“I think we have to take that risk,” I say eventually. “If Donovan finds out, we’re in no worse shape than we already were. But if he doesn’t…”
“… we could show him how much money this place could take in with a little creativity,” Katie finishes.
“Katie’s a social media whiz,” Louis says proudly. “She’s going to make the home viral in no time.”
Katie and I exchange a smile. I feel quite certain that Louis has absolutely no idea what “viral” means. Fitz stares at him as though he is speaking another language entirely.
“If our posts go viral,” Katie tells her grandfather, “it will be thanks to your gorgeous photographs. I don’t know why you’ve been hiding this talent away for so long.”
Louis shakes his head, a bloom creeping up his neck. “I haven’t been hiding it,” he says. “I forgot all about it.” He looks over at me and then at Fitz, something in his expression shifting. He leans back and holds up his fingers to form a square, peering at us through the little frame he makes. “This is actually a nice vignette. The two of you, the chess set, Gully at your feet, and the flowers and view in the background.” He lifts his camera. “May I?”
“Sure,” I say.
At the same moment, Fitz says, “Absolutely not.”
I look at Fitz. “Oh, come on. Just one photo. Maybe Louis will even print it out for you,” I say teasingly. “So you’ll always remember me.”
Fitz scoffs and looks away. But then, to my surprise, he mutters, “Fine.”
I wonder if he has any photographs in his apartment, any tokens from the life he has led, any remembrances of the people who were important to him at some point. He must have been close to someone once. Someone other than Millie. She couldn’t really be the only person he has ever cared for, could she?
I hear several clicks and, realizing Louis is taking photographs, I try and rearrange my expression from one of worry to one that conveys only the affection I feel for the thorny, solitary man who sits beside me.
That afternoon, Adam returns with the cottage garden gate. As I hold it in place and he hammers its pins back into the hinges, I tell him that I’ve finished the design for Sophie’s garden.
“Already?” he asks, surprised. “Don’t tell any of my clients how quickly you work; they’ll start wondering why I take weeks to design a wall of living room built-ins.”
“Well, I had to start right away,” I tell him. “The situation was dire.”
I realize how much I enjoy making Adam laugh—seeing the sadness in his dark eyes disappear, the lines in his handsome face deepen.
We walk over to where I left my bag, and I pull out the drawing that I tucked inside a folder. I point out the different elements of the design, showing him the list of plants that correspond to the numbers marked on the drawing.
Adam is quiet for a moment, studying everything. Then he looks up at me. “This is amazing, Lucy. Really. A candy shop garden? A fort made of real flowers? Sophie is going to love it.”
“I hope so,” I say. “It’s her design, after all.”
Amusement flickers in Adam’s eyes. “Right. I only wish I could work such wonders with my clients’ crayon drawings.”
“Do they give you drawings?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head. “But I do get a lot of Pinterest boards, which are maybe the adult version of a crayon drawing.” He looks down at the design again and then back at me. “Thank you,” he says. “It really is perfect.”
His soft, unwavering expression, his dark, messy hair curling at his temples, that smile playing on his lips—it’s its own sort of spell,in a way, and it’s all I can do to not step into his arms. But the sounds of conversation float toward us, residents walk on the sunken garden’s paths in every direction, and so I just smile up at him and say, “You’re welcome.” I gesture further along the wall, where the gate to the last garden awaits. “Should we find out what’s behind door number four?”
As we walk toward the gate, I glance over at Adam, and when our eyes meet we both look away, smiling. The gate has warmed in the sun, and the heat of the wood travels through me as I press my palms to it, holding it in place while Adam taps the pins out of the hinges.
When he lowers the gate to the ground, I see right away that this garden is brighter, with a feeling that is more elemental, more familiar in a way that I feel deep within my bones, than any of the others. Sunlight pours into it as though filling a bowl. Wide gravel paths meander through beds of overgrown plants that I recognize as native to California—blue elderberries, paintbrush, nightshades, wild morning glories, golden poppies, phlox, loosestrife, yarrow, and miner’s lettuce all jostle for room to grow. Everything is crowded, raucous, biologically adapted to and for this very environment.
“It’s a native garden,” I tell Adam. “All of these plants are native to California. I’m sure it was spectacular in its prime.”
“Thanks to you,” he says, “it will see its prime again.”
I sigh. “But no one here will be given very much time to enjoy it.”
Adam looks around. “I guess we should enjoy it now, while we can.”
I nod and we set off side by side along one of the gravel paths. “Those Pinterest boards that your clients send you,” I say. “What are they like?”
