I realized that driving was going to be dicey, but I wanted to be up at the site by eight o’clock since Damon Fagels had told me he planned to install the wrought-iron railing around the waterfall about that time. Ever since Nate had pointed out the danger posed by the drop-off, I’d been obsessed about getting some kind of protective barrier up in time for the Open Day. Of my long list of concerns about the event, this one had worked its way to the top. I’d actually had a dream a few nights back that I was falling from that very spot—and I’d woken up in a panic, my heart pounding. Now, as I started to drive through the heavy mist, I felt a similar sort of anxiety set in. The fog made the most familiar structures—the stand of spruces at the bottom of my drive, the outlines of the Cabots’ farmhouse—seem misshapen and somehow ominous. Visibility improved slightly as I made my way through town and then up Mackenzie’s driveway. Though the mountain was still shrouded when I reached the top, I could make out Damon’s van parked in front of the garages, and I heard the sound of hammering—metal on metal—coming from below as I got out of my car.
The gardens were eerily beautiful that morning—otherworldly, dreamlike. But because I couldn’t seem to shake the sense of dread that had settled over me, there was something a little nightmarish about the stone wall that suddenly loomed into sight—and the slippery feel of the railing as I moved warily down the steps. Everywhere, too, was the sound of invisible water: dripping, flowing, splashing. The fog thickened the farther down I went. I followed the muffled sound of voices and hammering, shuffling along the balustrade to the final short flight of steps that led to the waterfall garden.
“. . . do you think I should do?” I heard Nate say. I hadn’t expected him to be at the site, too, and for a moment I was pleasantly surprised, assuming he’d volunteered to help.
“Well, if it was me, I’d call her on it right away,” Damon said. “I can’t begin to guess how much she’ll be clearing out of all this. And to think of the way we both busted our balls to get things done! But why would she jerk you around like that? It just doesn’t make—”
“Hello, there!” I called out. The two men slowly took shape as I moved toward them through the murk. They were gripping a wrought-iron frieze of birds and butterflies that curved around the promontory. They stood on either side of the channel of water that rushed between. The stream flowed through the middle posts of the frieze and disappeared over the mountainside.
“Alice,” Damon said, his tone suddenly subdued.
“Oh, Damon, that’s just beautiful!” I said, coming up to him and reaching out to touch the railing.
“No, don’t!” he cried. “The cement’s not set yet.”
“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back. I realized now that the two of them were holding the railing in place. Though I couldn’t see their faces that clearly, I could sense their unhappiness. “Listen, Nate,” I said, turning to him, “Mara told me about your call last night. We’re going to sort this thing out. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“There better not be,” Nate said. “I mean, if you or Mr. Mackenzie had any problem with the quality of my work, I’d expect you to say something. But stiffing me like this is really—”
“It was a mistake, Nate,” I said. “You’ve done an amazing job. Both of you have. And you’ll see later that I’ve included your names, numbers, and Web sites in the brochure that’s going to be handed out during the tour.”
“That’s very nice,” Nate said. “But what I need right now is to get paid, okay? I can’t tell you how many other jobs I’ve blown off over the past two months to get this work finished for you. In fact, this is all I’ve been doing most of the spring and summer so far. I’ve been waiting on that check to pay my fucking mortgage, Alice! This is no joke. I need that money to survive.”
“And you’re going to get it!” I told him, trying to keep my tone upbeat and unconcerned. But I could feel the morning closing in around me—heavy and claustrophobic, like the fog itself. I needed to talk to Mackenzie, I realized. And I had to get to him right away—before Eleanor arrived for work at nine. Expressing my thanks again for everything they’d done, I left Nate and Damon to finish the installation and headed back up through the gardens. A hazy orb of sun swam overhead, and I could feel the heat of the day starting to radiate through the mist. As I climbed the last flight of steps to the sundial garden, the house suddenly emerged through the drifting fog: enormous, gleaming, substantial as an ocean liner. Now I could make out the garage banks rising up the hill behind the house, and beyond that the horse stables and corral, tennis courts and helipad. The sight of all this—solid proof of Mackenzie’s tremendous wealth—lifted my spirits. His bad check had to have just been the result of careless bookkeeping, understandable when you considered how much else he had on his mind.
Still, I was happy to see that Eleanor’s car was not yet parked in its usual spot. I quietly climbed the stairs leading up to the side deck. From there, I could see the mist rising in columns above the town and valley, and though the gardens below were still blanketed, I knew that as soon as the sun cleared the tree line the fog would start to burn off. The gardens should be perfectly visible by the time they were opened to the public at ten.
One of the sliding glass doors to the great room stood halfway open. A curtain fluttered against my face as I stepped inside. The enormous space was dim and cool and still. Though I’d been in the house many times over the last few months, I’d rarely had an opportunity to venture much beyond the kitchen area. I had no idea where Mackenzie slept or where I might find him at that time of day. But I decided my best bet was to check his office, which I knew lay at the end of the corridor to my left. I was halfway down the hallway when I heard Eleanor’s voice: “What do you think you’re doing?”
I froze.
“What’s it to you?” Gwen said. Their voices were coming from a room not five feet up the hall to my left.
