Bleeding Heart (12 page)

I
t 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.”

“It’s chocolate heuchera,” I said.

“You mean coral bells? No, I don’t think so,” she told me. “I’ve never seen that variety before. I was just saying to Lily that it must be a—”

“I’ll catch you later,” Tom said with a smile as the woman continued to tell me my business. I run into this a lot. Gardening enthusiasts often turned into zealots who, like baseball fanatics or wine collectors, prided themselves on an encyclopedic grasp of their beloved subject’s minutiae. I watched Tom out of the corner of my eye as he worked his way across the terrace, stopping from time to time to say hello to the many people he seemed to know, and I felt a surge of anticipation.
I’ll catch you later.
I wasn’t sure whether he meant it literally and intended to stay around for my guided tour—or not—but I knew that something had been righted between us.

It was nearly noon when I decided I needed to take a break and grab a glass of the lemonade Eleanor had set out for visitors on the deck. But when I got to the table I saw that the several large glass pitchers were empty. A couple of ice chips floated in a half inch of water at the bottom of the insulated bucket. It was hot now, and I could tell that the guests who were milling around on the deck were hoping for something cool to drink. I picked up the empty pitchers and made my way around to the kitchen entrance. The inner glass door was open, and I could see and hear into the kitchen area through the screen.

“. . . that’s all I’m asking for,” Eleanor was saying. She was
facing Chloe across the butcher block island. Lachlan was sitting at the table, scrolling through his cell phone messages.

“Not my problem,” Chloe said. “And what in the world makes you think I have any influence over what Graham does anyway?”

“I’m—I’m desperate,” Eleanor said. “I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you. My son put his life savings into MKZEnergy because of what Mr. M said. And everything I have—
everything
—is tied up in that company.”

“Well, welcome to Mackenzie World,” Chloe told her. “I can’t believe you were naive enough to accept Graham’s claims without checking into them first. He’s a salesman, for heaven’s sake! And unfortunately, he’s the kind who tends to believe his own sales pitches.”

“But what am I going to do? What can I tell my son?”

“Tough luck?” Chloe said. “I don’t mean to sound callous, Eleanor, but how do you expect me to help you at this point? Everyone knows it’s buyer beware when it comes to investing. I’ve got enough money troubles of my own right now—plus I have Lachie to worry about.”

“But he promised me—”

“Oh, spare me! I have no idea what Graham might have promised you—he promises the world to everyone he meets. Now where the hell is he? He made us come all the way up here for this goddamned boondoggle. You’d think he could somehow manage to put in an appearance.”

I backed away from the screen door, still clutching the pitchers. I didn’t want to think about what I’d just overheard.
It wasn’t meant for my ears,
I told myself.
It has nothing to do with me.
I felt my mental focus narrow, blocking out Chloe’s words. I had things I had to attend to. Thirsty visitors. I was halfway aware that I was operating on a kind of automatic pilot. I just knew I had to keep
moving. There was a spigot at the bottom of the steps just beneath the deck, and I decided that I would fill up the pitchers with cold water from the tap. I was halfway down the side steps when I heard raised voices on the hillside below me.

Then I heard a scream. A long, high, piercing scream. And then another. I hurried back up the steps and over to the railing. A group of people was clustered at the edge of the waterfall terrace, looking down.