Bleeding Heart (11 page)

I was scheduled to give Vera Yoland and Lisbeth Crocker, another regional representative, a walk-through of Mackenzie’s gardens that afternoon. I warned Eleanor ahead of time that they’d be coming.

“I don’t think Mr. Mackenzie would particularly like to run into them, so he might want to stay inside.”

“Don’t worry,” she told me. “I don’t think he’ll be going out today.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, “is he still in bed? I hope he’s going to feel well enough to participate tomorrow.”

Eleanor gave me a hard look.

“I hope he’s going to feel better, too. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up—and I certainly wouldn’t try to pressure him into it.”

“Of course not,” I told her, once again taken aback by her attitude toward me. Where was this coming from? Could it be Mara? Despite the long hours she was putting in at the office, I did occasionally see her and Danny visiting with Mackenzie’s housekeeper. I knew Eleanor doted on Danny and that—for whatever reason—the two very different women appeared to have formed a close bond. I could easily imagine them sharing their mutual dislike of the Open Day event and what they both seemed to view as my unhelpful preoccupation with it.

Vera and Lisbeth, however, made me realize that my excitement was not at all misplaced. If anything, their enthusiasm for the garden rivaled my own.

“This is absolute heaven, Alice!” Vera exclaimed as I led the two women through the garden rooms. We’d stopped halfway down the corridor of lime trees and were looking out over the rooftops of Woodhaven and the rolling farmland beyond. From where we stood, we could see two male volunteers roping off a freshly mowed field at the base of the mountain. This was where the guests would park. The Conservancy had arranged for a couple of vans to transport attendees who couldn’t make the long hike from the parking area up the steep driveway to the house. The three of us had spent the last hour discussing other logistics for the following day: the best place to set up the sign-in table, where to serve refreshments, how many volunteers they’d recruited and where I’d like to see them placed.

“Of course, most people will want to ask you their questions,” Lisbeth said. “But we’re expecting quite a crowd, so we will have experienced gardeners on the grounds who can pinch-hit.”

“That’s great,” I said. “My assistant is quite knowledgeable, too.”

“And will Mr. Mackenzie be putting in an appearance?” Vera asked.

“Well, I hope so . . . ,” I said. Vera and Lisbeth exchanged a look. Vera seemed poised to say something more, but then hesitated. She pursed her lips and looked down. For a moment, a certain uneasiness hung in the air—a question, a doubt—but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I repeated in a somewhat forced upbeat tone: “I really hope so! But we’ll just have to see. Mr. Mackenzie has so many demands on his time these days.”

The lights were on in the office when I got back, though it was nearly eight thirty. I felt a pang, remembering how I’d left things with Mara.

“You’re still here?” I asked as I pushed open the door.

She looked up from her desk, which was cluttered with files and ledgers.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Nate called before. The bank stopped payment on our last check to him.”

“That’s strange.”

“I’ve been looking up our account online. I know I should have been keeping a closer eye on all this, but I’ve just been so busy with other things.”

She sounded so apologetic and upset, I felt bad. After tomorrow, I’d be able to take some of these responsibilities off her shoulders.

“We all make mistakes, Mara. We’ll just issue him another—”

“No, we can’t. We’ve exhausted our credit limit. That’s why I didn’t realize what was going on. But for the last week or so, the checks have been eating into our overdraft protection. Nate’s was the first one over the line.”

“But that’s crazy. I deposited Mackenzie’s last payment to us days ago. We should have tons of cash on hand.”

“That’s just it. I’ve been getting e-alerts from the bank, but I thought they were routine, so I didn’t bother to open them.”

“E-alerts? About what?”

“Mackenzie’s check,” Mara told me. “It bounced.”

I
didn’t sleep very well that night. I knew there had to be a good explanation for Mackenzie’s check not clearing, but the slipup was still pretty unsettling. I’d spent thousands of dollars recently on my client’s behalf—more, much more, than I could possibly cover on my own. Most of my regular suppliers had offered me extended payables schedules, but I would need Mackenzie’s money very soon to satisfy all the bills that were coming due. I kept waking up and going over the situation. There couldn’t be any doubt that Mackenzie was good for the money. Jeff Isley had mentioned a cash crunch at MKZEnergy. That’s all this was, I decided. The man was worth many millions of dollars, I reminded myself as I finally started to drift off to sleep again. . . .

