She did. It was good.
Neither of them mentioned their earlier texts, and she could tell he was making an effort to be collegial, the same as she was. They kept the conversation to the news and benign media chatter in a surprisingly companionable way as they zipped through the light traffic. It helped get her mind off Lisanne’s text.
At Dot’s, they found Maria at the door, ready to walk them in. “The conservatory today,” she said with a faint air of displeasure. “She got it into her head to do some gardening.”
Nadine gave her habitual wave to Sir Latimer as Wes nodded to the cheetah, which Dot had named Janice. The secret outline of a cat, maybe the elusive Sidonie-Gabrielle, disappeared down a hall as they passed, uninterested in the visitors.
The conservatory was two steps down from the salon, and the doors opened with a whoosh when Maria pressed against them, letting out a humid breath.
“Tea will be out here when you’re done,” said Maria. “I don’t go in there. It ruins my hair.”
Nadine touched her own head, a lost cause as the heat had already given her a thin layer of frizzies.
“This could be my favorite room,” Wes said in astonishment.
“Better than the library?”
“Even the library. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Neither had Nadine. The conservatory was all glass, but the windows were thinly scummed with a brownish fuzz that gave the space a hushed feel. A koi pond contained orange fish swimming lazily around rocks and half-sunken statuary, and the surrounding paths wound through lush tropical plants.
“I didn’t take you for a plant guy,” she said.
“Yeah, I know my way around a bromeliad.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You’re late.” Dot appeared from around the curved corner of a path, dressed in a pale gold caftan and dragging her oxygen tank. Her bronze sandals slapped against the soles of her feet, and her jewelry was all silver. She looked like a slightly tarnished Academy Award.
Nadine didn’t protest this lie. “This is incredible,” she said.
“I would live here,” Wes agreed.
Dot snapped a pair of small scissors at him, red-lipsticked mouth opening wide as she laughed. “The wages of sin.”
She motioned for them to follow her deeper into the conservatory. Huge palms brushed Nadine’s bare arms, making her shiver, and soon they arrived at a potting station. Dot pointed to a gigantic canvas apron. “Keep that dress clean, girl.”
Nadine pulled it on, struggling to do the ties at the back.
“Good Lord, this is painful to watch,” said Dot. “Handsome, give her a hand.”
“I’m fine.” Nadine dropped the sash again, and Wes sighed.
“Please let me help. Otherwise, this will take all day.”
He stood behind her, hands tracing along her waist as he reached for the ends of the sash. Defeated, Nadine lifted her arms slightly to give him more space as he pulled the sash tight around her body. It didn’t take him long to tie the bow, but she felt each tug of the fabric as if it was Wes’s hands touching her. It wasn’t until he was done that Nadine realized she was breathing harder than usual. This was different. This was unexpected. She quickly stepped away to adjust a fern.
Dot’s thinly curved, penciled eyebrows raised high, but she only said, “Time to work.”
She directed them with short commands. Wes picked up the potting soil and a bag of pebbles, and Nadine washed and sanitized some simple terra-cotta pots. They looked like the same ones she bought at the garden center every May but were probably of some fancy clay thatcost several hundred dollars.
“Nadine,” said Dot, wheezing slightly. Was this humidity good for her? Nadine didn’t want to presume she knew the woman’s health better than she did, but Dot didn’t look well. Wes dragged over a wooden stool carved with butterflies, and Dot used his arm to lower herself down.
“Yes?” Nadine asked when Dot was seated. Wes dabbed at his face. She wasn’t surprised that apart from a bit of glowy perspiration, he was as tidy as when they arrived. Her dress, on the other hand, was damp with sweat and her arms dusted with soil.
“Did you read the rest of that obituary I gave you? Mary Linquist?” Dot must have read in her face that she hadn’t, because she brandished an old newspaper from a pile on the potting table. “Do you read obituaries at all?”