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
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
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