Chapter 2
Wednesday morning at Willowmere came in soft and grey, a marine layer hanging low over the hedges. Hollis was in the potting shed by seven, oiling the hinge on the door that had been sticking since before his aunt had died, when his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket.
The message was from Priya Nadkarni.
*Mr. Barrett — could you meet me at the potting shed at noon? A few quick questions before Friday. Nothing official. — P*
Hollis read it twice. Then he read it a third time, looking at the way "nothing official" had been underlined with a second tap of the thumb.
He replied: *I'll be here.*
At noon she came down the gravel path alone, her periwinkle cardigan buttoned against the damp. She wasn't wearing her glasses on the chain today; they were in her hand, folded, and she held them like a talisman as she stopped at the shed door.
"Thank you for meeting me," she said. "I know this is awkward."
Hollis leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "It's fine. What can I do for you?"
Priya looked at the ground for a moment. Then she stepped past him into the shed, which smelled of damp earth and cut stems and the lemon oil he'd been using on the door hinge. She stopped at the shelves of pots and bags of fertilizer and did not turn around.
"There's something you should understand about the lease," she said.
Hollis waited.
"The ten-year renewal. It's not a sure thing." Priya's voice was quieter than he'd heard it before, pitched for the space between the two of them. "Claudia has been talking about it for months. She's the one who chairs the committee, and she's the one who set the vote for Friday. But there are members who think it's time for a change."
"What kind of change?"
Priya turned. Her face was round and kind and worried, a small line between her brows. "Some of them want to sell. The estate, I mean. Not the club — the estate itself. The land's been in the Barrett family for generations, but the trust that's been paying for the upkeep has been running out of money for years. There's been talk about whether the club can afford to keep it, or whether it should go on the market."
Hollis felt the folded paper in his back pocket, a familiar weight against his hip. "Who's been talking about selling?"
"People who look at the books." Priya hesitated. "People who've seen what happens to old estates that don't have an owner who cares. The club only leases the garden, Mr. Barrett. We've been here for thirty years on a verbal agreement, and that was fine when everybody knew everybody. But the trust is winding down. After your aunt passed, the paperwork got complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Priya's glasses went back into her hand. She looked at the floor. "The lease was never signed," she said. "I know that's not a secret — Claudia brags about it all the time, the way some people brag about a good parking spot. Verbal, always has been. The office in town handles the paperwork. But I've been the secretary for six years, and I've never seen a copy of the lease."
Hollis nodded slowly. "Because there isn't one."
"Not that I've found." Priya met his eyes. "Claudia says it doesn't matter. She says the club has been here so long that the agreement has the force of law, whatever that means. But the town office, the one that handles the paperwork she keeps mentioning — I called them last month, just to ask about the renewal. They told me they'd never heard of the Willowmere Garden Club. They'd never heard of a lease. They've never had any paperwork for this property at all."
The shed had gone very quiet. A fly buzzed against the window and fell silent.
"Did you tell Claudia that?" Hollis asked.
Priya shook her head. "I didn't know what to do with it. I still don't. But I thought you should know, because Friday is…" She trailed off.
"Friday is when she's going to try to have me removed," Hollis finished.
"Friday is when she's going to try to have you removed," Priya agreed. "And she'll do it, too, unless somebody stops her. She has the votes on the committee. She's been building toward this all summer."
Hollis looked at the shelves of pots, the bags of fertilizer, the trowel his aunt had hung on the same hook for as long as he could remember. The shed had been hers longer than it had been his. Every tool in it had her fingerprints on it somewhere.
"Thank you for telling me," he said.
Priya nodded. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she didn't. She turned and walked out of the shed, back up the gravel path toward the terrace, her cardigan bright against the grey morning.
Hollis stood in the shed for a long time after she'd gone. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the folded paper, the deed, and held it in both hands.
His aunt had given it to him in the spring, six weeks before she died. She'd been sitting in the cottage window seat, looking out at the rose garden, and she'd handed him the envelope without ceremony.
*It's yours,* she'd said. *All of it. The house, the garden, the old greenhouse. I'd have given it to you sooner, but I wanted to be sure you'd keep it. That you wouldn't just sell it off and walk away.*
He'd told her he wouldn't sell it. He'd told her he'd keep it, and care for it, and that the roses would still be blooming when she couldn't see them anymore.
She'd laughed at him, a dry, wheezing laugh that shook her thin shoulders. *The roses don't care who sees them bloom,* she'd said. *But I do. I want to know that someone who loves this place is the one standing in front of it when the trouble comes.*
He hadn't asked what trouble. He'd known.
The parcel number was in the upper right corner, written in her thin, clear hand. He'd checked it against the plaque on the terrace wall the second day after the funeral, when he'd walked the grounds for the first time as the owner and found the garden club already installed under the wisteria like they'd grown there.
They'd been there thirty years. They'd cared for the garden. They'd paid for the upkeep out of their own dues. And every single one of them, including Claudia, believed they had a right to be there.
Hollis folded the deed and put it back in his pocket.
He didn't want to take the garden away from them. He didn't want to stand in front of the board and watch Claudia's face change as the parcel number on the paper lined up with the number on the plaque.
But his aunt had given him the land for a reason, and he wasn't going to let it go.
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