THIRTY-TWO
DARA
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
The parking area of the Bartholomew Gardens is empty. Lights shine here and there on the other side of the aging stone wall that’s held together by moss and prayers. The estate is stoic and graceful—the type of place where fairy tales are created.
Wade shuts off the ignition.
“Did you leave something here at the wedding?” I ask. “Not that I mind as long as you take me with you if you go inside the gates.”
He gives me a sideways grin. “This is our destination.”
“For our date?”
He nods.
I try to temper the surge of excitement building inside me.
“Wade, you can’t just come to the Gardens for a date,” I tell him. But he must know this. “I think it’s privately owned. Access is limited to the public and—not that a date must include dinner, but there’s no restaurant here. It’s a couple of old meeting halls, a house, and acres of beauty.”
“Are you done talking yet?”
I shrug, unsure if I am or not. This still doesn’t make sense.
“It turns out that Philip Bartholomew is pretty tight with Gramps,” he says.
“Your gramps? Golf cap-wearing Gramps? Yucky Life Saver-wielding Gramps?”
Wade chuckles. “That’s the only Gramps I have. Now come on. We’re wasting time.”
I take quick stock of my outfit as I climb out of the SUV. I didn’t do bad, considering I had no idea where we were going.
Black skinny pants with a silky black tank topped with a garnet-red blazer-style jacket. I accessorized with black heels and gold jewelry. It just so happens to match Wade’s black jeans and black sweater perfectly.
He holds a hand out for me as I round the front of the Mercedes. I take it without a second thought.
“I really do wish you’d allow me to open the door for you,” he says.
“Why? It would just waste more time.”
He grins and leads me to the gate that was open when we arrived here the last time.
We’re ushered in by a sweet woman named Marjorie.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you both,” she says. “We don’t get to entertain here as often as we used to. The staff misses the excitement of putting together a scene.”
We walk farther into the grounds.
“You know,” she says. “We used to have a full-service eatery here.”
“I had no idea,” I say.
“We did. It was really something. It was on the back corner of the property, and you could access it from Mayweather Drive. The owners used the revenue to fund improvements, maintain the plants and animals, and pay the staff. But Mr. Bartholomew decided to streamline things. I suppose we all have to understand. Things change.” She looks at Wade and smiles. “But that’s not always a bad thing.”
Once we reach the greenhouse from Holt’s wedding, she stops. She extends her arms to each side and smiles proudly.
“The grounds are yours for the evening. Please use the phone just inside the door to call when you’d like dinner,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her.
“Thank you, Marjorie,” Wade says. “We appreciate your hospitality.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
With a wink, she plods silently toward the Hardwig house.
I turn, curiosity getting the best of me, and look at Wade. He’s grinning.
“What did she mean by the grounds are ours for the evening?” I ask.
“That would mean that you are free to roam to your heart’s desire.”
I want to thank him. I need to tell him that. But I’m stunned.
In his office the day Holt invited me to his wedding, I mentioned that I’d never been able to see the Gardens because it was always closed and so expensive. And now, here we are.
“You did this for me,” I say, working through my thoughts aloud.
“Of course. But it’s not as though spending some time in nature will kill me either.”
There’s more. I can see it in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask as we stroll through the hedges and note a particularly perfect wall of green vegetation. Graduation photos would be perfect there. “Tell me.”
He roughs his free hand down his jaw. “Well, I had a cup of coffee with Phillip Bartholomew today. He’s an interesting fellow.”
“I bet,” I say warily.
I want to tell him to get on with it, but I don’t. Push Wade, and he might push back.
“It turns out that the Gardens need a bit of … a facelift,” he says, nodding as if he approves his word choice. “Right there—you can vaguely see a walkway beneath those magnolia trees.”
“I see it,” I say, coming to a stop. “It’s so overgrown.”
“It is. It’s one of the problems they’re facing right now with an aging staff and a lack of community interest.”
“That’s so sad.”
He shrugs. “For now. They’re about to undergo an overhaul in preparation for a new marketing effort.”
Makes sense.
“And I told Philip that I know a woman who would probably be more than happy to take some marketing photos in exchange for access to the grounds,” he says.