I had a confused and fragmented dream about Tom Deaver. We were alone together in some great forest, and we kept trying to reach for each other through the undergrowth and tree branches, but our outstretched hands never quite joined. But, oh, how I longed to touch him! How I yearned to feel his strong arms around
me, comforting and reassuring me that everything was going to be all right.

I woke up with a start. It was still dark at six thirty. But at this time of the year, the sun should have risen about an hour ago. I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. My backyard—the garden, the hemlocks, the path leading out to the barn—all seemed to have disappeared! My own reflection stared back at me from the whited-out window. It took me a disoriented moment or two to realize that the morning was socked in with fog. I listened to the radio while I hurriedly showered and dressed. The inversion, most prominent in low-lying areas, was supposed to burn off by midmorning.

I realized that driving was going to be dicey, but I wanted to be up at the site by eight o’clock since Damon Fagels had told me he planned to install the wrought-iron railing around the waterfall about that time. Ever since Nate had pointed out the danger posed by the drop-off, I’d been obsessed about getting some kind of protective barrier up in time for the Open Day. Of my long list of concerns about the event, this one had worked its way to the top. I’d actually had a dream a few nights back that I was falling from that very spot—and I’d woken up in a panic, my heart pounding. Now, as I started to drive through the heavy mist, I felt a similar sort of anxiety set in. The fog made the most familiar structures—the stand of spruces at the bottom of my drive, the outlines of the Cabots’ farmhouse—seem misshapen and somehow ominous. Visibility improved slightly as I made my way through town and then up Mackenzie’s driveway. Though the mountain was still shrouded when I reached the top, I could make out Damon’s van parked in front of the garages, and I heard the sound of hammering—metal on metal—coming from below as I got out of my car.

The gardens were eerily beautiful that morning—otherworldly, dreamlike. But because I couldn’t seem to shake the sense of dread
that had settled over me, there was something a little nightmarish about the stone wall that suddenly loomed into sight—and the slippery feel of the railing as I moved warily down the steps. Everywhere, too, was the sound of invisible water: dripping, flowing, splashing. The fog thickened the farther down I went. I followed the muffled sound of voices and hammering, shuffling along the balustrade to the final short flight of steps that led to the waterfall garden.

“. . . do you think I should do?” I heard Nate say. I hadn’t expected him to be at the site, too, and for a moment I was pleasantly surprised, assuming he’d volunteered to help.

“Well, if it was me, I’d call her on it right away,” Damon said. “I can’t begin to guess how much she’ll be clearing out of all this. And to think of the way we both busted our balls to get things done! But why would she jerk you around like that? It just doesn’t make—”

“Hello, there!” I called out. The two men slowly took shape as I moved toward them through the murk. They were gripping a wrought-iron frieze of birds and butterflies that curved around the promontory. They stood on either side of the channel of water that rushed between. The stream flowed through the middle posts of the frieze and disappeared over the mountainside.

“Alice,” Damon said, his tone suddenly subdued.

“Oh, Damon, that’s just beautiful!” I said, coming up to him and reaching out to touch the railing.

“No, don’t!” he cried. “The cement’s not set yet.”

“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back. I realized now that the two of them were holding the railing in place. Though I couldn’t see their faces that clearly, I could sense their unhappiness. “Listen, Nate,” I said, turning to him, “Mara told me about your call last night. We’re going to sort this thing out. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There better not be,” Nate said. “I mean, if you or Mr. Mackenzie had any problem with the quality of my work, I’d expect you to say something. But stiffing me like this is really—”

“It was a
mistake
, Nate,” I said. “You’ve done an amazing job. Both of you have. And you’ll see later that I’ve included your names, numbers, and Web sites in the brochure that’s going to be handed out during the tour.”

“That’s very nice,” Nate said. “But what I need right now is to get
paid
, okay? I can’t tell you how many other jobs I’ve blown off over the past two months to get this work finished for you. In fact, this is all I’ve been doing most of the spring and summer so far. I’ve been waiting on that check to pay my fucking mortgage, Alice! This is no joke. I need that money to survive.”

