“That’s the kind of man I want at my deathbed,” she’d said. “Apparently he held her in his arms as she breathed her last. I’m going to give him a year—then I’m going to pounce.”
Gwen hadn’t followed up on her threat, though, which was unlike her. I kidded her about it from time to time.
“He’s fair game now,” I’d told her when we saw him shopping at Guido’s with two of his teenaged children a couple of years after his wife had died.
“Yeah, he’s pretty tempting, isn’t he?” Gwen said as we watched him surreptitiously. He was wearing jeans and a battered baseball cap. He was standing in front of the meat counter, and the butcher was laughing at something he’d said. “But there’re those four teenage kids to contend with. I think I’m going to wait until they’re out of the house.”
As far as I knew, the Deaver children were in college now, though I think I’d heard the oldest one had already married. It was only recently—around the time of Tom’s lecture at the library—that I became vaguely aware I didn’t have my eye on Tom Deaver for Gwen’s sake, but for my own. Not seriously, though. I was through with men. But theoretically, if I ever was to get involved with anyone again—which I wasn’t—I’d want him to be someone like Tom. Thoughtful. Committed to a job he really believed in. Making a difference in the world. That he looked damned good in jeans and had a voice that made my mouth go dry was definitely a plus. But I knew now that I’d clearly blown it with him before I had to worry about dealing with any of these fantasies in a real way. And when I asked myself if I would have refused to work for Mackenzie because it might have improved my chances with Tom, the answer was an unequivocal “no.”
“Guess who called me,” Gwen said, her voice on the phone sounding girlishly breathy.
“Tom,” I said. It was a week after my run-in with him, and the whole bruising business was still taking up way too much of my time and attention.
“Who?”
“Tom Deaver. Didn’t you want him to—”
“What? No—Graham Mackenzie! He called me at the office about half an hour ago and we talked. And talked. We just hung up. He’s coming by later this afternoon to see Bridgewater House. The timing couldn’t be better. The place looks run-down as hell, but this is the perfect time of the year to show the gardens. The peonies and lilacs are blooming.”
“Don’t forget to mention to him that they go back generations.”
“I won’t. I’ve been working on my pitch ever since you told me about his foundation. I’ve got it down chapter and verse. And I’m going use everything in my power to persuade him that the Bridgewater House gardens deserve his funding dollars.”
“What do you mean by everything in your power?”
“Well, I think he might be susceptible to some of my physical charms, don’t you?”
“You’ve got a great story, Gwen. You don’t need to oversell it.”
“What are you implying?”
“I think you know what I mean,” I told her. Gwen was an unabashed flirt. She was certainly attractive enough to sit back and let men come to her, but that just wasn’t her style. And though I hated to admit it, sometimes I found the way she threw herself at guys—especially those who had something she wanted—a little embarrassing. All too often Gwen took up with wealthy married men. And these relationships always followed the same basic and usually very brief dramatic arc: euphoric opening, tumultuous intermezzo, abrupt denouement. The fact that several of Gwen’s lovers had offered to leave their wives for her—and that she’d turned them down flat—had convinced me that my friend preferred the excitement these liaisons provided over the men themselves.
“No, I think you better spell it out,” she replied.
“Okay,” I told her, undeterred. I decided she really needed to hear what I had to say. “I think you should approach Mackenzie in a businesslike manner. He strikes me as the kind of man who doesn’t need much persuading when it comes to certain things—like your physical charms. And you don’t want to end up mixing business with pleasure. You don’t want to come across as unprofessional, do you? This is just too important.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come over and chaperone?” she asked, but I could hear the irritation behind her glibness.
“No, of course not,” I said. But I lied. I was responsible for bringing the two of them together. My needy, impulsive best friend and an entitled, volatile man. Had I done something I would come to regret? All sorts of alarm bells began to go off in my head.
8
The June issue of the Woodhaven News, our local monthly, carried a write-up on the special meeting at the town hall that had been held on a Saturday morning at the end of May to discuss Tom Deaver’s wind power initiative. The last paragraph of the story read:
After a series of unfortunate exchanges between Mr. Deaver and Mr. Mackenzie, who represented the Powell Mountain Homeowners Association, the chair of the planning board was forced to abruptly adjourn the session. The selectmen would like it known that all such forums should be kept cordial and in the public interest, and that personal disparagements and inappropriate language will not be tolerated. The Wind Power Initiative has been put on indefinite hold.
No wonder Tom was upset when he saw me at the post office that day. He’d just come from what was clearly a bruising confrontation with Mackenzie, not to mention dashed hopes for his project. It changed nothing, I knew, but it helped explain his anger, and I was able to gradually stop obsessing so much about what had happened between us. I had plenty of other things on my mind.
Gwen, for instance. And Mackenzie. The two of them separately. As well as the possibility of the two of them together. Gwen had dutifully reported back to me after Mackenzie’s visit to Bridgewater House. The meeting had gone well, she told me. He’d seemed interested in the project. He thought the property was indeed beautiful and deserved to be preserved. Gwen felt hopeful that they could work together. Mackenzie had requested that she submit a formal grant proposal.
