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she’d felt both sad and peaceful. Pure nature, far from her mother’s expectations. The lonely apartness touched her soul. For the first time in her entire life, Lyra felt as if she belonged, and as if she knew who she was.
    She found the statue of Hermes—chipped, darkened with moss and time—at an antiques dealer near the Piazzetta. The piece wasn’t rare or valuable, except to her; she had it shipped home, a souvenir of Italy, and a reminder of the way Capri had made her feel. Time went by. She became more involved with the garden society, and Taylor threw himself into the law.
    They broke up. It seemed inevitable. Lyra tried things her mother’s way. Living in Newport, she dated the sons of society mavens. Alexander Baker, a playboy with a year-round tan, a house in Newport and one in Palm Beach, asked her to marry him. In that moment, she realized how crazy it was, living someone else’s life. She’d felt despair closing in.
    She shipped Hermes to Taylor with a letter telling him she’d bought the statue during their Italian summer, dreamed of putting it in their garden. She said she knew she’d missed her chance with him but wanted him to have Hermes anyway. Deep inside, she had the sense of taking care of her affairs, tying up loose ends.
    Taylor showed up on her doorstep in Newport shortly after he’d received the statue. Sent Alexander packing, looked Lyra in the eye.
    “You sent me a statue for the garden,” he said, “but there’s no garden without you. There never was. Please come home with me, Lyra. Marry me.”
    And she did, in one of the biggest weddings Newport had ever seen. Taylor might not have been her mother’s first choice, but if Edith’s only daughter was getting married, the wedding would be something the town would never forget. Lyra had felt so bleak with Alexander; she prayed that he was the reason, that Newport was the problem, that marrying Taylor would fix everything.
    Taylor and Lyra honeymooned in Bermuda, and then they began their life. Lyra had expected love to heal everything, to make her feel as if she was all right. They placed Hermes in their backyard, and Lyra made great plans to cultivate beautiful gardens all around him.
    It didn’t quite work out that way.
    Vines and dampness and her own demons took over. As time went on, the children were born, and the statue scared Pell. It was as tall as she, covered with moss. The marble god had a distant, yearning look in his eyes. Pell called him “that gone man.” When Lyra asked what she meant, Pell said, “It looks as if he’s gone. He’s not really here.”
    Sensitive, prescient child. Did Pell see the same look in her mother’s eyes? Because by that night ten years ago, when she took Pell into the backyard to look through the telescope at the stars, Lyra knew she was leaving the next day.
    Leaving home, her husband, her two daughters.
    She’d made her choice, and closed the door behind her. More than that: she’d locked and sealed it, thrown away the key. What kind of mother stays in touch with her children only through Christmas and birthday cards, occasional letters? Lyra had tried to save her own skin, thought she could protect everyone from the worst of herself. She had told herself it was better for everyone. What had she done?

Three

    T he next morning, Lyra dressed in a sweater, khakis, and garden clogs and went outside at dawn. She paused for a minute, watching the moon set. Mist hovered over the sea, as if rising from the salt water. She had looked in on Pell a few minutes before and felt shocked to realize her daughter was really here, sleeping in her house. Lyra needed to clear her head, put her hands in the earth, connect with Christina’s good advice.
    Dew coated the grass; small cobwebs stretched between green blades. Back in Grosse Pointe, the girls had called them “fairy tablecloths.” Lyra remembered telling Christina about that one day when they were planting rosebushes. Her friend had knelt