“And you’re going to get it!” I told him, trying to keep my tone upbeat and unconcerned. But I could feel the morning closing in around me—heavy and claustrophobic, like the fog itself. I needed to talk to Mackenzie, I realized. And I had to get to him right away—before Eleanor arrived for work at nine. Expressing my thanks again for everything they’d done, I left Nate and Damon to finish the installation and headed back up through the gardens. A hazy orb of sun swam overhead, and I could feel the heat of the day starting to radiate through the mist. As I climbed the last flight of steps to the sundial garden, the house suddenly emerged through the drifting fog: enormous, gleaming, substantial as an ocean liner. Now I could make out the garage banks rising up the hill behind the house, and beyond that the horse stables and corral, tennis courts and helipad. The sight of all this—solid proof of Mackenzie’s tremendous wealth—lifted my spirits. His bad check had to have just been the result of careless bookkeeping, understandable when you considered how much else he had on his mind.

Still, I was happy to see that Eleanor’s car was not yet parked
in its usual spot. I quietly climbed the stairs leading up to the side deck. From there, I could see the mist rising in columns above the town and valley, and though the gardens below were still blanketed, I knew that as soon as the sun cleared the tree line the fog would start to burn off. The gardens should be perfectly visible by the time they were opened to the public at ten.

One of the sliding glass doors to the great room stood halfway open. A curtain fluttered against my face as I stepped inside. The enormous space was dim and cool and still. Though I’d been in the house many times over the last few months, I’d rarely had an opportunity to venture much beyond the kitchen area. I had no idea where Mackenzie slept or where I might find him at that time of day. But I decided my best bet was to check his office, which I knew lay at the end of the corridor to my left. I was halfway down the hallway when I heard Eleanor’s voice: “What do you think you’re doing?”

I froze.

“What’s it to you?” Gwen said. Their voices were coming from a room not five feet up the hall to my left.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Mind your own business.”

“It’s my business to look after that man.”

“And you think I’m harming him somehow? I’m getting sick and tired of you treating me like I’m up to no good.”

“Oh, I know what you’re up to.”

“Listen, Eleanor, what I’m giving Graham is a whole lot better for him than all those tinctures and infusions and whatever you keep pushing on him.”

“You’re a leech. Just like all the rest of them.”

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re the maid, for chrissakes! You’re the chief cook and bottle washer. And if you think
Graham’s going to be happy when he learns that you’ve been talking to me this way, you’d better think again.”

“He’s not well. He’s under a tremendous amount of strain. And you’re not helping matters by barging in here at all hours of the night. You’re right—I am the maid. I make the beds. I wash the sheets. So I have a pretty good idea what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, give me a break, Eleanor! Graham and I are two consenting adults. We’re simply enjoying each other’s company.”

“Where is he, then? And how did you get in here? Why are you going through his things?”

“I’m just looking for—but why the hell do I have to explain myself to you?” I heard something being dropped—or tossed—and then footsteps. I flattened myself against the wall as Gwen walked out of the room, down the hall away from me, and out the front door.

Eleanor was always so self-possessed that it actually took me a moment or two to make sense of the odd, strangled sound coming from the room nearby. But when I did, it was with a mixture of embarrassment and pity. She was the kind of woman who took pride in being in control. For someone like Eleanor, crying wasn’t a form of release—it was an admission of failure.

She didn’t see me when she left the room a minute or two later. I retraced my steps to the deck and took it around the front of the house to the kitchen entrance on the other side. By the time I slid the door open and called, “Good morning!” Eleanor was already at work and seemingly composed.

“Hello,” she said, pulling an apron on over her uniform.

“I didn’t hear you drive in.”

“I left my car down in the parking area and walked up,” she said, as she began to rinse some dishes in the sink. “Figured you
might need some extra spaces up here. Lord, that was a climb, though.”

“Thanks, Eleanor,” I told her. “For coming early and helping out. I know how you feel about all this and I’m sorry. I know you have a lot on your mind, and so does Mr. Mackenzie. But I found out last night that the second half of his payment to me—a very large check—didn’t clear. My own checks have started to bounce because of it, so you can understand how upset I am. I
have
to talk to him, Eleanor. Now. Before all this starts.”

“I came in early to talk to him, too,” she said, picking up a wineglass and starting to dry it. “You’re not the only one with problems. You’re not the only one who’s upset. But he’s not in his bedroom. And he’s not in the office. I don’t know where he is.”

“Listen, I have to ask him—,” I began to say just as the doorbell chimed. Eleanor threw down her dish towel and walked out of the room to answer it. I heard the distinctive voice of Vera Yoland in the foyer, and I realized there was very little chance that I would be able to resolve my financial situation with Mackenzie before the Open Day event began.