“Not at all.” I ignore the fetching tilt to his lips and fiddle with the strand of pearls around my neck, suddenly nervous. “Harriet said she wouldn’t leave until I return.”
“Then shall we?” He motions toward the gardens.
“Of course.”
An awkward silence descends as we cross the lawn to the stand of trees bordering the house. Maples, elms, and cedars. I imagine what the seasonal play of color will look like in autumn—flaming reds and yellows in contrast with the verdant evergreens.
“Marguerite told me your father was her original gardener,” I say as Beckett leads me down a narrow, pebbled path through the wooded glen. “Did he do most of the plantings?”
“Yes. He did. My father was a follower of Frederick Law Olmsted. He believed in coaxing the land gently into submission instead of forcing things, allowing nature to hold dominion. Most of the trees on the estate are native, but the monks planted the blackberries and fruit trees long ago.” Beckett motions toward an apple tree alongside the path, its fruit just beginning to ripen. “They fermented their own wine and cider. The old cider press is still here, on the property. I use it every fall.”
“How fascinating. Marguerite told me about the monastery.”
“Yes, you can still see remnants of the old foundation at the back of the house.”
“When was the house built?”
“1880.”
“So, not long before Marguerite bought it,” I say, fingering a persimmon tree’s leaves as we pass through an arbor woven out of willow. “She said she got it for a song.”
“The man who originally built the house—Erwin Blaylock—didn’t live here long. My father did most of the finish work on the interior. Blaylock’s wife died on the property. People around here are superstitious about such things.”
“Marguerite told me about his wife. Lucy. You know, my older brother claims he saw a lady once, in the attic here. He tried to scare me with ghost stories when we’d visit.”
“Felix?”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. When you all came in the summer, we would run these woods together. I remember you, too. I thought you were a boy at first, with your cropped hair.”
I laugh. “Ah, yes. I took Mama’s pinking shears to it. I was tired of enduring her tight braids. I suppose I remember you, too, come to think of it.” My memories are vague, but I do remember a boywith long-lashed, melancholy eyes. He asked me my name one summer afternoon as I sat pouting on the veranda after Felix stole my new kaleidoscope, then scurried away as quickly as he’d appeared. “You were very shy.”
“Yes. But Felix wasn’t, and that’s why we got along so well. We were the same age, I think.” Beckett’s brow wrinkles with concern. “You said Iknewhim. Marguerite told me he served in the war. He came home, I hope.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so dire. We just don’t see one another very often anymore. We’ve never had much in common. His wife doesn’t care for me, and my sentiments are equal. But they’ve two lovely boys. Felix is an attorney. Like our da was.”
“That’s grand for him. And what about your younger brother? As I remember, he was only a baby when you were here last. You were always toting him around.”
“Henry. He died in ’18. The flu. Two years after our da.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “And what about you? Any family here?”
“No. Not anymore,” he says with an air of finality. He points to where the forest closes in, the treetops allowing for only the faintest shimmer of light to fall to the ground. “The grotto is just ahead. You might take my arm. It gets a bit steep. You wouldn’t want to roll your ankle.”
I do as he suggests, winding my hand through the crook of his elbow. This near to him, I can smell the faint scent of his aftershave and something richer, like sun-warmed earth. I ignore the way my pulse is climbing, the way his steady strength reminds me of my best days with Ted, in far-flung places well outside Kansas City, where he might parade me around without risk of someone familiar seeing us—someone who would know what Ireallywas to him. In those roadside hotels and restaurants in towns like Dubuque and Amarillo, I could pretend to be Mrs. Theodore Fitzsimmons. Only I knew I wasn’t. I never would be.
As the path levels out, I let go of Beckett’s arm and walk ahead, my eyes widening in wonder. The grotto is as magical as I remember. Yellow-gold coins of sunlight dance over the hostas and ferns. A statue of the Virgin presides over it all in her stone alcove, haloed by carefully groomed ivy. The faint trickle of the spring soothes my senses, the fairylike array of moss roses and creeping Jenny soft underfoot. It’s a tranquil place. Quiet and serene. A peaceful calm descends, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting out a long breath and lowering my shoulders.
“Restful, isn’t it?” Beckett’s voice is reverent, as if we’ve just entered a church, and we have, in a manner of speaking.
“Yes.”
“I come here often, once my work is done for the day. The monks built this, too.”
“You’ve maintained it beautifully. Truly. You should be proud.”