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Mind your own business.”
“It’s my business to look after that man.”
“And you think I’m harming him somehow? I’m getting sick and tired of you treating me like I’m up to no good.”
“Oh, I know what you’re up to.”
“Listen, Eleanor, what I’m giving Graham is a whole lot better for him than all those tinctures and infusions and whatever you keep pushing on him.”
“You’re a leech. Just like all the rest of them.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re the maid, for chrissakes! You’re the chief cook and bottle washer. And if you think Graham’s going to be happy when he learns that you’ve been talking to me this way, you’d better think again.”
“He’s not well. He’s under a tremendous amount of strain. And you’re not helping matters by barging in here at all hours of the night. You’re right—I am the maid. I make the beds. I wash the sheets. So I have a pretty good idea what you’ve been doing.”
“Oh, give me a break, Eleanor! Graham and I are two consenting adults. We’re simply enjoying each other’s company.”
“Where is he, then? And how did you get in here? Why are you going through his things?”
“I’m just looking for—but why the hell do I have to explain myself to you?” I heard something being dropped—or tossed—and then footsteps. I flattened myself against the wall as Gwen walked out of the room, down the hall away from me, and out the front door.
Eleanor was always so self-possessed that it actually took me a moment or two to make sense of the odd, strangled sound coming from the room nearby. But when I did, it was with a mixture of embarrassment and pity. She was the kind of woman who took pride in being in control. For someone like Eleanor, crying wasn’t a form of release—it was an admission of failure.
She didn’t see me when she left the room a minute or two later. I retraced my steps to the deck and took it around the front o
f the house to the kitchen entrance on the other side. By the time I slid the door open and called, “Good morning!” Eleanor was already at work and seemingly composed.
“Hello,” she said, pulling an apron on over her uniform.
“I didn’t hear you drive in.”
“I left my car down in the parking area and walked up,” she said, as she began to rinse some dishes in the sink. “Figured you might need some extra spaces up here. Lord, that was a climb, though.”
“Thanks, Eleanor,” I told her. “For coming early and helping out. I know how you feel about all this and I’m sorry. I know you have a lot on your mind, and so does Mr. Mackenzie. But I found out last night that the second half of his payment to me—a very large check—didn’t clear. My own checks have started to bounce because of it, so you can understand how upset I am. I have to talk to him, Eleanor. Now. Before all this starts.”
“I came in early to talk to him, too,” she said, picking up a wineglass and starting to dry it. “You’re not the only one with problems. You’re not the only one who’s upset. But he’s not in his bedroom. And he’s not in the office. I don’t know where he is.”
“Listen, I have to ask him—,” I began to say just as the doorbell chimed. Eleanor threw down her dish towel and walked out of the room to answer it. I heard the distinctive voice of Vera Yoland in the foyer, and I realized there was very little chance that I would be able to resolve my financial situation with Mackenzie before the Open Day event began.
12
It turned into a beautiful day. The evaporating early-morning mist left a sheen on the gardens, making everything look fresh and inviting. The moist surfaces helped to highlight the mastery of Nate’s stonework—the grays and mossy greens of the ten-foot retaining wall behind the climbing roses looked particularly striking—and added a shimmer to Damon’s magical wrought-iron creations. Vera and Lisbeth manned the sign-in table that we’d set up on the portico in front of the house. The plan was for them to direct visitors to start the tour in the sundial terrace, which was where I’d decided to take up my position; from there I could see and point out the salient features of most of the other garden rooms.
Mara asked if she and Danny could cover the Buddhist grove. I assumed she wanted to be there because it was the farthest away from the center of activity—and other people. It was nice to see Danny again, though he ran right past me to Eleanor, who was helping to set up refreshments on the deck, and gave her a big hug. By nine forty-five all the other volunteers had arrived and had taken up stations around the gardens. At ten o’clock sharp, two of the white vans the Garden Conservancy had leased for the day crested the top of the driveway and pulled up in front of the house.
Within minutes I was greeting guests, fielding questions, accepting compliments, and, as discreetly as possible, handing out my card. Most people who attend Open Day events have a serious interest in gardening and are eager to talk about their own gardens and share their experiences. Fairly early on, the sundial terrace grew so jammed with visitors who wanted a few minutes of my time that Vera came down, clapped her hands, and announced, “We’ve gardening experts all around the property, so please let’s not congregate in one place!”
I kept looking around for Mackenzie and thought I spotted him about an hour into the event, dressed in summer whites and surrounded by guests, on the lime tree colonnade. I waved, but I don’t think he saw me. Sal Lombardi and his plump, vivacious wife, Gigi, came through.
“This is just fabulous!” Gigi cried, enfolding me in her warm, perfumed embrace. “I’m overwhelmed with garden envy! But I’m so thrilled for you, Alice! This is your moment.”
“Everything good?” Sal asked, leaning in as he shook my hand. Balding and linebacker broad, he had a weather-beaten face and a reputation for being a cutthroat venture capitalist. But he’d always been protective of and thoughtful toward me, especially after he learned about Richard’s disappearance and my subsequent struggles.
