“And you’ll be head of horticulture at the New York Botanical Garden.”
I laughed at that. “I willnot.”
“Ten years,” she repeated, liking the idea more and more. “We’ll be different, and the garden will be different. It’s a perfect idea. Let’s do it—let’s come back, no matter what. Promise?” She held up her pinkie finger, and I hooked mine through hers.
“Promise,” I replied, and I never broke a promise.
2
bricoleur
Ten Years Later
Harriett would’ve loved the goose.
At first, I thought maybe shewasthe goose, but Harriett Fisher would never stoop so low as to chase an old woman out of a garden. No, she’d be the goose dog currently sitting at my heels, effortlessly useless.
“Damn it,” I sighed, grabbing my sun hat from my chair on the veranda, and hurried down the steps into the Central Garden.
Said goose dog, a border collie named Reggie, was right behind me.
“Leave heralone, Damnit!” I said as the Canada goose snapped at the heels of the poor older woman currently fighting a losing battle. She was one of the few local artists who regularly came to Lilymoor to paint, and the goose hated the saffron color of her sweater. Which, inthisheat? That was maniacal. Even though I didn’t agree with the goose, I understood her rage.
Summers in Maine were supposed to be beautiful and mild, but for some reason today the air wasn’t moving. Therewas probably a storm brewing off the coast, gathering power, and the breeze would be back with a vengeance soon.
Damnit bit at me as I came to the woman’s rescue.
“Don’t youdare,” I scolded, and flapped my sun hat at her. “Go!Go!Or I’ll turn you into a feather duster!”
With one final hiss, Damnit shook her tail feathers and stalked away.
“Bless. Thank you, dear.” The older woman patted her chest above her heart, shaking her head. “That is Satan’s creature.”
“She’s just built that way,” I replied, picking up the drawing pad and pencil she’d dropped on the ground when the goose got after her. “Are you okay?”
“I am now,” she replied, taking back her art supplies. “Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Drear,” I introduced myself. “Sophie Drear.”
Recognition lit her face. “Oh! You must be a new volunteer.”
My smile thinned. “Head gardener, actually. Just came onto the team about a month ago.”
“And they have you wrangling geese?”
At that, I laughed. “Oh no. I do that for myself. At least it’s just the one goose.”
The woman shook her head, though more in admonishment than anything else. “It’s always just thatonegoose. I don’t see why Eula keeps her around. HowisEula?” she added. “Ever since her accident, we’ve missed her at our weekly bridge games.”
“She’s doing well,” I replied, though it was more a guess than anything else. I’d started after Eula Beck, the owner of Lilymoor, fell and fractured her hip. She’d been in outpatientrehab, and would be for almost the full duration of my stay. “Can I help you with anything?”
The older woman dusted off her sketchbook. “Oh no, no. I’m just here to wander and let my pencil talk. It helps clear the mind. I can’t wait for the Hedges to open—it’ll be soon, yes?”
“In the next week, probably,” I replied.
“Ohgood! I missed them,” she said, and shuffled along toward the Rose Court. “It was nice to meet you, Sophie Dear.”
It wasDrear, but I didn’t correct her and instead turned to glare down at the dog. “You’re terrible at your job, Reginald,” I told him. “She’s right, you know, I have a garden to tend to, not a goose to manage.”
