Bleeding Heart by Liza Gyllenhaal Read Free Book Online Page A

this enormous sunflower that will be made out of hundreds and hundreds of seeds just like the one you planted.”
    Mara was still sullen and abrupt around me most of the time. I didn’t care. In many ways, I preferred that to someone who nattered on about things that meant nothing to me. She was taking on more and more, and handling the workload well. We were alike in many ways, I was beginning to realize. That afternoon, as I listened to Mara talk to Danny, I realized—not for the first time—how much I longed to have children around me again. I missed my family. Oh, Olivia and Franny never failed to call me once or twicea week, but they were both so caught up in their own worlds— young, newly married, commuting from the suburbs to the city and their important, demanding jobs. Sometimes I suspected that they took turns checking up on me. I knew they still worried about me. And blamed me, too. Though they’d never admit that, maybe not even to themselves.
    An hour or so later, I got up from my computer to stretch and walked across the backyard to the greenhouse, where Mara and Danny were bent over the utility sink, washing their hands. The seedling trays were full. I asked Danny to show me which of the sunflowers he’d planted. He looked at me nervously, worried perhaps that he’d done something wrong. Mara was constantly telling him to be quiet when he was around me in the office. I got the sense that I scared him to death. But he finally pointed to a chipped clay pot, set apart from the others in their plastic molded trays.
    “Do you want to take it home with you?” I asked him, picking it up.
    Danny looked from me to his mom, his gaze searching—and imploring.
    “Say thanks,” she told him with a nod.
    “Thank you,” he said gravely, taking the pot into his arms.
    “Make sure it gets plenty of water and sun, okay?” I said. “And don’t forget to give it a lot of love. That’s where the magic comes in.”

5

    I thought about what Phil Welling had said. If I landed the Mackenzie project, it would be a “huge score” for him, too. The designs that were coming together in my imagination—and on the landscaping software program I was using—would require a number of subcontractors, including a stonemason and an ironworker. Why not share the spoils with artisans I liked and admired?
    I consulted Gwen’s cousin Nate LaSalle, a well-regarded master stonemason in the area, about the costs and feasibility of putting in the numerous walls and steps that were essential to my designs. During the last Harvest Festival at the Berkshire Botanical Garden I’d come across the unique wrought-iron work of Damon Fagels, who had a forge over in Chatham. I loved his fantastical tables and chairs with their animal feet and antlered arms, and candelabra shaped into branches and birds. He seemed excited about the prospect of creating the hand railings, wall sconces, benches, and other garden ornaments my plans were calling for. Both Damon and Nate, though, were concerned about getting everything completed by the end of June.
    It was my biggest worry, too. By mid-April I had enough of myplan ready—if not finished to the last detail—to present to Mackenzie. But when I called Eleanor to arrange for a meeting, she told me he was still traveling. And not expected back for another couple of days. I was in a fix. I couldn’t start my work until Phil had built the terraces and Nate had laid in at least some of the steps. In order to get the best stock, I needed to start ordering specimen trees, shrubs, and perennials more or less immediately. And all of this was predicated on the assumption that Mackenzie would like and approve my designs. A week after I first called Eleanor, still not having heard anything from Mackenzie, I woke up in the middle of the night in a panic. What if he’d lost interest in the project? What if all my hard work was for nothing? And worse—what if I was never able to put in this garden that I’d