Noreen is right: absolutely everyone is on the terrace. Even Mr. Fitz is here, though he’s off in a corner, alone. Instead of black, everyone is wearing color, and the air is soft with the warm, enveloping scent of rock roses.
Marjorie spots me and hurries over to give me a hug. She is dressed head to toe in red, including her glasses. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and squeezes my hands. She walks me to a seat next to Louis, who smiles at me. Gully settles at my feet.
Marjorie stands before us all, the garden spread behind her, and speaks to us about Cynthia. She talks about Cynthia’s career, her many causes, her sense of humor, her mischief. Her words are moving, but also very, very funny, and I’m relieved to see her spirit has not diminished. If anything, it might have grown.
When she finishes, we all sit in silence for several minutes. No, not silence—the birds go on singing; a breeze stirs the flowers; in the distance, waves crash against the shore.
When I breathe in, the strong, sweet scent of honeysuckle races toward me, through me, whispering of courage, of family, of love. Of Cynthia.
“Almond bear claw?” Adele asks, sliding a plate with a gleaming, golden pastry across the table. We are all still gathered on the terrace, but now there are pastries and bowls of fruit and pitchers of lemonade on each table.
Vikram scoops a spoonful of bright berries onto my plate and passes me a fork. “We were so worried when we didn’t see you in the gardens,” he tells me.
Louis strokes Gully’s ears and they gaze adoringly at each other. “You, too, young man,” Louis tells him. “Good to have you both back.”
“It’s good to be back,” I assure him.
“Does that mean you’re staying?” Adele asks. “Please say it does.”
I think of Cynthia, and the scent of honeysuckle. The feeling of determination instilled by my mother’s painting thrums within me. I think of the work that I still need to do in the California garden to have it ready by Friday. Is there enough time? There might be, if I start today.
“Yes. I’m staying,” I say, and everyone exhales.
“Then let’s get down to business,” Marjorie says. She’s armed with Cynthia’s clipboard now, and she points a pen at me. “Did you put the flyers up around town?”
I tell her that I did, and she runs her pen through a line on her clipboard.
“How are sales?” she asks, turning her attention to Louis.
“Katie says they’re strong.”
“So this really might work?” Vikram asks.
We all fall quiet.
“It will be a hell of a party,” Marjorie says at last. “If nothing else.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Grey musk sage: A flowering herb in the mint family with fragrant foliage and violet flowers whose calming scent aids connection to the spiritual world
The next day, as I’m working in the California garden, Adam arrives with the final gate. Sophie is with him, and the clouds in her small face part a little when she sees Gully. In an instant, they are off, running through the flowers together.
I hold the gate while Adam hammers the pegs of the hinges back into place. It feels like a little dance we’ve been doing, perfecting, for weeks, and I’m sorry this is the last time we’ll be doing it.
“Well,” he says. “I guess that’s that.”
“Yes.”
Out of habit, I suppose, we find ourselves walking together around the California garden. I ask Adam if he is coming to the party on Friday, and he tells me he wouldn’t miss it. I relax a little then. This is not the last time I will see him.
“I’m sure you’re relieved to be done with all these gates,” I say.
“I’ve enjoyed it far more than any other work I’ve done lately.”
I look at him. “You’re still not feeling inspired?”
He grimaces. “To be honest, these days I don’t feel much of anything when I’m working. I walk into a home and… nothing. Without that feeling that I used to get, that feeling that I could sense the home’s history, it’s all just… wood.” He shrugs sadly. “Maybe it’s been silly all along. The idea that a house can have a soul. Maybe I was always deluding myself, and now I’ve woken up.”
