When understanding hit her, she caught her breath. But if the gesture was a subconscious attempt to hold back, she failed. It was love at first sight. She was lost.
Later, Casey might suspect that she simply had been swept away by the sun that dappled the garden, as compared to the dark of the office. Or that what she loved was that the garden was so
not
like her image of Connie. Or that having grown up with a mother who loved everything to do with the outdoors, the garden felt like home.
Whatever, she was drawn inexorably there. Slipping through the screen door, she passed under a pergola onto a path of large stones. Mossy earth lay between them in what would be shade come afternoon, but the sun was high now, and it lit not only the path, but a large bed of flowers on her right. She saw varieties of whites grouped together, as well as varieties of pinks; beyond these were a cluster of purples and blues.
A patio sat on her left before a pair of birches that branched wide and thick above trunks of peeling white bark. A stylish steel table with a glass top, circled by three chairs, stood in the middle of the stone floor, and in the middle of the glass top was a potted hyacinth of a purple-blue hue.
Leaning close, she breathed in its scent. Then she straightened, turned, smiled. She wasn’t supposed to like what belonged to Connie, but she couldn’t help herself.
The garden was surprisingly large, matching the width of the house at the start but steadily opening the deeper it went. Three tiers followed the rise of the hill. The first, where she now stood, was the most cultivated. Up a railroad-tie step to the second tier, the stone path climbed through more casual plantings— an assortment of flowering shrubs, a bubbling fountain, a pair of maples and an oak.
The third tier was pure woodland. Here the path ambled upward past ground cover and evergreen shrubs, and hemlocks. Filling one of the back corners, as Casey assumed it had done for many score years, was a towering chestnut tree. Its trunk rose limbless until it reached the sun, where it spread into a crown of spring leaves and pink flowers. At the base of the chestnut sat a rustic wood bench.
In the other back corner of the garden, a potting shed stood flush against the tall wood fence that marked the rear of the garden. Halfway between the chestnut and the shed was a door. Curious, Casey approached, unbolted it, and lifted the latch. Outside, as the lawyer had promised, was a brick-paved space large enough for two cars to park.
Relocking the door, she wound her way back down through the garden. At the patio, she slipped into a chair, held her coffee to her middle, and marveled at everything around her. The garden was a gem— bright, beautifully cared for, smartly designed. Leafy trees veiled her view of the surrounding townhouses and theirs of her, yet there was no stifling sensation. The side walls of the garden were built of stone and covered with ivy. The smells were of healthy plants and soil. The air was pleasantly warm. She saw a pair of finches duck under one of the maples and slip through the bars of a cage that encircled a hanging tube of seed. They pecked for a bit and had barely flown off when another pair swooped in.
Casey raised her face to the sun. Closing her eyes, she drank in its warmth. She breathed deeply, enjoying one quiet moment, then another and another. The angst of the office crisis faded, right along with the gripes she had with her father, the fear she felt for her mother, and the loneliness that sometimes kept her awake in the night. Here in the garden, she found an unexpected peace.
Setting her fanny pack on the table, she slid lower in her seat and basked in the sun. She lifted her head for the occasional drink of coffee, but she was far more interested in listening to the stir of the trees, the chatter of birds as they flew in and out, the bubble of the fountain. This was an enchanted spot, justification in and of itself for the price of the townhouse. Casey might not know viburnum from vinca, but she knew that city gardens didn’t get better than this.
The screen door slid open. She raised her head just as Meg emerged from the house with a tray. She carried it right to the table where Casey sat and began to unload goodies.
Getting a whiff of something tantalizing, Casey sat straighter. “Oh my. Those croissants smell fresh. Did you make them?”
“My friend Summer did,” Meg replied. “She owns the bakery down at the corner. I stop there every day on my way here. I’m sure you know the place,” she said, aiming a thumb toward Charles Street. “I mean, you’ve come here before, haven’t you?”
“Actually, no.”
“Not at night, when I wasn’t here?”
“No.”
