“Oh, they’re fascinating.” He catches my amused expression and smiles, saying, “I actually mean that, believe it or not. Theyarefascinating. They’re all so different. Every person’s dream home is so specific to who they are.”
He thinks for a moment, then goes on. “When clients show my brother, Rob, and me images of a crafting room, or a dedicated space for brewing beer, or a gym with a ballet barre, I start peppering them with questions about how they got into whatever they’re into, and what inspires them. I love hearing all of the terminology related to a certain hobby that I’d previously known nothing about. All of the interesting quirks that shape a particular person’s concept of home.” Adam shrugs and then adds, with faux solemnity, “Rob now insists on doing most of the talking in those meetings.”
As I listen to Adam, I understand for the first time how intimate it is to create a home for someone, that it involves learning about how a person lives now… and the sort of life they aspire to have in the future. I wonder if this might be part of the reason he’s having trouble working on his own house. Maybe he can’t quite envision how he wants his life, and Sophie’s, to look and feel now that Beth is no longer with them.
“I know what you mean,” I say. “Every garden I design is a reflection of the homeowner—the way they hope to use the space, their favorite colors, their personalities.”
Adam nods. “So no two gardens are ever the same.”
“Never. And actually, just like the homeowners themselves, I guess, a garden isn’t even the same from one season to the next. Change is constant… but also, nothing really dies… Nutrients remain, helping new growth that will always contain a bit of the old.”
Adam looks over at me, his gaze thoughtful. “Have you always known that this is what you wanted to do?”
“Since I was young,” I say, nodding. “My mother used to take me to the Garden of Fragrance in the botanical garden in San Francisco. I loved it—the scents, the flowers. The way it felt both peaceful and mysterious.” I run my hand over a long frond of loosestrife, and the purple blooms deepen in color, their strong, herbal aroma swimming around us. “What about you?” I ask. “Is construction a family business?”
“No, not exactly. My parents were professors before they retired. My mom was a philosophy professor and my dad was an art history professor. But my dad is a woodworker, too; he makes furniture. When we were growing up, Rob and I would spend hours messing around with his tools, making things with him in the garage. I’m still up to the same old tricks, I guess. My mom says I get my curiosity from her, and my tolerance of splinters from my dad.”
I laugh. “Oh!” I say then. “Look.” I point to the gate to the cottage garden that is visible along the eastern wall. “I hadn’t found it yet on the other side; it’s covered with rock roses over there.”
“It looks like it’s in pretty good shape,” Adam says. With a little coaxing, he pushes the gate open, and the scents of honeysuckle and rock rose and peonies pour toward us. “There you go, you old beauty,” Adam tells the gate. “You’ve still got it.”
I smile. “Are you absolutely sure inanimate objects have stopped communicating with you?”
“Well,” he says, reddening a little and grinning, “I never said I stopped talking tothem.”
We go on walking through the California garden, talking a littlebit about nothing and everything. I steal glances at him every now and then, thinking of madeleines dipped into tea, forgotten memories, the mysterious folds of time. I think of how he used to believe that homes spoke to him, that he could sense their history and what they needed in the present.
Maybe, I allow myself to imagine, Adam is the sort of person who is not scared away by the inexplicable.
Maybe he is even willing to embrace it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Viburnum: A flowering shrub or tree in the moschatel family with showy clusters of white or pink-tinged blooms whose spicy, almondy, vanilla scent stirs transformation
Cynthia continues on like a conductor drawing music out of a ragtag orchestra. It turns out Vikram still has connections to a Sonoma winery from his restaurant days, and Cynthia persuades him to ask for a donation to the cause in the form of sparkling wine. When Jill mentions she comes from a huge family, Cynthia convinces her to enlist her army of cousins to work at the party, serving the donated wine, Italian sodas, and the dozens of chai spice cakes that Adele and Vikram are planning to bake. When she overhears Adele mention that her teenaged grandson, Peter, is a jazz cellist, Cynthia has her call him right then and ask him to bring a trio of musical friends to play music at the party. It’s astounding, really, what she is able to do in such a short amount of time.
On Thursday, Cynthia and Marjorie have already joined Fitz and me at our usual lunch table when Louis walks over.
“Hot off the press,” he says, handing me a stack of glossy flyers. “Katie just stopped by with these. Aren’t they great?”
The flyer features a photograph of the restored gate to the woodland garden, with a stretch of the sunken garden in the foreground. The image is captivating—the flower beds look elegant and vibrant, while the barely open gate reveals a peek of lush viburnum blossoms, conveying an air of mystery. Below Louis’s photograph, the details for the party are written in a bold font, including Katie’s contact information to purchase tickets.
Save the Oceanview Home!
Spring Party
Come enjoy the historic home’s magical walled gardens—open to the public for the first time in history! Catering by Michelin-starred pastry chef Vikram Neel! Live music! Photography exhibit!
“These are great,” I say. “Did you take this photograph? It’s beautiful.”
Marjorie and Cynthia are leaning over the flyer now, too. “Oh, Louis,” Cynthia says admiringly. “What a talent you are!”
Even Fitz deigns to glance at Louis’s photograph and give a small, appreciative nod.
Louis tells us that Katie is sharing his photographs of the grounds and the residents on her social media accounts. The posts are getting even more views than she expected, and tickets for the party are selling quickly. “She thinks once we get these flyers up, we could sell out within days.”
“I’ll put them up in Bantom Bay tonight,” I promise. “We’ll just have to hope Donovan doesn’t ever stop in town on his way to the home.”
