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hardly a done deal. I still have to come up with designs that knock his socks off. And he knows his stuff. If he thinks a firm as well regarded as Coldwater is turning out the same old same old, then you know he’s expecting something pretty sensational.”
    “Which is what you’ll give him,” Gwen said as our first courses arrived. “I have no doubt.”
    I talked through the whole meal about the project, all the while silently debating whether to tell Gwen about Mackenzie’s not-for-profit. I’d thought of the gardens at Bridgewater House as soon as he’d mentioned the charity’s mission. The gardens were extensive, historically significant, and in a sad state of disrepair, including a beautiful old nineteenth-century greenhouse that had lost half its panes and was disintegrating into a rusted skeleton. I knew that a substantial amount of Gwen’s capital campaign was designated for outdoor restoration. Bridgewater House was a perfect fit for the Mackenzie Project—and a grant of that stature would no doubt help get Gwen’s fund-raising efforts off the ground at last.
    “So what’s he like as a man?” Gwen asked over espresso and a plate of cookies. “Is he just all about making billions of buckaroonies—or does he have a soul?”
    “You know, I don’t think it’s either-or with him. He’s definitely a high-powered person. And, no matter what he claims, fracking is evil. On the other hand—” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the charity and his dollar-for-dollar offer if I got the job.
    “But is he someone I could hit up?” Gwen asked, cutting me off. “Would he be open to an ask, do you think?”
    “Possibly,” I said. From what I knew about Mackenzie, he seemed like just the kind of person Gwen should be pursuing: someone with deep pockets, big ideas, and a plus-sized ego. Why was I hesitating? It was probably just what I ended up telling Gwen: “Let me see how things go with him. He certainly knows how to make a great first impression, but let me see if he comes through.” Still, something worried me about the idea. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

4

    “M army! Marmy!” Danny shouted happily as he dragged the heavy-duty tape measure behind him up the hill. Mara had locked the mechanism before handing it over to her son to play with while we investigated the birch grove farther up the incline. But Danny had somehow managed to release it, and now a long aluminum tail rattled behind him, the yellow plastic case bouncing around at the end like a pull toy.
    “Be careful, Danny!” I cried without thinking. The tape was sharp as a razor. I’d nicked myself on it often enough. He stopped in his tracks, his wide grin suddenly uncertain. I realized as soon as I said it that I shouldn’t have intervened. I’d asked Mara as a favor if she could help me make a rough survey of Mackenzie’s property that chilly Saturday afternoon in late March, and she’d agreed to do so if she could bring Danny along. Though she seemed so young and inexperienced, I’d come to realize that she was a super-protective and self-sufficient mother. She didn’t want my advice. She’d made it pretty clear to me in the past that Danny was her business. Period. No trespassing.
    “It’s okay,” Mara said as Danny’s mouth began to quiver, “you’re unbreakable. Right, bud? But your nose is totally disgusting. Get up here.” Mara squatted down as Danny ran into her arms. She pulled a package of Kleenex from her parka pocket. “Blow!” she said, hugging him to her as she covered the lower half of his face with the tissue.
    I enjoyed watching the two of them together. They had the same dark brown hair, in Mara’s case cropped into a raggedy cap that fell slightly askew across her high, round forehead. Danny’s hadn’t been cut yet and it curled, cherublike, to his shoulders. When Mara was around her son, her defensive and closed-off attitude disappeared—as did the carefully maintained