“Yes,” he said, but then he shook his head. “No. No, I’m sorry, it was something else. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Listen, Alice, if I’d had any idea what you were facing, I would have tracked you down in person to let you know.”
“Thanks,” I said, getting up to leave. And then I remembered what I’d promised Gwen. “You know, there is one other thing. Mackenzie told me he would put money into his charitable fund—something called the Mackenzie Project—if I took on his landscaping job. He pledged to put in dollar for dollar what he paid out to me in services. What happens to that money now, Sal? Am I right in thinking that his creditors can’t legally touch it?”
“Why do you ask?” Sal said, sighing a little as he pushed himself out of his chair. He was still such a burly, vital man that it was easy to forget he was a grandfather and probably hitting seventy soon. But I thought he looked every bit his age as he lumbered to his feet at this moment.
“It was a big reason I agreed to take the assignment on,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t exactly the truth.
“I see,” he said. “I was wondering, because I learned recently that an anonymous donor has given Bridgewater House an enormous donation. Enough, actually, to cover the costs of the entire capital campaign. Your friend Gwen made the big announcement at the last WHS board meeting. A good thing, too, because I know some of my fellow board members were beginning to wonder if Gwen was up to the job. I just hope she got all her i’s dotted and t’s crossed on this one. I’d hate to see anyone disappointed.”
As I said, Sal Lombardi didn’t miss much.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said as he led me to the front door.
“Well, it’s a yes/no kind of answer,” Sal replied. “Yes, in general, charitable organizations cannot be attached during bankruptcy proceedings. At the same time, I happen to know that Graham made Chloe chair of the Mackenzie Project to keep her busy and out of his hair. Do you think she’s going to honor Graham’s pledge to Bridgewater House? It’s only a guess on my part, but I’m afraid that’s probably where the no comes in.”
18
I was impressed by Mara’s suggestion that we carry the business expenses I was paying for out of my personal checking account as a loan to the company. It made me think. Why shouldn’t I apply to the bank for a loan myself? I had a friendly relationship with Sherry Genzlinger, the manager of our local Barrington Bank branch, who’d been more than helpful when I first set up my Green Acres account there several years back. She was an avid amateur gardener, and often pumped me for professional advice about her roses. She loved David Austins in particular, despite their sometimes fickle and withholding nature in our hardiness zone.
When I stopped by the bank that Monday morning, Sherry was on the phone. She saw me hovering outside her door, waved me into her small, sunny box of an office, and nodded at the gray molded plastic chair facing her desk. I took a seat.
“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said with a smile when she finished her call. “What can I do for you, Alice?”
Though I’d convinced myself that everyone I saw these days knew what a mess I was in, Sherry’s welcoming unconcern made me realize she was oblivious to Mackenzie’s—and now my—financial troubles. I filled her in as briefly as possible.
“Oh, dear,” she said, clicking the top of her ballpoint pen nervously up and down. “That’s a very large sum of money. Shouldn’t you have . . . ?” But she let the question trail off when she saw my expression.
“I’ve never had any problems with receivables in the past,” I told her. “And I was recommended to Mr. Mackenzie by a longtime client. It was my most important commission so far. But I got wrapped up in having it be a success, and I just didn’t think about how much money I was laying out until it was too late. Yes, I should have done a lot of things differently. I realize that now.”
“And you say you can’t get through to anyone at his company?”
“It’s all just ‘Leave a message after the beep,’ and I’ve tried every extension I could find. Nobody’s gotten back to me. MKZ headquarters is in Atlanta, and I read that they’re planning a massive restructuring and layoffs. The last thing anybody probably wants to deal with right now is their former CEO’s personal expenditures.”
“You’ve tried his wife?”
“His ex. Her phone’s unlisted, but I don’t think she’s going to be of much help in any case. She called the gardens a waste of money and a boondoggle.”
“Have you considered legal action?”
“Yes, and I’ll go that route, of course, but I need a cash infusion to get me through in the meantime.”
Sherry frowned and put down the pen.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“A business loan of some kind. Whatever you can suggest. I figure I’ll need about—” I named a sum that made her wince, and I quickly tried to soften the blow. “But, as I explained, I will be seeking legal recourse. I will get this money back. It’s just a matter of time.”
“That may be so,” she said, “but that’s not going to wash with our loan officers. What sort of collateral do you plan to offer?”
“Green Acres,” I said, sitting up straighter in the uncomfortable chair. “It’s been growing every year since its inception. I’ve an excellent roster of clients, including some of the best properties in our area. My staff is well trained and hard—”
“Alice, please,” Sherry said, holding up her hand. “Let’s be practical. Your equipment is leased. Your business has no bricks and mortar, nothing tangible, in terms of assets. And you’re already carrying debt. We can’t very well repo your client list if you don’t make the interest payments.”
“But I’ve been doing business at this bank for years,” I told her, despising the whine I heard in my voice. No, I was not going to humiliate myself or look pitiable! As I stood up to leave I said in a more conciliatory tone, “Look, I’m sorry. I know you would do something if you could. And it’s been good just talking to you.”
