“Think about it,” she said at last, rising. “I’ll be back later.”
Well, that did it. He was not able to stand the thought of seeing her again, so he grumbled a bit before coughing up the name of his lawyer, Tyler Chadwick. Soon he and Tad were living at the Oceanview Home. It was an impressive old estate, and the staff was attentive (To a fault, thought Fitz, who vastly preferred to be left alone), and Tad did love the grounds.
And then, just as they were getting used to their new apartment, Tad went to sleep one night and never woke up. Fitz certainly knew that that was how these things sometimes happened, but was it really too much to ask for a little warning? A day or two of mild illness to allow him time to say goodbye? Perhaps with a bit more time, Fitz wouldn’t now still look around for Tad throughout the day, calling for him, worrying that his dog has run off… before the memory of his death lands like a punch to his stomach.
Without Tad by his side to remind him of the stroke, it sometimes takes Fitz a disorienting moment or two when he awakens in the morning to remember just how he ended up in this place, with its molding landscape and that hyena Marjorie Swenson in the apartment next door. The stroke, he reminds himself then. The prying social worker. Tyler Chadwick. Tad. All day, his thoughts jump around, darting unwisely into the past only to leap forward with a jolt, tugging him into knots.
He looks down at the terrace now, remembering… but she is gone.Again.
Fitz smacks his palm against the window, and the sharp sting that travels out along each of his fingers so undeniably roots him in the present that it comes as a sort of relief.
Chapter Four
Geranium: A flowering plant with powerfully fragrant leaves whose sweet, citrusy scent extends a message of hospitality
That afternoon, I put together a bid for the “very special gardening project” and send it to Donovan. I quote a price that is fair but not exorbitant—I’m generally well compensated for my work, I have a decent nest egg saved in my bank account, and I will not have much by way of living expenses while I am staying with my father, so I see no reason to risk Donovan accepting a competing bid. Besides, the fact is that I really want this job.
When Donovan accepts my proposal a couple of hours later, I feel a flutter of excitement that I realize I haven’t felt in some time.Five gardens.It will be my biggest project to date. To celebrate, I decide to pick up dinner for my dad and myself from the Shark Bite Café. I can’t convince my dad to come along for the ride, but Gully happily clambers up into my truck.
I drive into town, careful, this time, to keep my eyes ahead as I pass the music store that used to be the Seadrift Gallery. I park and walktoward the door of the Shark Bite Café, pausing at the café’s window boxes. Briskly but fondly, familiarly, I deadhead a few old blooms from the red geraniums that I planted years ago. Gully sits beside me, swishing his tail hopefully over the sidewalk every time someone passes.
Flowers cared for, I open the café door and walk straight into a wave of nostalgia—sugar, vanilla, the scent of warm, rising dough, and the nutty, toasted fragrance of coffee.
“Lucy!” booms Roger, the café’s owner, from behind the counter. “And Gully boy! What a nice surprise!”
I smile. “Hi, Roger. How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Croissants are on the house for my favorite gardener.” He drops two enormous pastries into a brown bag and hands them across the counter to me. Unlike my father, Roger—with his downy white hair forming a horseshoe around his bald crown and his ever-present pale blue apron tied around his stout belly—looks exactly as he always has. “Did you see how your flowers are thriving? I haven’t forgotten to water them.”
“I can tell. They’re very happy.”
“I’mthe happy one. Those flowers bring in big business. It’s all about the curb appeal. I already had the curb, but you gave it the appeal.” He plucks one of the dog treats from the jar he keeps on the counter and tosses it into the air. Gully catches it and as he chomps it, I swear that he winks at Roger. Roger laughs his big laugh. “There you go: bad jokes, a Gully treat, and croissants, all free of charge. What else can I get you?”
I scan the pastries, quiches, and variety of salads and vegetable dishes behind the glass of the display case. “What do you recommend? I’m hoping to find something for dinner tonight.”
“Today’s special: white bean minestrone. Hearty, comforting… pair it with a fresh-from-the-oven sourdough baguette. And for dessert…” He thinks for a moment, peering into the case. “Ah! The citrus-glazed olive oil cake.”
I catch each scent in the air as he speaks—the soft notes of sage and thyme in the stew, the salty, yeasty smell of the sourdough, the richness of the olive oil mingling with the cheery burst of orange zest. I can’t help but hope that having all of these aromas in our kitchen will breathe a bit of life back into the house and give my father’s spirits a boost.
“Sounds delicious,” I say. “Sold.”
Roger ladles the stew into a takeout container from an enormous pot. “How long are you in town?”
I tell him that I’m starting a monthlong gardening job at the Oceanview Home on Monday.
“Aren’t they lucky to have you?” he replies. “And a month! You haven’t stuck around that long since…” His eyes widen then and he pauses, fishing around for how to finish the sentence. “High school,” he finally says, nearly swallowing the words.
I can’t bear the sympathy that I see in Roger’s eyes. I don’t deserve it, and he wouldn’t look at me that way if he knew the truth.
“I’m staying to be with my dad,” I say quickly. “He could use some company.”
Now Roger’s expression shifts to concern. “Howisyour dad? He never comes in anymore.”
I take in this news with a fresh twinge of worry. My father used to stop into the Shark Bite every morning on his way to his office in San Francisco. And not just because he loved Roger’s coffee—orat least I hadn’t thought so. I’d always thought he and Roger were friends.
“He doesn’t seem to go out much these days,” I say. “He’s retired now, and without my mom…” I trail off, sighing.
Roger nods sadly. “You know, I called him a few times after your mother’s funeral to check on him. He never picked up, never responded to my messages. Naomi Lawson told me that lots of people have been trying to get him out of the house, inviting him to dinner and things like that, but he always declines. I guess Naomi showed up on his doorstep and really pressed him, and he promised her that he’d start getting out and about again soon, but that he needed more time.”
