“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Her face is tight with worry. “Donovan must have arranged to meet them inside, away from all of us.”
“So it’s over,” I say, crestfallen. “It’s done.”
Jill opens her mouth to reply, but at that very moment we both spot Donovan entering the sunken garden from the California garden. He’s lost his suit jacket somewhere along the way, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up nearly to his elbows. He appears to have gotten some sun, and his face has a relaxed look that makes me wonder if he’s had more than his share of sparkling wine.
“You’ve done a good job with these gardens, Lucy,” he says, walking toward us.
Jill and I exchange confused looks. “Thank you,” I say, cautiously.
“Walking through them,” he goes on, almost dreamily, “is like walking through my childhood. I’ve been flooded with the most extraordinary memories. I remembered walking the grounds with my father and my grandparents. I must have been very young. I remembered watching the sun lower over the sea, just as it did today, and admiring how the light made the reflecting pool turn to gold. I remembered a time…” He shakes his head, amused by some memory. “I remembered that there used to be wild turkeys roaming the grounds, believe it or not. And I remembered playing hide-and-seek with a little girl who was here to visit her grandmother. I remembered butterflies and hummingbirds and dragonflies flitting over the flowers, everywhere I looked. It all seemed magical to a small boy.”
I am baffled by this version of Donovan. “It still seems magical,” I say.
“It absolutelyismagical,” Jill says, in that crisp, definitive way of hers.
Donovan studies us both for a moment before nodding. “Yes, you’re right. You’re both right.” His eyes sweep over the sunken garden, taking in the families that walk along its paths, the glow of fairy lights all around. Bits of conversation and laughter and music drift down from the terrace. The photographs along the ramps move in the slight breeze. Floating candles now glide across the surface of the reflecting pool, their lights flickering softly in the gathering dusk.
“I don’t believe,” Donovan says, turning to face us again, “that monthly events like this will be enough to save the home.”
“But—” I say, just as Jill begins to argue as well.
“It’s all in the budget,” she says firmly. “It will absolutely work.”
“It won’t,” Donovan insists, just as firmly. There is a glint in his eyes that I have never seen before. He leans toward us and says, “But I have other ideas.”
Jill opens her mouth to argue and then shuts it again. She tilts her head. “You do?”
“I’ve been brainstorming as I’ve been walking,” he says. He looks at me. “You were right, Lucy. The gardens are a very good place to gather your thoughts. And I managed to gather quite a lot of them. I took a look at the number of people who have asked to be placed on the wait list. It’s an impressive amount of interest. And I believe we can think bigger than just monthly garden parties. I’m envisioning an annual membership program with benefits for those who join, such as members-only events. And I believe we could allow one daytime wedding every month without disrupting the residents too much, don’t you think?”
“I think the residents would love to host weddings here,” I say, wondering whether it would be too much to think that Vikram and Adele might enjoy the challenge of creating wedding cakes, or that Louis might like to try his hand at event photography.
“And that would be enough?” Jill asks. She’s still frowning at Donovan, as if she doesn’t quite trust any of this.
“To make this place profitable?” Donovan shakes his head. “I doubt it. Not with keeping the sliding-scale payment option in place, but I can only imagine the petition that that frightening Marjorie Swenson woman would hand me if I were to suggest getting rid ofthat.” He pauses thoughtfully. “But could we break even? Could we keep this place going awhile longer?” He shrugs, then smiles at us. “I think maybe, just maybe, we could.”
“And the developers?” Jill asks.
“Oh, I called off the meeting. I couldn’t have them seeing all of this.”
Jill and I exchange a euphoric look. In an instant, though, she does that thing where she manages to wipe all emotion from her face.
“Since we’re staying open,” she says as if it’s all decided, tilting her chin up to Donovan, a gleam of challenge in her eyes, “we’re going to need a gardener.”
In the end, we decide that it should be Marjorie who makes the announcement.
Jill, Donovan, and I walk up to the terrace together. I spot Adam and Sophie right away. My face must show my relief and happiness,because they hurry over and Adam says in a low voice, “Did it really work?”
When I nod, he takes hold of my hand and squeezes it. I bend down to hug Sophie and then Gully licks her cheek, making her laugh that laugh of hers that seems to be growing richer and more expansive by the moment.
I see that my father has found Roger and Naomi, and they’re sitting at a table with Fitz and Marjorie. Maybe it’s thanks to the empty champagne glasses or the cheer lent by the music and flowers and the fragrance of the gardens and the sea, but they all seem to be enjoying one another’s company.
I watch Marjorie’s expression change as Jill appears at her side and whispers into her ear. Jill backs away then, and Marjorie begins to clink her glass with a fork. Everyone at the other tables joins in, and soon the musicians have stopped playing, an excited, curious hush falling over the large crowd.
Marjorie gets to her feet and raises her glass into the air. The breeze gently moves the scarf—Cynthia’s—around her neck, making it seem alive.
“We did it!” Marjorie shouts in that surprisingly commanding voice of hers. “The home is ours!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