“Wait,” she said. “Hold on. What about a second mortgage or a home equity line of credit? You own your place free and clear, right? I’m sure we could fast-track the paperwork for you, Alice. I’d see to it.”
“Thanks,” I said. Though I knew it made sense, the idea also made me sick to my stomach. I could hear my father’s beseeching Promise me you’ll never let it go! I’d already stumbled so badly. But mortgaging the family homestead felt to me like the ultimate failure. I shook Sherry’s hand and said, “I really appreciate your help. Let me think about it.”
It was Mara’s idea to send back many of the outdoor lights, urns, fountains, and other fixtures I’d purchased for Mackenzie’s gardens.
“After all, he didn’t pay for any of it,” she pointed out, “you did. Everything was ordered in your name, and I bet a lot of these places accept returns. You’ll at least be able to recoup part of the money that way.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I replied, but the idea made me uncomfortable for some reason, and I put off doing anything about it.
“Listen, you’ve got thirty days to return most of these items to your suppliers,” Mara pointed out a few days after she first made the suggestion. “I put together a list of what we can ship back, and I called around. If we get everything packed and out of there this week we can save a bundle by sending the stuff UPS Ground.”
“Thanks,” I said, running my eye over the list Mara had compiled. “Let me think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“Let me be!” I snapped, folding the list in half and stuffing it into my shoulder bag as I left the office. Though I appreciated Mara’s help, I didn’t appreciate being nagged. I had too many other things on my mind, I told myself. I knew that wasn’t really the problem, of course. But I was fed up with trying to deal with everything, including my own failings,
and I wasn’t in the mood for self-reflection.
I’d planned to run errands in Great Barrington, but instead of making the right when I got into town, I found myself taking the familiar left turn up Powell Mountain Road. I hadn’t been back to Mackenzie’s since the Open Day. That was almost two weeks ago now, a period of time that seemed to have been warped by the emotional fallout of my client’s death. In some ways, it felt like years since I’d last driven up the winding roadway through the lush and lovely woods. At the same time, the awfulness of what had happened was still far too fresh in my mind. I parked in front of the garages. Eleanor’s car wasn’t in evidence, and the house had a closed-up feeling—drapes drawn in the windows facing the parking area, a soggy pile of newspapers moldering on the steps. The dahlias and petunias in the large terra-cotta pots flanking the portico, left unwatered for far too long, had collapsed into a snarled nest of shriveled flower heads and stalks.
It wasn’t until I walked around to the steps leading down to the sundial garden, though, that I realized just how quickly nature had worked to reclaim its own. The grass, which hadn’t been mowed in almost two weeks—and this at the height of summer—had shot up at least half a foot in some places and had started to invade the terraces. Weeds were creeping into the flower beds, strangling some of the tender perennials and insinuating themselves among the roots of the newly planted shrubs and specimen trees. Crabgrass flourished in the crevices of the walls and pathways. As I walked down the steps, I saw a stack of faded Open Day programs wadded together under a bench. An empty plastic cup—swept by the breeze—skittered across the deck. Clearly, no one had cleaned up after the Open Day event was canceled. Everything had been left—just as at Pompeii—the way it was the moment catastrophe struck.
I continued on down through the garden rooms, each showing signs of neglect: the roses in need of deadheading, the boxwoods raggedy with new growth, the fountain dry as a bone. I remembered the sense of oppression that weighed on me the fogged-in morning of the event. But what I felt now was even more unnerving. As my footsteps echoed on the flagstone walkway I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. But by whom? And from where? When I reached the waterfall terrace I turned around and surveyed the house, which I could see in its entirety from that vantage point. But the wall of windows stared blankly out over the valley. Determined to get hold of myself, I resolutely approached Damon’s beautiful wrought-iron railing and looked down.
Someone had turned off the pump, and now the water just trickled over the ledge and dripped into the pool below, which had filled with leaves and other debris. The little glade was choked with weeds. But there was nothing about the sun-dappled scene below to indicate that a man had looked death in the face there. And this was probably the last thing Mackenzie saw, I realized—a canopy of green, a mild blue sky, a cloud passing leisurely overhead. Even with Open Day visitors strolling around on the grounds above, it was a peaceful, solitary place to die.
I bowed my head, trying to finally accept what had happened. Because that was why I’d come, I realized now. Not just to face the fact that Mackenzie was gone for good, but to start to come to terms with the need to dismantle the gardens we’d built together. That I’d created from scratch—and poured my heart and soul into. That I’d been so proud of. Too proud, of course. Chloe was right, after all. The project was a boondoggle and a waste of money. Mine.
I sensed something behind me and whirled around. It was Eleanor, dressed in her perfectly pressed uniform, looking as terrified as I felt. She had a kitchen knife in her hand, which she slipped into her apron pocket when she saw who I was.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I—we—” I felt around in my shoulder bag for the list Mara had put together and pulled it out. “We’re planning to return a lot of these garden fixtures. I was just looking around to see how much work would be involved.”
“You should have alerted me!” she said, still clearly upset. “I saw someone walking around out here—and I didn’t know what to expect. I keep thinking that . . .”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, Eleanor. I didn’t realize you were still coming in every day.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I’m cleaning the place from top to bottom. And I’m keeping an eye on things. Someone has to. People hear a big house like this is sitting empty—and bad things start to happen.”
