Free Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy Page B

for tourists to sit while they waited to be seated indoors or just enjoy a view of the grounds. To the west, our hotel was just visible over a low rise. Beyond that were the stables, where guests could schedule trail rides. To the east, more than a polo field away, was our forest. And to the south were our gardens, so beautiful it almost hurt to take it all in.
    These tables were a recent addition—and even better—they had been my suggestion. I’d gotten the idea after a visit to Cà d’Zan , the John and Mable Ringling mansion in Sarasota, Florida. The terrace, overlooking Sarasota Bay, was one of my favorite places on the property. I loved the sense of belonging created by the area, and I sought to re-create that feeling here at Marshfield. This would be our first spring and summer with a welcoming patio, and I looked forward to seeing how it would be received.
    I thought about Abe. While he hadn’t been the most accommodating individual I’d ever known, I was surprised when he’d agreed to the patio plan and further surprised when he allowed me to get started immediately. “Why wait?” he’d asked. “That’s what you were hired for, isn’t it? New ideas. If that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get.”
    The furniture had been delivered and set up two weeks later. Amazing what could be done in a short period of time when money wasn’t an object. I sighed as I ran my hand along the back of a rattan chair. Crafted in a similar style, they were a lighter color than those in the Birdcage and sturdier for outdoor use. Abe and I thought it best to have both areas matching in theme.
    Although I hadn’t known Abe long, I already knew I would miss him. He’d always been gracious and kind to me. And he’d been an effective buffer where Frances was concerned. Maybe he’d simply gotten used to her, but her attitude hadn’t seemed to bother him at all.
    I crossed the patio toward the low wall border, looking for Old Earl, the head groundskeeper. Like so many of the staff members, Old Earl had been in Marshfield’s employ for a very long time. I even remembered him from when I used to visit as a child. He always hid a plastic bag filled with Starlight mints in his pocket, and would hand them out to those of us who knew they were there. He and I hadn’t had much opportunity to work together since I started here, but I was eager for that to change.
    These days, Earl moved more slowly. With his slouched posture and weakened right knee, he used a cane to make his way around the grounds and complained—loudly—about everything that wasn’t getting done. We all knew it was just his frustration talking. Earl just wasn’t able to keep up with the grounds as well as he once was. I spotted him carrying a tiny potted pansy in his free hand, shuffling past one of the outbuildings.
    We all referred to these outbuildings as sheds, although the term was a misnomer. These structures housed garden equipment and other sundry landscape items of course, but “shed” wasn’t a sufficient description. Outfitted with running water, heat, and refrigeration units, these lovely cabins—which dotted the estate’s landscape—kept our groundskeepers from needing to return to the main residence for food and other basic needs. There were families in this world who would be happy to live in such sheds.
    “Earl,” I said, hurrying over. “Do you have a moment?”
    His ruddy face had a drapey look that crinkled into a smile—like a cheerful shar-pei—when he recognized me. “Hey there, Ms. Wheaton,” he said touching the pansy pot to his khaki hat in a mock salute. But then his smile faded away almost immediately. “Can’t rightly say good mornin’ now, can I? Not this mornin’, at least.”
    “How are you holding up?” I asked.
    His cane made soft indentations in the damp ground as we made our way to one of the planting tables next to the outbuilding. “All right, I guess.” He shook his head in direct