Even before recorded history, from the first days when man set about to rearrange the order of his surroundings, there have been gardens. And in every era, every culture, gardens have been a collaboration of man’s will and nature’s authority. The gardener can choose to combine the blues of delphinium with the yellows of marguerites, but they must be planted in rich soil and they only bloom in June, not May or September, no matter how hard the gardener might wish or work otherwise. Thus a successful gardener finds the Zen balance between his own purposefulness and utter surrender to the design of nature, a way of finding direction without struggle.

In the early morning, the very first light, the gardens had the air of potential, as if anything was possible. The landscape architect who laid out the plans for the grounds at Chatsworth had included both English and French gardens. But in the late nineteenth century, a Chinese garden had been added. In the Chinese design for contentment, which is the basis of Chinese philosophy, every individual possesses a garden. The Chinese feel that unless a man has a garden, he scarcely grasps the reason for existence. Carolyn sat on a glider under an arbor, a mug of coffee on the armrest, a book in her lap. She heard the sound of shoes on the gravel behind her. The crunching sound grew louder with each step.

“My God, Julie,” she said as she turned around, “what are you doing up so early?”

“Hi, Mom.” Julie gave her a kiss and sat down on the glider.

“It’s not like I’m never up in the morning.”

“Yes, I know, but you’re more often going to bed at this hour.”

They sat in silence and watched the day brighten. The light through the morning glory leaves cast a translucent glow under the arbor.

“I used to think it was horrible for you to grow up here,” Julie remarked as she started to push the glider back and forth with the tips of her feet. “Being by yourself most of the time, I mean it’s beautiful, but it must have been lonely.”

“I suppose I was alone, but I never felt alone. I can remember going barefoot through these gardens when I was a girl. I had the run of the stables. The carpenter made me twenty-four stick horses and I gave them all names.” Carolyn took a sip from her mug of coffee. “If I had an imaginary party, I made a handwritten invitation for each of them. I terrorized the neighbors’ children when they came to visit by making them memorize the names of all my stick horses.”

“Oh, Mom, it’s hard to imagine you as a terror.”

“Well, maybe that’s too strong a word. I loved the gardens the best. This is where I learned the names of all the flowers. When I was a little girl, there was an old man who had been here since before your great-grandfather’s time. He taught me how to pat a bee.”

“Mom,” Julie looked with a kind but firm disbelief.

Carolyn pointed at a spot near a fountain, the intersection of two walkways. “It was right over there… His skin was so wrinkled. He looked a little like one of those small show dogs with the folds of skin. He walked with a cane, really slowly.”

“You didn’t get stung?”

“No. He told me the bee was happy on the flower and wouldn’t mind. I watched him do it.” Carolyn held out her hand. “Just the tip of your forefinger. I was never afraid of insects after that.”

“Mom, why are you here? I mean, you haven’t been home for two weeks. And I mean, it’s your birthday next week. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, for a few reasons, I guess. It’s quieter here than in Charlotte. All the things in the papers about the bank, and your father… and Michael.”

“Did you have a fight with Dad?”

No response.

“Mom, you don’t have to make everything nice for me… Why are you smiling?”

“I was noticing a picture this morning of your grandmother, and I couldn’t figure out why it looked so familiar. I just realized how much you look like her…