“You thought I was an intruder?” I asked, trying to understand why she was so distraught. She kept looking around nervously, as if expecting someone—or something—else to suddenly emerge from the shadows. Her mood was infectious, and I couldn’t help turning and looking behind me, too. The wands of the weeping cherries shifted in the breeze, but that was all.
“I keep thinking I see him,” she said.
“See who?”
“Mr. M,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth as if the words had escaped of their own volition. “I know he’s dead, of course. I know that. But I’ll be up there, working in the kitchen or vacuuming the living room, and I’ll look out the window—and see—I’d swear I’ll see—” She closed her eyes, fighting back tears, as she shook her head quickly back and forth.
“Let’s go up to the house, okay?” I said, taking her by the elbow. She let me lead her back up through the gardens to the deck. We entered through the kitchen door, which stood open. The top-of-the-line appliances gleamed in the late-afternoon sun. Plates and glasses were arranged neatly on the shelves. The tile floor looked recently buffed. But the fruit bowl stood empty. And there was no whiff of the comforting cooking smells that usually permeated the room.
Eleanor went over to the table and sat down. I followed, pulling out a chair across from her.
“What were you planning to do with that knife?” I asked her, nodding at her apron.
“I don’t really know,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I guess I just needed something to hold on to. It makes me feel safer. Or at least a little less scared.”
“Mara told me you don’t like being up here all by yourself,” I said. “And I don’t blame you. Why do you keep coming in?”
“I have a job to do,” she said simply. “I know that sounds crazy. Especially because I’m not getting paid anymore. But I wouldn’t feel right leaving Mr. M in the lurch. And I couldn’t just walk away from his beautiful house. I intend to close this place up properly. Though I know that’s crazy, too, because he left me in such a bad way. Just the way he did you and Mara. It’s all so hard to understand, isn’t it? I mean, he was such a wonderful man! So generous and thoughtful. But at the same time, he was such a—well, he didn’t tell the truth, did he? About his company and my savings. I’ve lost everything. My retirement. My investment in his company. And my son lost everything, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I know how you feel. And it is hard to understand. But we just have to keep trying. I’ll tell you what, though—I’m pretty sure walking around with a knife in your hand is going to do you a lot more harm than good.”
On my way out, I took one last look at the hillside I’d come to know so well. The sun had slipped behind the clouds, and the distant mountains were backlit with an orangey, otherworldly glow. I remembered looking at this same view with Mackenzie. Had it really been only a few weeks back? It seemed like decades ago now. I’d taken him on a tour of the nearly completed gardens, and he’d told me: It’s really incredible what you’ve accomplished, Alice. You’ve actually moved rivers—like Le Nôtre did for the Sun King at Versailles. It’s amazing what money can buy, isn’t it?
It was amazing, too, what money could destroy. Or the prospect of it, anyway. I thought of the many lives that Mackenzie’s death had undone. Mine. Mara’s. Gwen’s. Eleanor’s and her son’s. In the last moments of his life had Mackenzie’s thoughts flashed on us, and the countless employees and shareholders whom he’d let down? Because he must have known that it was over. That he was n
ever going to be able to come through on the many inflated promises he’d made to all the people who depended on him. Who believed in him. Who, like Eleanor, still kept seeing him out of the corner of her eye. Torn about what to feel toward him. Unwilling to pass final judgment on him. Unable to let him go.
19
Olivia and Franny came up for their annual summer visit at the end of July. As usual, my daughters took the week off from work to spend what Olivia called “quality time” with me. Their husbands would be joining us over the coming weekend. In the past, I’d try to clear the decks during their vacation, but this year I really needed to keep working. Along with all the usual demands of managing a landscaping business at the height of the season, I was doing everything I could to drum up new clients. Complicating matters, Mara and I had run into a lot of problems and complaints about the fixtures we’d tried to return. Very few of the suppliers wanted to reimburse us for the full price of the items, and I had to threaten a couple of times to take legal action. An empty ploy, as I didn’t have the wherewithal to hire a lawyer.
The worst thing, though, was dealing with all the dunning calls from the various nurseries and garden supply outfits I owed money to. Mara and I tried to let most of these go directly to voice mail, but occasionally I’d find myself talking to some irate supplier who’d managed to get through to me directly: “You’re ninety days past due. We’re putting you on credit hold. Don’t even think about ordering from us again.”
“Yes, I know,” I would respond in my most soothing tone. “I’m sorry, but I’m owed a lot of money myself and I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you until—”
But nobody seemed to care that I, too, had been stiffed. That was my problem. One that, as the weeks passed, seemed further and further from any sort of resolution. Though I continued to pay my workers out of my personal account, my little nest egg was almost tapped out. I’d looked into cashing out my retirement plan prematurely, and discovered that I would lose easily a third of it to the IRS if I did so. I was waking up in the middle of the night routinely now, going around and around with all this. I’d get out of bed exhausted before the next demanding day even began. And it got harder with Olivia and Franny under my roof, because I was determined not to let them know just how bad things really were.
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