“I couldn’t be more thrilled,” I said, and in fact, at that moment, it was true. My earlier fears and money worries seemed to have burned away with the rising temperatures and clearing views—and I felt buoyed by all the praise and the growing crowds.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Give me a call on Monday.”
I saw Mackenzie’s ex-wife, Chloe, pull up in an open convertible, despite the fact that the volunteers below had been expressly instructed not to allow any cars up the driveway. I could all too easily imagine how that conversation had gone. It wasn’t until Chloe got out of the car and was crossing the parking area to the front door that I saw her son, Lachlan, was with her. Had he been lying down in the backseat of the car? Asleep, perhaps? With his stubble of beard and untucked shirt, he looked particularly unkempt.
“Wait! You can’t go in there!” Lisbeth said, jumping up and blocking the way when Chloe swept past the sign-in table. “Only the gardens are open to the public.”
“We’re not the public,” Chloe announced before leaning over and whispering something in Lisbeth’s ear. Whatever it was, Lisbeth shrank back, giving Chloe room to push around her and through the front door. Lachlan sauntered past the sign-in table without a word and followed his mother into the house.
“Well!” I heard Lisbeth say to Vera as she took her seat again. Both women were wearing wide summer hats decorated with flowers, and for a moment their heavily bedecked brims formed a single spray as they conferred. These Open Day events seemed to inspire the wearing of decorative headgear—fanciful floral affairs for the women, boaters and Borsalinos for the men. And because Gwen loved wearing hats, I was sure I kept seeing her in the crowd as well. Standing under the weeping cherries in a sheer pink dress and matching cloche . . . or was that her climbing the steps to the birch grove sporting a wide-brimmed straw sun hat and tiger-striped Capris? She would drift out of view as my attention became diverted by new visitors and fresh questions, but Gwen’s presence in the garden—and in Mackenzie’s bedroom earlier—continued to circle in the back of my mind.
There was no question any longer that she and Mackenzie had embarked on some kind of an affair. Eleanor had accused her of “barging in here at all hours of the night.” And Gwen herself had proudly claimed that she was “doing him a lot more good” than Eleanor’s natural remedies, and that she and Mackenzie were “simply enjoying each other’s company.” Which, if Mackenzie hadn’t been ill and in the middle of a financial crisis, I might have been able to take more at face value. But the last time I’d seen my client, he seemed so sapped of vigor and in such physical discomfort that it was difficult to imagine him sexually active—especially with someone of Gwen’s high-octane disposition. Perhaps it was because they both seemed intent on hiding their relationship from me, but I found myself wondering if something else was going on.
But what exactly? Maybe they were actually coming to care about each other, and all they wanted was a little privacy. Though it seemed several lifetimes ago now, I could still remember what it felt like when I first fell in love with Richard. How the desire to be alone with him became an almost physical requirement—my body aching until I could be held in his arms again. Just being in his presence made me feel more deeply alive than I’d ever been before. How wonderful it would be, I thought, if Gwen had found her match at last—and Graham Mackenzie had given himself over to the smart, fun-loving, and generous person I knew my best friend to be.
Much later it struck me, how I’d been thinking about love—and the dream I’d had the night before—when I saw Tom Deaver walking down the steps toward me. He was wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt and chinos. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing deeply tanned and well-muscled forearms. He smiled when he saw me. It was a down-turning, tentative grin that melted away any residual resentment I might have been harboring from his outburst several weeks back.
“Hey, Alice,” he said, coming up to me.
�
��I’m kind of surprised to see you here,” I told him. “I mean, how can you in good conscience allow yourself to step onto the property of someone who destroys the land for a living?”
“Oh, please,” he said, shaking his head and looking away, “I can be such an incredibly pompous ass sometimes! I came to apologize. But now that I’m here—I have to say, I’m just totally blown away by what you’ve done.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling myself flush with pleasure. Of all the compliments I’d received that morning, his gave me the greatest boost, and I was momentarily lost in the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were green flecked with gold, a kaleidoscope of shifting depths and eddies. I’d managed to put him out of my mind over the past month or so, but seeing him again made me realize that—despite our differences—I was still very drawn to him.
“No, really,” he said. “I think these are the most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen.” His gaze was saying other things as well, it seemed to me. Or was I just wishing it to be so? I found myself having a hard time looking away. It occurred to me that it couldn’t have been easy for him to come that morning. Despite the bitter exchange he’d had with Mackenzie and the implosion of his Wind Power Initiative, he’d still managed to overcome his pride and put his anger on hold. Had he really done it because of me? Something unsaid—and perhaps unsayable—hung between us. The silence was starting to lengthen uncomfortably.
“Have you visited here before?” I asked finally.
“No,” he said. “Not unless you count hiking on the mountain when it was still undeveloped. Even then, these were the most spectacular views in the county.”
“I’d be happy to show you around later—,” I began to say just as someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“You’re the landscape designer?” an elderly woman asked. She was accompanied by a friend about her own age, and they were both clutching copies of the Open Days catalog. She pointed to a shaded area nearby. “I wanted to ask you what the dark reddish brown plant is over there under the buddleias.”
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