Meg’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions— changing from surprise to puzzlement to embarrassment in the wink of an eye. Seeming just as quickly to realize that she wouldn’t figure it out, she turned back to the tray of food. “I did make this,” she said as she pulled the cover off an omelet. “It has cheese, mushroom, and tomato. I’d have added onions, only Dr. Unger didn’t much care for onions.”
Neither did Casey. “But I see chives.”
“Just a few,” Meg quickly admitted, “but they’re totally fresh, and they’re organic.” As she talked, she set Casey’s coffee cup aside, poured an iced cup from a carafe, and neatly arranged sugar and cream. “We grow them over there by the shed. Jordan put in an herb patch that has chives and parsley and basil and sage and thyme. Dr. Unger never minded chives.”
Casey didn’t know if she would. But the omelet looked delicious, and she was suddenly starved. Putting a green-and-white-checked napkin on her lap, she began to eat. Meg stayed only long enough to see her started, then went back into the house. Casey didn’t stop eating until the entire omelet, one and a half croissants, and a glass of orange juice were gone.
Feeling decidedly pampered, she lowered herself to the warm stone and stretched out in the sun, pulled her cap over her face, and let the food digest. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep any more than she had expected to eat a huge breakfast, but by the time she woke up, the sun was higher, the table was cleared, and a fresh glass of iced coffee had been left.
Shaking off grogginess, she sat up and looked around. Hers?
So
hard to believe. The question, of course, was what to do with it.
Meg came out. She looked a bit neater now, as if she had done some fixing of her hair, her shirt, her socks. Her eyes were eager. “I was thinking I would make chicken salad for lunch. I do it with cranberries and walnuts. It’s really good.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can stay that long.” When Meg looked bewildered, she added, “I have my own place in Back Bay.”
“Won’t you be moving in here now? There’s
so
much space, with the bedrooms and the office and the garden and the den. I could help make room for your things— you know, clean out his dresser. Oh, but you’d probably want to do that yourself. But you just tell me. I’ll do whatever you want— I mean, really, anything.”
Casey figured that if anyone was going to touch the contents of Connie’s dresser, it should be his wife. “Has Mrs. Unger been by?”
“Yes. But she didn’t take anything away.”
“Not even personal photographs?” That would explain their absence.
“I never saw any photographs.”
“Maybe they’re in the storage boxes on the third floor.”
Meg spun around at the sound of a distant buzz. Then she laughed at herself. “Just the drier. I’m rewashing the bedding from the master bedroom, so it’ll be fresh. It’s yours now.”
Casey wanted to say that she had her own bedroom, but Meg left before she could get the words out, and it was probably just as well. The girl would be nervous if she thought Casey was considering selling the place.
Hearing a quiet rattling— the vibration of her cell phone on the patio table— Casey pulled it from the fanny pack, flipped it open, and glanced at the caller’s number. “Hello, Brianna,” she sang, feeling suddenly light-headed. She and Brianna Faire had roomed together in both college and graduate school. Taking different jobs after graduation rather than setting up shop together had been a conscious decision.
Brianna remained Casey’s closest friend. She had been a lifeline in recent years, filling the void where family might have been. The knowledge that she was on the other end of the line now made Casey feel more herself, which surely explained her excitement.
Intuitive as ever, Brianna asked a curious, “What’s up?”
“You have to see something. Are you busy?”
“Just woke up. It was a late night.”
“Partying?”
“Arguing.”
“Oh dear.”
Brianna sighed. “Same old same old. He wants me to be something I’m not. But he’s gone now, off to Philly for the weekend. Cheer me up. What do I have to see?”
“I’m going to give you an address. It’s on Beacon Hill. How quickly can you get here?”
Brianna was the only person Casey had ever told about her connection to Cornelius Unger. Now she was silent a second too long before asking a cautious, “Are we talking Leeds Court?”
“The same.” Casey had driven her past the house more than once. “Do you remember how to get here?”
“With my eyes closed. Do I have to dress up?”
Casey smiled. “Dress down. I literally ran over.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“Yours?”
Brianna asked as they stood side by side at the front gate, looking up at the house.
“Apparently.”
“How
cool!”
