“I didn’t have any idea how isolated he’d become,” I admit quietly. “I should have come home sooner.”
“You’re here now,” Roger says firmly, generous as always. “That’s what matters.” He packs all of the various containers into a large paper bag and slides it toward me. “Tell your dad that there is always a cup of coffee waiting for him here, on the house, okay?”
I smile and nod. I’ve paid the bill and nearly made it to the door when Roger’s voice makes me turn.
“I’m really glad you’re back, Lucy,” he says, his face flooded once again with sympathy. “I know how awful all of that was for you… what happened to Jack…”
What happened to Jackr…
The fact is that Roger has no idea what really happened.
No one does.
Chapter Five
Phlox: A flowering plant with rounded clusters of colorful blooms whose soft, vanilla-clove scent holds a promise of friendship
When I pull open the front door of the Oceanview Home on Monday morning, I find Jill perched on one of the lobby’s beige armchairs, changing from heels into sneakers.
“Good morning,” I say cheerfully. I am determined to find my way to Jill’s good side.
I hoist my bag of gardening tools a bit higher on my shoulder and turn to wave to the tiny older woman, Noreen, who sits behind the reception desk. She peers at me for a beat before smiling and waving back.
“You’re on time,” Jill says with begrudging approval. Having violently yanked her shoelaces into knots, she straightens and places her hands on her hips. “I’ll take you outside and get you started.”
I fall into step beside her. “Will Donovan be joining us?”
“He’s not here. He rarely is—he has an office in the city where he spends most of his time.”
I take in this information as we walk through the home. The atmosphere, I’m sorry to note, is every bit as somber as it was on my first visit. The few residents and aides who are seated together at the tables in the dining room speak in low voices as though they’re afraid they might disturb someone, and I feel my heart once again clench at the sight. Today the air smells vaguely of boiled potatoes, dishwater, and bleach—a combination somehow both bland and noxious. Why does no one open a window and let in the fresh sea air, the scents of the overgrown garden, the surrounding woods, the sea? Why is there no music playing?
It’s a relief to step outside, where the morning air is so cool and fresh that I would drink it if I could. A low veil of mist clings to the sunken garden, muting its shades of green. In the distance, the ocean sparkles.
“How is your father?” Jill asks over her shoulder.
I’m touched by the question. I suppose that she must be good at this kind of thing—remembering to ask about family members, worrying over health—given her role at the home. I wonder if that particular skill is what drew her to this job, or if she honed it working here.
“He’s okay,” I say, but I frown a little as I think about how he has turned the pantry into a cramped workroom of sorts, replacing food with tools. He keeps himself busy with all of his house projects, but I seem to be the only person he has spoken to since I arrived. “I think he’s relieved to have me out of his hair today. Thanks for asking.”
A pair of ramps, each generous enough for a wheelchair, flank the wide, stone staircase that leads down to the garden, and it fills me with pleasure to know that the residents will soon be able to enjoy the grounds again. No matter how manicured a garden might appear, it is meant to beexperienced—to be walked in and enjoyed—not simply admired from afar. Gardens aren’t a monologue; they’re a conversation. I have no doubt that it will do the residents of the Oceanview Home a world of good to walk outside, to smell the heady bouquet of phlox and lavender and salvia, to feel the fresh air and experience the fragrant height of spring—and later, the still, green depths of summer.
Jill gestures toward a ladder and a wheelbarrow full of tools at the bottom of the stairs. “Vince, our head of maintenance, gathered everything you asked for,” she says. “He’ll collect any organic waste and transport it to the compost pile at the edge of the property each evening.”
I look through the items in the wheelbarrow. I have most of the tools I need with me, but I asked Donovan for the wheelbarrow, ladder, and a few other supplies.
Jill nods toward the ivy-covered wall to the south. “The gates to two of the smaller gardens are in there somewhere.”
The ivy is so dense that it’s hard to imagine anything other than a solid wall below it, but as I pull my leather tool belt from my bag and clip it around my waist, I assure Jill that I’ll unearth the gates. Still, she lingers, crossing and uncrossing her arms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her unsure of herself.
“I’m curious about the gardens,” she admits finally in one stream of breath, her cheeks pink. “I can see them… sort of… fromthe rooms upstairs. They’re a wreck, I’m sorry to tell you. But also beautiful. In their own ruined sort of way.” Her voice has the same surprisingly wistful tone that it had when she told me about Agatha Pike.
“Well,” I say, “then you must have a better sense of where the gates might be than I do.” I pick out a pair of work gloves from the assortment of items in the wheelbarrow and hold them out to her. “You can use these. I have my own.”
Jill stares at the gloves for a beat, then plucks them from my hand and pulls them on. “We should start over there,” she says and sets off toward the wall, leaving me to follow.
Side by side, we rake our hands through the thick ivy. Seeing Jill combing through the vines, bits of leaves already clinging to her perfect, glossy bob, her lips twisted with determination, I think we might have a chance of getting along after all. I return to my own search, smiling. It’s a strange feeling to have someone working beside me when I have aways worked alone. I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind it. Especially since my normal companion, Gully, is at home.
I glance at Jill again.
