“No,” Marjorie says, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you did.”
“Because I talked so much!” Cynthia says with a laugh. “My throat was always sore!” She looks at me and says, “This was when I was in law school. I had only one female professor, Professor Lane. It was the sixties, and I was one of five female law students in my class, so we were all rarities of a sort, Professor Lane included. All of us—all of the women—spent long nights in her office, talking and talking and talking, only falling silent when Professor Lane spoke.”
Cynthia glances at the honeysuckle vine, a faraway look in her eyes. “She was a remarkable woman, Professor Lane. I saw her again,just now. I’m sure of it. I was with her. She was speaking about equality like the idea was a livingperson, a person who would live or die depending on whether people marched and made their voices heard. Professor Lane was a go-getter, and the smartest person in any room. If something was wrong she didn’t look the other way, and she certainly didn’t wait around for anyone else to fix it. She taught us about strategy. The power of surprise. ‘When they underestimate you, they don’t see you coming,’ she said. ‘Use that to your advantage.’?”
Cynthia’s eyes glitter. She is feisty and sharp and nearly crackling with energy.
“Did you spend your entire career in law?” I ask. I have the sense that every bit of Cynthia’s life has been interesting.
“In, under, over, and against,” she says with a wink. “I was a community organizer.”
Marjorie stares at Cynthia. “I haven’t heard you speak like this in ages,” she says.
Cynthia arches one pale, thin eyebrow. “Well, it can be a bit hard to get a word in.”
Marjorie’s laughter bursts from her. “You dear, awful woman. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Liar,” Cynthia says.
Marjorie is still laughing when Cynthia swings her gaze to meet mine.
“Now what,” she asks, “are we going to do about this Donovan Pike character?”
“The spring party,” Cynthia says. The three of us have been sitting together on a bench in a corner of the cottage garden, trying and failing to come up with an idea to save the home while Gully moves between us, receiving pets.
“Yes,” Marjorie says, giving Cynthia a questioning look. “It was always my favorite event of the year.”
“Let’s do it,” Cynthia says.
We both look at her. “Do… what exactly?” I ask.
Cynthia stands and begins pacing, her cane thumping emphatically, rhythmically against the path. “The spring party!” she says. “We’ll throw it on the same day that the developers are coming to sign the contract. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for them? To see all of our friends and family gathered together in the place we call home? Won’t they just love having to tell us to our faces that we’re being kicked out?”
Marjorie squeals and claps her hands. “Oh, that’s perfect. Donovan will feel just like the Scrooge he is.”
“I love the idea, too,” I say cautiously. “But I suppose it would be a farewell party.”
“No,” Cynthia says emphatically. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“But the home is losing money,” I tell her. “I don’t think guilt alone will stop Donovan from proceeding with the sale. He’ll say that his hands are tied.”
Marjorie’s face falls, but Cynthia only narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “The party,” she says after a moment, holding up a finger, “will be one prong of a multipronged approach.”
I tilt my head. “And the other prongs…?”
Cynthia looks around at the flowers that surround us. We’re allquiet then, listening to the birds, and the buzzing of insects, and the faint tumble of the sea. The honeysuckle in the air is less urgent now, just one note within the soft layers of scents drifting around us.
“These gardens,” Cynthia says, almost as though she is only just noticing, “are so beautiful.”
I sigh. “And soon they’ll only be seen by people able to pay at least one thousand dollars a night.”
She blinks, astonished. “One thousand dollars a night? Is that really true?”
“According to Jill.”
“Agatha Pike is screaming from her grave,” Marjorie says, shaking her head.
Cynthia resumes her pacing. Marjorie and I exchange a glance. I can see by the look on her face that no matter what happens, this moment, this afternoon when Cynthia remembered herself, means the world to her.