“That’s one word for it,” Casey mused. “Another is pathetic. I’d have been happier with a phone call before he died. Or a letter. A letter would have been nice.”
“He wasn’t the type, Casey. You knew that.”
“I did. But there was always a part of me that said he was just so bashful or shy or… or
something
… that he didn’t know
how
to do it. I always had a little bit of hope that he’d find a way.”
“Maybe this is his way.”
“The grand gesture?”
“I’m serious,” Brianna said. “This is his house. It’s him.”
An iron gate rattled halfway around the Court. They looked that way just as a man came through. He was in his thirties, tall, and finely sheathed in a multicolored racing shirt and black biking shorts. As they watched, he reached back to lift a shiny yellow racing bike up and over the gate.
“Oh my,” Casey whispered. She wasn’t referring to the bike.
Brianna leaned close to whisper back, “Who is
he?
”
“Beats me, but he is very nicely built.”
The man was straddling his bike as he strapped on his helmet. Settling a tight butt on the seat, he fit his first shoe to its clip and was about to push off when he saw them. Dismounting again, he walked his bike over and smiled.
“If you’re looking to buy this house,” he warned, “I have to tell you there’s a ghost in there. His name is Angus, and he lives in the master bedroom.”
“Is that so?” Casey asked with a smile.
“I’m told, but then there are ghost stories about most of these houses.
Are
you looking to buy?”
“That depends,” said Brianna. “Would you recommend the neighborhood?”
He considered the question. “It’s getting better. Getting younger, slowly, as the old guard dies off.”
Casey tossed her head toward Connie’s house. “Was he old guard?”
“From the looks of him, he was. Personally, I never talked with the guy. He kept to himself, wasn’t outgoing, if you know what I mean. It’d be neat to get fresh blood in here. Are you two related?”
It wasn’t the first time they’d been asked that. Brianna was dark-haired to Casey’s light, but they were the same height, had the same build, and often, like now, dressed alike.
“Friends,” Brianna said.
“We roomed together in college,” Casey explained. “I’m the one looking at the house. She’s along for the ride.” Lest he misunderstand the relationship, she added, “She has a boyfriend.”
“With whom she’s on the offs,” Brianna said quickly, “and
she
“— she pointed a thumb at Casey—“has
two
in tow.”
“Wrong,” Casey told her. “Dylan’s just a guy pal, and Ollie’s done.” She looked at her neighbor. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a stuffy old place like this?”
He grinned. “Thought I hit it big in investment banking, so my wife and I moved in. Now that the market has stalled, we’re expecting a child. I guess I like being mortgaged to the hilt.”
Brianna hung her head. “He has a wife.”
Casey sighed. “The good ones always do. When is your wife due?”
“August. She was biking with me until the doctor nixed it. If you have other questions about the street, though, ring our bell. She’s Emily, and she’d love to talk. I’m Jeff, and I need to bike.”
Lifting a finger to his sleek helmet, he reclipped his shoe and pushed off. Wisely, he held his backside off the seat while the bike bounced over cobblestones. He sat only when he turned the corner onto West Cedar. Seconds later, he was out of sight.
Not one to pine over a lost cause, Casey steered Brianna up the walk. “Come. You have to see this place.”
They walked through the living room, then went up the stairs, explored the guest bedroom—“Your colors,” Brianna remarked in passing— and did no more than peek into Connie’s room. They opened and closed the doors of the third-floor rooms, admired the roof deck, and looked at the kitchen. If Brianna noticed that the paintings on the stairs leading down to the lower level were by Connie’s wife, she was wise enough not to comment. They peeked in at the den, then the office, but the latter was simply a prelude to the garden. Like Casey, Brianna was instantly drawn there. The sun had moved enough to touch the seat of the wood bench under the chestnut tree, so that was where they sat. The spot was as private as any room inside.
Brianna studied the house. “That is wisteria on your pergola. It’s beautiful. The whole place is beautiful.”
Casey drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. She didn’t look at the house, but kept her eyes in the garden. The greenery soothed her. “I wish the timing were better. So much else is going on in my life right now.”