Chapter Thirty-Three
Chamomile: A flowering herb with small, daisy-like blooms whose gentle, apple-and-hay scent encourages patience
I arrive early to the Oceanview Home on Friday morning, before anyone is awake. There is a skittering sensation in my chest that sets me on edge. It is the uncomfortable feeling that has always spurred me to leave, to move on. To run before I am fully known.
I stare up at the home from the sunken garden, the scents of the flowers churning, whispering all around me. I feel responsible for the residents, for the hope that I know they will feel when they awaken today. Have I done the right thing? In spite of all that has happened, I’m still not sure.
But the scent of chamomile blossoms tumbles toward me from the cottage garden, soft and green, whispering of patience.
So I will stay. I will wait and see what the day brings.
Hours later, I am caught up in a whir of activity, directed with precision by Marjorie. Vikram and Adele are hard at work in the kitchen, and the layered, spiced scents of their efforts billow out from the home’s open windows. Isobel and Mario find cream-colored linens somewhere and spread them over the tables on the terrace. I clip flowers from each of the gardens and arrange them in vases for the tables—tulips, roses, peonies, hydrangea, sage, viburnum, and trailing vines of honeysuckle. Vince and Eva string lights throughout the gardens. Louis’s granddaughter, Katie, and Noreen discuss how best to collect payment from anyone who shows up without having purchased an advance ticket. Gully ambles around, checking on everyone and offering a moment of rest.
Jill arrives—irreproachable in an immaculate, pale-yellow suit—with a small, energetic army of cousins who all immediately begin to organize the crates of sparkling wine that Vikram procured. When I ask her if she’s worried about what Donovan will say when he sees her there, she gives me an incredulous look that reminds me that Donovan will take one glance around and realize he has far bigger fish to fry.
Louis runs twine down the lengths of the two ramps that lead to the sunken garden and uses clothespins to hang an array of the photographs he’s taken over the last couple of weeks—images of the residents walking among the flowers, visiting with family on the terrace, sharing meals in the dining room as light streams through the tall windows and the curtains lift in the breeze. There’s the image I love of Fitz and me playing chess with Gully at his feet, and one of Vikram and Adele looking rosy-cheeked and industrious in the kitchen, one of Marjorie and Cynthia with their headsbent together in that way I know so well, and one of Marjorie and Sophie and Adam walking in the California garden.
And then there’s one of me, kneeling among a startling abundance of sunny, golden daffodils in the cottage garden, the faint, fuzzy forms of residents walking along a path in the distance. I don’t remember that moment. I certainly don’t remember Louis taking my photograph. I’m gazing at the flowers that surround me, and I have the contained, contented look of someone who knows a happy secret.
“I call that one New Beginnings,” Louis says, suddenly beside me. “That’s what daffodils represent, you know. New Beginnings.”
“And hope,” I say with a pang in my heart.
He smiles. “And happiness.”
Interspersed among Louis’s photographs are much older photographs in black-and-white and color. Jill found them in an album in one of the offices. I lean closer, studying them. There is a photograph of a woman who must be Agatha Pike, wearing a slouchy velvet hat and a small, knowing smile, and her husband, Calvin, bearded and serious-looking. They stand on the terrace, their backs to the sea, the nascent sunken garden below them. There are photographs of Agatha and her grandchildren walking in the woodland garden. Next to the photograph of Marjorie and Cynthia, there is a photograph of Agatha enjoying tea on the terrace with three other elderly women; they all look up at the camera as though they’ve been caught telling dirty jokes. There are quite a few color photographs of people I don’t recognize—members of the Pike family, I assume—captured in various corners of the grounds. There’s one of a young boy with a smile that belongs, surely, to Donovan. He’s gazingup at a man who might have been his father, and they’re walking under the arbor of the rose garden as petals fall around them. They look like figurines in a snow globe.
“If he has a heart, that one is bound to pull on its strings, don’t you think?” Louis asks.
“It’s brilliant,” I tell him. How could anyone bear to cut the cord that connects all of these people, this long echoing line of family and friends and generations?
A quartet of teenagers appear on the ramp then, blinking around in surprise at the view, the dramatic beds of lavender and lemon trees, the clouds that seem to float in the reflecting pool, the glittering sea.
One of them catches my eye and tentatively holds up the cello case in his hand. “I’m Peter?” he says. “Adele Abrams’s grandson?”
“Oh, you’re the musicians!” I say, and the four exchange glances and stand a bit straighter.
“Better late than never,” Marjorie says, suddenly materializing beside them. The teens spin to face her. “Come on. I’ll show you where to set up.”
And so it all comes together, somehow. The weather obliges beautifully. It’s a glorious afternoon, all sun and blue skies and just enough breeze to chase away both the fog and the heat. The air holds that now familiar, intoxicating mix of flowers and sea salt.
Soon residents are walking along the paths with their families. Children—grandchildren and, possibly, great grandchildren—dartthrough the gardens, skipping in and out of the open gates. There’s a sea of familiar faces—Roger is there, and Naomi, and many of my mom’s friends and former students. Jody is there, and Roberta, and a number of other shop owners and store clerks. The girl from the front desk of the community center has brought a whole group of teenagers with her, and they’re taking an endless stream of selfies among the flowers. Katie set up social media accounts for the home late last night, and she keeps reminding everyone to tag the home in their posts.
Someone has brought big, round, pastel balloons and tied them with curling ribbons to all of the children’s wrists. The children, in turn, tie a big, beautiful tangle of ribbons around Gully; they bounce and curl under his chin as he moves from one person to the next, greeting everyone. Jill’s cousins are in constant movement, replacing the glasses of sparkling wine and plates of Vikram and Adele’s chai spice cakes as quickly as they are plucked from the table. The quartet of teenage musicians plays music that spills over everyone, making it seem that even the visitors who are just walking around the gardens are somehow dancing, woven into the choreography of the afternoon.
I look around for my father, who has promised to come, but he doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. I’m surprised to notice Fitz and Marjorie sitting together at a table on the terrace. Marjorie is wearing one of her fabulous, colorful outfits, and Cynthia’s floaty cream scarf encircles her neck. I smile at the sight of it. Fitz’s head is inclined toward Marjorie’s, and she appears to be listening to him carefully.Maybe they’ll manage to become friends after all, I think. I’m glad to see them together, especially since Marjorie is withoutCynthia, and it seems unlikely that Fitz will have any family joining him today.
The chatter on the terrace falls quiet the moment Donovan Pike strides through the doors. He immediately halts. His gaze swings around wildly, his expression a carousel of emotions—shock, confusion, fury—as he takes in the sight of the tables with their linens and flowers, the display of wine and cakes, the balloons, Gully in his mantle of colorful ribbons, the quartet of jazz-playing teenagers carrying on all the while like musicians on the deck of theTitanic.
Donovan’s eyes, at last, fall on mine. He strides toward me.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks, dropping his voice low enough that only I can hear how it vibrates with anger.
“It’s the spring party,” I tell him. “It has a long tradition here at the Oceanview Home.”
A line of sweat has formed above his lip. “I did not approve this,” he says. “I’m holding a very important meeting here today.”
“What a remarkable coincidence,” Marjorie says, sauntering up beside me. Fitz is next to her, glowering impressively at Donovan.
