It was because of the fight. But Eve didn’t learn that until much later. And to this day she’d never learned what the fight was about.
That was the beginning of the end for the commune. Hippies looking for a life where they could flourish in peace were replaced by yuppies looking for weekend houses where they could chill, which Hannah Gordon was happy to sell them. There hadn’t been a new kid at the commune until David Merrick returned eight years ago to raise his nephew Eli.
A godsend for David, a rejuvenation for Floret and Henry, but the beginning of the unraveling of Eve’s plans for Mel.
Eli was a nice boy, in love with Mel, and God knew she was nuts in love with him. But they were so young. Had seen nothing of the world. Had no way to provide for themselves except by working at the inn.
Eve had made the inn her dream. She’d had no choice.
But Mel and Eli had options—if only they’d take them. In another month they would both go off to their respective colleges. Problem solved. Right now, she had another possible situation on her hands.
Eve leaned on her elbows, pressed her templed fingers to her lips, and peered at the computer screen. Zoe Bascombe had made a reservation online. Her driver’s license and credit card were on file. Her answer to the website’s “How did you hear about Solana?” was “Other.” The reply box had been left blank.
She Googled Zoe’s name, drummed her fingers on the desk. She didn’t usually do this kind of background check on her guests, not unless their credit was questionable. This morning, however, she pushed away her sense of intrusion and refined her search. And was surprised at the number of hits that appeared. LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat—the list went on.
She clicked on Zoe’s Facebook profile. Zoe Bascombe. New York City. Great Neck. UPenn–The Wharton School. The usual young-woman social posts: party photos, beach, horseback riding, snowboarding. Loves music.
Eve sucked in her breath. Nothing odd about that. Most young people liked music, and Zoe worked for an event firm—a firm that catered to music business clients. A good job for a young woman.
She kept searching. Parents: George and Jennifer Bascombe. Jenny? Eve’s mother was named Jenny. Jenny Campbell. It was a common enough name.
George Bascombe was a prominent Long Island attorney. Jennifer was a member of the Great Neck Garden Club, a string of charities.
Eve’s fingers hovered over the computer mouse, trembling slightly. She clicked on Images.
A head shot of George Bascombe. George shaking hands with city officials. George and his wife, Jennifer, at a hospital fund-raising ball. George and Jenny Bascombe accepting a check for the Make It Better Organization.
Eve clicked to enlarge the grainy photo. Zeroed in on Jenny. She was turned in profile, but even so, Eve could see the resemblance to Zoe. She clicked back on Zoe’s Facebook photos, scrolled past the friends and activities and food and parties and found one of Zoe and her mother—and stopped.
The photo was in color. The two women, mother and daughter, were strikingly similar. No mistaking them for anything but mother and daughter. The eye color was amazingly the same, and unusual. Almost a lilac blue.
There were no photos of Eve’s own mother, but she’d seen those eyes before. On her own daughter Mel.
But eye color didn’t mean anything. A coincidence. She kept scrolling back and back, until she came to a Throwback Thursday photo: Me getting ready for Julia’s Sweet Sixteen. Straight hair. Ha-ha. The hair was dark, had obviously just been blow-dried or flat-ironed. But it wasn’t the hair that had arrested Eve’s attention.
It was the face.
They could have been sisters, Zoe and Mel. It was uncanny. And it wasn’t coincidence.
Zoe stood where she was, waiting to see a sign of life, but no one appeared to greet her. Actually, the place looked deserted.
So now what—did she dare open the gate and walk inside?
She took a few steps over the trampled weeds and gingerly lifted the latch. Hesitated. Hippies were peace loving, right? She opened the gate and stepped inside.
Like Dorothy opening the door to the land of Oz.
Inside the sagging fence were no trampled weeds, no dried-out grass or hard-packed dirt. Just color. The house, unpainted eyesore that it was, was surrounded by flowers. Reds, blues, yellows, oranges, and lavenders not laid out by design, but growing randomly, as if someone had cast handfuls of seed into the wind. Above them, giant yellow sunflowers swayed on their stems like drunken sentinels.
Jenny Bascombe might have been appalled at the craziness of the planting, but she would have loved the color.
And the scent. One whiff dissolved into another against a pervasive smell of lavender . . . blue, dilly dilly. A lullaby her mother used to sing.
“Hello?” she called tentatively. Getting no response, she walked down the flagstone path toward the house. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
Someone was there. From behind her they let out a frightening “Ma-a-a-a-a-a.” The voice didn’t sound human.
And it wasn’t.
It was a beast, a little beast, galloping toward her.
Zoe looked wildly around. She was cut off from retreat. Her only hope was the house. She sprinted up the walk, took the wooden steps to the porch two at a time, and banged on the door.
“Hello!” she called, her voice rising in panic.
“I’m out here.”
She turned around, looking for the source of the voice and keeping a wary eye on the animal that had stopped at the bottom of the steps and was eyeing her curiously.
It wasn’t a dog, she realized with relief. It was a . . . goat? Must be—goats were the new “cute” pets. This was definitely a goat, brown flecked with white hairs. An old goat? She chuckled in spite of her racing pulse. “You old goat.”
The goat lifted a hoof onto the front step.
Zoe backed up. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re a lovely goat.”
“Dulcie! You cut that out.” The voice, high and lilting, came not from inside the house but from behind a large vegetable garden fenced in with chicken wire. The goat turned toward the voice and so did Zoe.
A large sun hat appeared from behind a row of tall bean plants. A floral gardening glove waved. “Over here. Now, Dulcie, you let the lady come on down.”
After a beady-eyed look toward Zoe, the goat trotted over to the garden.
Zoe slowly went down the steps to the yard. But she didn’t venture farther. The gardener’s hat was bobbing along behind the top of the staked plants toward the end of the row where Dulcie waited outside the mesh fence.
The gardener came out into the open, reached back to close the gate, and putting a protective or perhaps controlling hand on the goat, she came to meet her.
Zoe guessed the gardener was a she from her high voice and diminutive size. Her face was completely hidden by the floppy, wide brim of her hat, revealing only a long gray braid that draped over one shoulder. Baggy overalls were rolled to just below the knee. The shoes were old, scuffed leather work boots.
She stopped when she was several feet away from Zoe and pushed the hat back, revealing a sun-wrinkled face and a welcoming smile.
The smile broadened. “My sweet Lord. You’ve come back—”
Dulcie butted her side, and she staggered several steps.
“Oh,” the gardener said, and righted herself. Her head tilted one way then the other. “You’re not . . . Oh my . . .”