a garden, a square of blue—when she looked at them, those were things that could be managed, that could give without taking.
The square of blue was in Dr. Taylor’s office, a painting mounted directly behind her desk. A blurry-edged shape against a washed-out field of watercolor blues and greens.
Marguerite’s gaze lifted and took in their surroundings. “Gardeners seem to understand the importance of creating quiet spaces, for meditation, for simply being. The first time I saw the grounds here, I thought how overwhelming it must have been, to design and create it. But Robert, our gardener, told me a garden starts with one feeling. A plant put next to another plant that feels right there. He said it can start with a group of pots on an apartment balcony.”
Daralyn’s growing group of flowers and plants around her home had started with a couple pots Elaine had given her. Now three sides of the house had blooms, ornamental grasses and small shrubs.
“I’ve found that, too,” she said.
Marguerite’s gaze slid over hers, returned to the waterfall, and the trio of horses. “A horse is a thousand pounds of muscle, teeth and hooves,” she said, “and yet their legs are absurdly fragile. I visited an equine rescue earlier this year. Those who have histories of severe abuse or neglect have a wariness in their eyes. But what breaks the heart is the hope, like a fluttering candle flame next to an open window.”
Marguerite lifted her wet hand out of the water and extended it. Scar tissue formed a starburst across the top, from wrist to knuckles.
“That was done to me when I was a child. Along with many other things.” The gaze that met Daralyn’s was straightforward, no pity for herself, yet not casual nor dismissive either.
Before uneasiness could steal into Daralyn’s lower belly, Marguerite made a calming gesture. When she continued to speak, her words seemed to move at the same cadence as the breeze that rustled the grasses around them and the live oak leaves above. It reminded Daralyn of the way it felt to read a book. The words offered for her own thoughts, no response required.
“For so many years, I existed,” Marguerite said. “Succeeded because I needed to move forward. At first, that’s a victory, an accomplishment so momentous the effort can’t be measured. But if it remains the goal too long, it loses its value. I was at that point when I met Tyler.”
Her pale blue eyes moved to Daralyn’s, then went back to studying the world around them. When she’d first arrived at the table, Marguerite had shown the Mistress side of herself, her ability to pierce a person to the soul with her gaze. But now Daralyn wondered if there’d been a time when Marguerite hadn’t looked at anyone directly, either.
Marguerite rose, gesturing, and Daralyn followed her around a sumptuous grove of fatsia. Here she found another sequestered space, still in the Japanese garden style, including a rock garden with a tiny bamboo rake and a wisteria arbor. Just beyond it was an open-air structure made of golden wood with a hipped roof. A tea house. She’d seen them in the garden supply magazines they received from their vendors.
Then Marguerite pivoted away from that section, drawing Daralyn’s attention to a sculpture that, once turned in the right direction, was impossible to miss.
It was a bronze angel. Nearly life-sized and male, with half spread wings, every feather defined. An expression of warrior alertness was captured on his etched face, but there was also a light smile on his lips that spoke of generosity and a depth of spirit. His eyes seemed to penetrate the watcher, call to them.
Dark green ferns clustered around his pedestal, and another, smaller waterfall murmured near the statue. Marguerite drew her to a nearby bench, both of them sinking down to face the angel.
“Tyler had this commissioned to honor my brother,” Marguerite said. “He died when we were very young. I was with him when it happened.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“At the time, they said I survived, but it wasn’t true. We can’t say that any part of us survives what happens to us. Not until we know how to live.” Marguerite’s eyes met Daralyn’s. “How is that going for you, Daralyn?”
What do you want for dinner? Do you want to do this…or that? Even such casual questions could spawn anxiety. But this targeted question, aimed right at her center, stilled her. She was locked into a moment with Marguerite that reminded her of