Cynthia stops, planting her cane with a thump in front of her. “If they expect to charge one thousand dollars a night, who is to say that we can’t charge a far more reasonable entry fee for our spring party? Agatha Pike wanted to share the grounds with the residents. Why don’t we think bigger? Why don’t we share them with everyone? Not just our friends and family, but all of Bantom Bay. Anyone who would like to have a peek at these magical gardens can purchase a ticket.”
“Oh, Cynthia!” says Marjorie. “What a marvelous idea.”
I think about it for a moment. “I lived in Bantom Bay my entire childhood and never even knew these gardens existed,” I tell them. “I’m sure there are lots of people like me who would love tolearn about the history of the home and see the grounds. I think we should talk to Jill about all of this, but I agree with Marjorie. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Oh, we should talk toeveryone,” Marjorie says. “We’ll need every resident and staff member on board if we want to spread the word.”
“But we’ll have to keep it a secret from Donovan,” Cynthia warns. “We need the element of surprise. He’s underestimated us all along, so I can’t imagine it will be too hard.”
Marjorie and I nod in agreement.
Cynthia touches her hand to her throat. “I have a feeling,” she says, “that I’m going to need a whole jarful of honey for the days ahead.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
California loosestrife: A flowering herb native to California with long spikes of purple flowers whose soapy, herbal aroma inspires strength in the face of adversity
Over the following days, Cynthia’s focus occasionally falters but never fades. Each time I see her, she’s surrounded by a small group of residents and staff members, and she seems to be giving some version of a pep talk. She’s taken to walking around with a clipboard, and she’s stopped using her cane—she says it slows her down. Marjorie has a clipboard, too, and so does Jill, who is fully on board with our plan. Whatever joy had drained from the home after word of Donovan’s intentions spread has now been pumped, ferociously, right back into place by the preparations for the spring party. The home and its gardens buzz with activity, much of it whirring around Cynthia.
During lunch on Wednesday, I’m sitting with Fitz at one of the tables on the terrace, playing chess, when Louis comes out of the home. He’s accompanied by a tall, striking woman with a confident stride.
“Lucy,” Louis says, stopping at our table. “Just the person I wanted to see. Do you know who this is?” he asks, beaming and nodding toward the woman beside him. She wears wide navy trousers and a blouse with a big lace collar, and her short hair shows off the numerous tiny studs that run up the sides of each of her ears.
“Hmm,” I say, smiling up at her. “Are you—”
“She’s his granddaughter,” Fitz cuts in dryly, without looking up from the chessboard.
Louis’s smile falters. “Well, yes, Fitz. Good guess. This is my granddaughter, Katie. Katie, this is Lucy and Fitz.” He brightens again. “Now… guess what she does?”
“No need to guess,” Katie says with a laugh. “I’m a publicist. Pop told me about the imminent sale of the home, and the secret event you’re all planning. His friend Cynthia told him he should get me involved, and I’m glad she suggested it. I have ideas.”
“Katie bought me this,” Louis says, holding up the camera that’s slung over his shoulder.
“The camera ties into one of my ideas,” Katie says. She nods at the empty chairs at the table. “Do you mind if we sit for a moment?”
“Please,” I say.
Fitz scowls dramatically as Katie and Louis sit.
“So, the website for the home is horrific,” Katie says. She knits her fingers together on the table and leans forward. “And there’s zero social media presence. Pop tells me that there are all sorts of new and exciting things happening here—the revitalization of the gardens, but also the pastry arts classes that are taught by a famous chef. And Pop is hoping to run workshops to introduce some of the other residents to photography. And apparently Cynthia isalready thinking ahead to after the spring party when she wants the residents to start a letter-writing campaign to reach out to unregistered voters and let them know how important voting is to our democracy—the letters coming from the perspective, as she says, of old people ‘who’ve seen shit go down.’?” Katie smiles. “Oh, and Marjorie wants to start a social committee, which I think more or less means she thinks the spring party should be the first of many events that the home throws. She wants more parties. A lot more parties.”
“Maybe,” I say, grinning at Fitz, “you could start a chess club.”
He glares at me, horrified. “Maybe you should start a gardening club,” he shoots back.
“Fitz!” I say. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
Katie looks between us, nodding eagerly. “It’s all incredibly inventive. It’s so heartwarming to hear how the residents are sharing their gifts with one another… and that it all started with the reawakening of these beautiful gardens. It’s exactly the sort of feel-good story that the Internet will eat up. And once we let everyone know what a special place this is, it could entice more families to check out the home for their aging relatives. And photographs of the grounds and the residents engaged in these activities will help lift ticket sales for the spring party.”
I tell her that I worry that too much publicity could get Donovan’s attention. “If he catches wind of any of this,” I warn, “he’ll shut it down.”
“Right,” Katie says, considering this. “We’ll have to hold off on revamping the website. But I can still post photographs and videos and news about the party on my personal social media pages. I havea lot of followers, so we should get quite a bit of buzz just from those.”
She pauses, thinking, and then goes on excitedly. “We’ll run the party as a pop-up event at an undisclosed location. I won’t tag the home in my posts or say where my content is coming from, and since this place runs so far under the radar I bet only a few locals will know. I think the mystery will actually work in our favor. I’ll say we’re holding a fundraiser to keep a home for seniors open, and if you buy a ticket to the upcoming event, you’ll receive location and timing details the morning of the party. I still think we can go analog with some advertising—signs up in town, that kind of thing. Louis says the owner is rarely around, so I don’t see how that could hurt.”
“Too risky,” Fitz grumbles. “Donovan Pike will have his ear to the ground about anything and everything related to the home over the next week and a half. He won’t want to miss anything that could jeopardize the sale.”
We all fall quiet for a moment.