“And?” I asked.
“What?”
“Well, what did you think of him? You asked me the same question a couple of months ago, remember? Would you say he has a soul or is he just all about making the big buckaroonies?”
“He seems very nice,” Gwen said. Nice? That was such a namby-pamby word—not part of Gwen’s usual vocabulary at all.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do! What really happened with Mackenzie? You’re being cagey. You’re hiding something.”
“And you’re being paranoid. And, if I may say so, more than a little insulting. I know perfectly well what you were implying when you told me not to be unprofessional. You were worried I was going to act like a fool in front of your big-deal client. Plus you have no real faith in my ability to make this campaign a success. You hurt my feelings, Alice. If I was hiding anything—I guess it’s that.”
If she’d meant to put me on the defensive, she’d done a good job. I apologized, and we got off the phone soon after. But the following Friday morning she left a voice mail saying she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the movies that night. Something had come up. The same thing—whatever or whoever it was—came up again the week after. I called her a couple of times, but kept getting bounced to her voice mail. I decided to let it go—and let her make the next move to get back in touch. I was relieved to think that I was the problem, and that my worst fears hadn’t materialized. At least, I hoped that was the case. I wasn’t able to gather any collaborating evidence from Mackenzie.
Though I was spending almost every waking hour at his house these days, I hadn’t actually seen him since the day he stopped me in front of the garages. Our early-evening idylls on his deck had come to an abrupt end. But I assumed he was in residence because his helicopter was there, and I would occasionally
hear his voice behind his office door when I came in for one of Eleanor’s lunches or snacks. Sometimes Mara would join us as well. Eleanor had issued her and Danny a standing invitation to drop by for meals anytime they wanted. But most days Mara and I were too busy for more than a store-bought sandwich wolfed down on the run. I was overseeing the installation of the most complicated and expensive project of my career while Mara was almost single-handedly running Green Acres in my absence.
“Mrs. Bostock wants you to call her,” Mara told me one morning in early June as I was heading out to the site.
“Can’t you follow up on that?” I asked. Brook Bostock, one of our wealthiest clients, was generally easygoing, but she tended to chatter on. I didn’t have time for that today. Damon Fagels was due at Mackenzie’s in less than an hour to start mounting the wrought-iron fixtures.
“She’s called three times,” Mara said. “She wants to talk to you. She asked if you were ever here these days.”
“Okay, I’ll try her on my cell later,” I said, pushing open the door.
“And Vera Yoland called again.”
“Again?” I asked, turning around. Vera Yoland sat on the board of the Berkshire Botanical Garden and the Berkshire Natural Resources Council, was past chairwoman of the Lenox Garden Club, and had her fingers in just about every important horticultural pie in our area. I’d been introduced to her half a dozen times since moving back to Woodhaven—at gardening events and benefits—but she seemed to make a point of staring right through me. I’d seen her be gracious and charming to those she wanted to impress. I was just someone she clearly felt she needn’t bother with. Whether that was because she knew about the fiasco with Richard or because she simply disliked me for myself alone, I couldn’t say. That Vera Yoland had called me—twice—seemed unbelievable.
“Yeah, the first one’s with the messages I left for you yesterday,” Mara said, “right there beside your phone.”
I closed the door and went back to my desk. It was covered with stacks of mail and message slips. I knew that Mara would be troubleshooting any really serious problems, but I could tell from sorting through the many “While You Were Outs” that I needed to step in soon and handle some of these matters myself. Sal Lombardi had called twice over the last week, which was odd because we usually dealt directly with his caretaker. I found Brook Bostock’s messages as well as those from two other regular clients. And there in Mara’s looping hand was Vera Yoland’s name and number. She lived in one of those meticulously restored Victorians in Lenox. Her gardens, which had been featured in Martha Stewart Living a few years back, had been maintained for decades by Coldwater Landscape Design. Could Vera be thinking of making a change?
I was running late, but my curiosity got the better of me. I picked up the phone and dialed Vera’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Oh, yes! Alice! Thank you so much for getting back to me!” Her emphatic patrician voice carried across the room. Mara looked over and frowned. “I’ve been hearing such absolutely amazing things about the gardens you’re putting in for Graham Mackenzie!”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s an enormous undertaking, but I think he’s pleased with how things are coming along.”
“Someone told me he insisted that everything be finished by the end of June. Can that be possible? What an incredible task! You must be laboring away like Hercules!”
Vera Yoland’s laugh was high, brittle, and, it seemed to me, a little nervous. She must have been aware that she’d been rude to me and was now anxious about approaching me to take her gardens on. Six months ago I would have jumped at the chance. After my experience with Mackenzie, though—and the joy of creating something totally new and original—the prospect of maintaining Vera’s staid English-style property seemed less than thrilling. But the sweet revenge of having her ask—after treating me so dismissively in the past—was pretty delicious.
