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“But surely there are plants that will be sympathetic to both climes,” said Mrs. Barnes. “After all, roses grow wild in Pasadena, and who does not know the expression ‘an English rose’?”
Macalister inclined his head as though conceding the point. “You said there’s already a garden there?”
“There is a modest rose garden, some olive trees, a citrus orchard, and some lawn around the front. The rest of the property has been given over to brush.”
“Chaparral?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe so. There is a great deal of sagebrush, buckwheat, and manzanita, as well as a number of established oak trees, as one might expect,” she said.
“There is nothing more English than an oak,” said Mrs. Barnes cheerfully.
These oaks were different than the English oaks Adele remembered from her childhood, but she appreciated her friend’s show of support.
“How much land?” asked Macalister.
“The property sits on three acres. There is the main house and a caretaker’s cottage in the southwestern corner,” she said.
He rubbed his chin. “Three acres?”
“Indeed.” She was glad that she had not mentioned the additional eight acres south of the property she was tempted to ask Guy to purchase for her should they ever become available. If she held those, it would allow her to preserve the undisturbed beauty of the property and ensure no one would ever build on that land.
“Restoring all of that—that’s a big project,” said Macalister.
“And one that Mr. George thinks you would be more than capable of handling,” said Mrs. Barnes about her long-standing head gardener. “He was the one who recommended you.”
“Have you worked for Mrs. Barnes for long, Mr. Macalister?” Adele asked.
“About eight months,” he said.
“And before that?” she asked.
“I worked for a man in Los Angeles for a few years,” he said.
“And before that?” she asked, guessing him to be at least thirty.
“My family owned a citrus farm in Sun Valley. I grew up in the orange groves.”
She noticed that he said owned not owns. Before she could inquire further, however, Adele saw a fair-haired man come around the garden path and stop, unsure of whether to proceed when he spotted the three of them speaking. Macalister seemed to see him as well, because he said, “I’ll see to Jimmy.”
He rose, the iron feet of his chair scraping against the stone patio, and swiftly crossed to the youth.
“Will he do?” asked Mrs. Barnes.
“I don’t really know,” she confessed. “I trust that he came with a good recommendation from this man in Los Angeles, but it sounds as though his experience is mostly in farming.”
“Mr. George said he is rather taciturn, mostly keeping to himself, but he believes Mr. Macalister’s family lost the farm after his father died. It’s a common story, I’m sad to say, especially as land is becoming far more valuable to build on than to farm. Mr. George has been impressed with Mr. Macalister’s skill. He appears to have been well-trained in his previous position.”
Adele’s gaze flicked to where the man stood talking to Jimmy, towering over the freckled boy. “I suppose there is an orchard on the property. His experience could be valuable.”
“If you are intent on designing the garden yourself, Mrs. Whitley, I believe you will find that what you really need is someone to do the hard work of bringing your ideas to life. I laid everything out and then oversaw Mr. George, who in turn oversaw the team of men who dug the beds and laid the stone for this very patio we are sitting on. I would caution you not to underestimate just how much hard labor goes into creating a garden from nothing.”
When Macalister rejoined them, Adele said, “Mr. Macalister, if it is amenable to you, the job is yours. The wage would be ten dollars a week and would include the use of the caretaker’s cottage at Rosewood House.”
“Fifteen dollars,” he said.
“Ten dollars is very generous,” she said, knowing that was what they paid their head gardener at the Gables.
“And I’ll do it for fifteen,” he said.
