enough of this pity party. We’ll think of something. We have to.”
I have the sense that Cynthia was once as strong as Marjorie, and that Marjorie somehow still manages to draw on her friend’s strength, even now that it is gone.
I find myself looking out over the flowers, searching, a question in my mind. The scent of honeysuckle thickens in the air then, sweet and rich and soft. It rises and swirls, golden, around me… and around Cynthia.
“Cynthia,” I say. “Do you smell the honeysuckle?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I’m certain I see understanding pass over her face.
Marjorie looks between the two of us, her cheeks suddenly flushed with excitement. “You heard the lady!” she cries, guiding Cynthia closer to the wall. “She wants you to smell the honeysuckle!”
All three of us lean close to the flowers and collectively draw in a long breath.
“Mmm,” says Marjorie. “Doesn’t that smell divine?”
Cynthia stands tall between us, her eyes closed and her chin tilted up slightly so that the bright light of the sun, spilling over the mass of honeysuckle, washes over her face, illuminating her pale eyelashes and the cut of her cheekbones. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in the scent. When at last she opens her eyes, the smile that plays on her lips is sly.
“Do you know,” she says, her voice low but quite clear, “that there was a period of time in my life when I swallowed a spoonful of honey every day? And it wasn’t to wash down any medicine.” She shakes her head. “I’d forgotten all about the honey. The honey! How could I forget something I tasted every day for such a long time?”
“Oh,Cynthia,” Marjorie says breathlessly, and Cynthia turns toward her. Marjorie presses her hands on either side of Cynthia’s face and looks into her friend’s eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“Doyouknow why I ate that honey?” Cynthia asks Marjorie, her expression affectionate. “Did I ever tell you about this?”