“That’s the deadline,” I told her. “And I’m doing everything in my power to honor it. Graham Mackenzie is such a generous and supportive client. It’s actually been more like a collaboration—and I think the outcome is going to be pretty spectacular.”
“Oh, how marvelous! That’s just what I was hoping to hear! And you’re feeling pretty confident about that end-of-June completion date?”
“Yes, though we’re not nearly there yet. I’m still waiting for shipment confirmation on some—”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Vera said breezily. “We’ll come in and help fill in any holes you might have with mulch or annuals. Every garden we include gets a little free face-lift right before it’s shown.”
“We?” I asked, suddenly confused.
“The Garden Conservancy, dear,” Vera explained. “Didn’t I make that clear? I told your girl yesterday that I was calling about Open Days. I’m one of the regional representatives. Everyone’s been talking about the Mackenzie property, and we decided that we wanted to feature it that first Saturday in July as the kickoff to the entire summer season. It will be such a coup! We’re expecting a huge turnout. I know it’s going to be a tremendous draw and we . . .”
An Open Day. The Garden Conservancy wanted to show my garden during an Open Day! These self-guided tours through the most beautiful private gardens in the country had been initiated several decades ago by the prestigious Garden Conservancy and since then had grown into some of the most anticipated social events of the summer. Having your garden chosen was the equivalent of being nominated for an Academy Award. The recognition alone was a tremendous and extremely coveted honor. It was something that would ensure the ongoing success of Green Acres. I felt so giddy I had to sit down.
“Tried any number of times . . .” I vaguely heard Vera continue. “. . . must really finalize things immediately . . . already so late in the game . . . press releases . . . the housekeeper has tried but . . . hoping you might intervene . . . can’t move ahead without his permission . . .”
I finally realized what Vera was trying to say.
“You want me to ask Mr. Mackenzie for you?” I said.
“Yes, if you would. He’s not answering my calls. I’ve tried to make it clear to him in the voice mails I left who I am and what the Garden Conservancy represents. But then it occurred to me that Mr. Mackenzie might have no idea how special it is to have his home selected for an Open Day. He travels in such different circles than the rest of us—nobody on our board has ever actually met him.”
“I’d be happy to ask him,” I said, my heart still racing. I felt a surge of goodwill—to Vera, to the Garden Conservancy, to life itself. I’d been through hell, but I’d persevered. And this, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, was my reward. What a tremendous boost this was going to mean for my business—not to mention my ego. I’d been so right to take the job with Mackenzie! A part of me couldn’t help but wonder what Tom Deaver would think when he learned that the esteemed Garden Conservancy had chosen to recognize my work in such a wonderfully public way.
“What was that all about?” Mara asked when I hung up the phone.
“I’m guessing you’ve never heard of Open Days,” I replied. “Or you would have hunted me down and made me return that woman’s call yesterday.”
“You’re right. So what’s the big deal?”
But after I explained about the Garden Conservancy and the honor of being chosen for an Open Days tour, Mara just shrugged.
“Is this going to mean you spend even more time over there? Because I’ve got to tell you, things are really beginning to get to a breaking point around here. I’m not sure how much more I can handle on my own.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her, shuffling the messages she’d left me into a workable pile. “I’ll take these with me and make a lot of calls on my cell. I’ll try to get back in time to go over some of your concerns, okay? But you’re doing a wonderful job! And—if everything works out the way I think it will—you should sta
rt planning what you’re going to do with a very nice bonus.”
I wasn’t able to get in to see Mackenzie that day. Eleanor told me he was on a series of extended conference calls and could not be interrupted.
“But it’s very important news,” I told her. “And I know he’d be happy to hear it! I’ll be here pretty late—so if he happens to become free later—just give me a shout, okay?”
“It would be lovely to give him good news,” Eleanor said. “At the same time, I’d prefer not to have my head bitten off. I promise to come get you, though, if he ever comes out of that office again.”
Damon had trouble fitting the wrought-iron railings into some of the stonework, and he had to do a lot of resoldering. Late in the afternoon, we had to call Nate back in to discuss changing the slope of the flight of steps leading down to the pool below the waterfall.
“It’s too much of a grade,” Damon said. “Too steep for kids and anyone who’s not in great shape.”
“Yeah, but how many people are actually going to be using it?” Nate said. I could tell he was irritated about having his work called into question, especially by someone he didn’t report to. He’d done a massive amount of stonework in record time and had assumed he was through with the project. “I saw this more as a kind of maintenance area, you know?” We were standing on a shadowy rise by the empty oval pool that indeed I’d envisioned being looked at primarily from above. I’d had no plans to cultivate the glade other than keeping the undergrowth trimmed around the pool.
“I’m just saying,” Damon replied, shrugging. “But if you don’t care about code, it’s fine with me.”
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