“I went back to the community center to help with the theater again. That place needs a lot of work. Actually,” he says, “Tim Marshall runs the place now, and he asked if I’d be interested in teaching a basic home maintenance workshop. Can you believe some people don’t know how to replace the caulking around their windows? Ordo a minor repair of a wall?” He shakes his head, then looks at me. “Did you know they have a chess club?”
“I did not know that,” I say, smiling.
He turns to take in the view from the terrace. “This place is really something, Lucy. You did all of this?”
“There are four walled gardens, too,” I tell him. “Two at each end.”
“Will you show me?”
I have not seen even a glimpse of Donovan since he arrived. I haven’t seen Jill lately, either. I scan the terrace for them one last time, and then fetch my father a piece of chai spice cake to eat as we walk.
“Do you recognize it?” I ask when he takes his first bite.
He looks wistful as he chews. “Your mother’s favorite.”
I show him through the California garden and the cottage garden, and tell him that Adam restored each of the gates. My father seems impressed. As we walk into the rose garden, I point out the arbor of pink blossoms, how the colors of the roses deepen as they near the stone fountain, and the seating areas I unearthed from under tangled webs of overgrown vines.
It’s as I’m turning toward the woodland garden that I notice Fitz over my father’s shoulder. He stands in the open archway of the wall, just a few feet away, clutching his walker and staring in our direction with a strange look on his face.
“Hi, Mr. Fitz,” I call, and gesture for him to join us.
My dad turns, and for a baffling moment the two men simply stare at each other.
When my father at last breaks the strange, uneasy silence, it is to say the most extraordinary thing:
“Hello, Dad.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
FITZ
Fitz is having some sort of episode. He can hardly bring himself to move. He doesn’t want to upset the illusion in front of him: his son, whom he has not seen in nearly thirty years, stands right in front of him in the rose garden, chatting with Lucy.
“Dad?” Gregory says again. He looks shocked and wary, his body very still.
This can’t be. Fitz blinks. The marsh in his chest shifts, growing turbulent.
“Gregory?” he says in barely more than a whisper. “Gregory?”
He pushes his walker to the side, not needing the damn thing, and walks unsteadily but with determination to his son, and puts his arms around him. He holds Gregory for a long moment before he feels his son shift and slowly lift his arms to return the embrace.
But soon, Gregory pulls back. His brow is deeply furrowed as he looks from Fitz to Lucy.
“Did you know that he was here?” Fitz’s son asks Lucy.
Lucy’s face conveys utter bewilderment. She opens her mouth to speak, but Fitz finds his words first.
“This is Lucy,” he explains to his son. “She’s the gardener.” She is so much more than that, of course, but it hardly seems important to recite her entire résumé at the moment. Fitz can’t take his eyes off Gregory. His son is right here! His son was a young man when he saw him last, thirty years ago. Now he has deep grooves across his forehead and silver hair.
“Lucy is my daughter,” Gregory says stiffly.
Fitz releases a huff of laughter, but the sound dies quickly when he realizes that Gregory and Lucy aren’t joining in. Fitz stares at them.
“Lucy, this,” Gregory says, gesturing toward Fitz, “is my father.”
Lucy’s eyes are wide. “I don’t understand. I thought my grandparents were dead.”
“Technically, no,” Gregory tells her, not meeting Fitz’s gaze.
