But Donovan isn’t looking at them. He’s staring at Jill, who has just appeared on the terrace. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” she responds mildly.
Donovan looks over our shoulders at the hundreds of visitors who are walking the grounds. “Who are all of these people?” he hisses. “Have you seen the driveway? It took me fifteen minutes just to reach the parking lot from the road!”
“These are all paying visitors,” Jill tells him. “All people who wanted a glimpse of these gardens.”
Donovan blinks at her. “?‘Paying’?” he repeats.
“Paying.” She pulls an envelope from the inside pocket of her suit jacket and hands it to Donovan.
We all watch as he slowly extracts a check from the envelope. He stares at it for a long moment.
“And this,” Jill says, pressing a sheet of paper into his hands, “is the anticipated annual budget for the home, accounting for monthly events like this one, during which the public will be admitted into our restored, historic gardens for a fee.”
“I’ve been posting about the home on my social media accounts,” Katie pipes in then, appearing beside Marjorie with Louis in tow. “Peoplemagazine reached out to me.The New York TimesandSan Francisco Chronicle, too. They’re all interested in doing stories on the home—its history, the grounds, and all of the programs that are run by the home’s residents. The photography workshop. The garden club. The voter-registration campaign. The chess club.” Here, Fitz groans, and we all shoot him a stern look. “The pastry arts club…” Katie goes on.
Donovan stares at her. “The pastry arts club?” he repeats.
On cue, Adele and Vikram appear, pressing a plate with a slice of chai spice cake into Donovan’s hands.
Donovan, with a confused manner that implies he does not understand what he is doing or why, slowly lifts a forkful of cake into his mouth. His face softens as he chews. He peers at Katie, tilting his head. “Who the hell are you?” he asks around a second mouthful.
“She’s my granddaughter,” Louis says, sounding threatening.
Donovan slowly lifts his chin to stare up at Louis, and then quickly looks back down at Jill.
“She’s also the home’s new publicist,” Jill says.
“Thewhat?” Donovan sputters.
“Pro bono,” Katie hurries to say. Then she leans in and gives him her most charming smile. “The homedesperatelyneeds a new website.” She pulls back quickly when Donovan scowls. “Which we can discuss at a later date…” she murmurs.
Jill waves yet another piece of paper at Donovan. “This,” she says, “is a contact list of seniors, or someone who reached out on behalf of a senior relative, who have requested to be placed on the home’s wait list ever since Katie began her highly successful social media campaign.”
Donovan stares at the paper. “But we don’t have a wait list—”
“We do now,” Jill says.
Marjorie clears her throat.
“Andthis,” she says, shoving her clipboard into Donovan’s hands so that he’s forced to juggle it along with the check, the budget, the wait list, and the plate of cake, “is a petition that the indomitable Cynthia Kaminski drew up. It’s signed by each and every resident and member of staff of the Oceanview Home. We demand that you immediately agree to keep our home open.”
A sort of panic sets in behind Donovan’s eyes as they race over the list of names on the paper.
“I find,” I say quietly, rocking forward slightly on my toes, “that the gardens are a good place to go when you need to gather your thoughts.”
“There’s still another thirty minutes before the meeting is set to begin,” Jill adds.
Donovan flicks his gaze between the two of us for a longmoment. Then he strides forward so quickly that we all have to take a step back to make room for him to pass through us. I notice how Louis blocks the stairs, arms crossed, so that Donovan is forced to take one of the ramps.
We all silently watch as Donovan’s gait slows nearly to a halt when he catches sight of the old and new photographs that hang from twine along the ramp. Then we all exchange looks. I think each of us is hoping that one of us will assure everyone that we’ll be successful, that Donovan can’t possibly go through with the deal after all of our efforts.
But no one says anything.
Marjorie peels off first. Then Fitz wanders away before I can stop him. Adele and Vikram follow. Louis and Katie sit down together at a table.
“Does the budget you made really show a way to keep the home open?” I ask Jill quietly, when it’s just the two of us left standing there.
