In front of them, terraced gardens flowed down to a large pond. “Is that a heron?” he said.
“Blue heron. It comes to dine on the koi. Magnificent fish.”
Felix nodded. He knew nothing about fish unless it was being served to him on a platter.
“The original garden was built in 1934 at the instigation of one Dr. Hanes, an iris buff. He persuaded Sarah P. Duke to invest in a garden, and they planted an array of iris bulbs. But the land was prone to flooding, and everything rotted. Sarah died, and he convinced her daughter, Mary Duke Biddle, to construct a new garden in honor of her mother, but on higher ground.” Eudora flashed her eyes at him. “I admire that kind of persistence, when combined with an ability to learn from one’s mistakes. Don’t you?”
Felix nodded. Was there some didactic meaning buried in her docent spiel?
“Mary hired Ellen Biddle Shipman, a pioneer in American landscape design, to create the Terrace Gardens in the Italianate style. The garden you see today was built by women.”
“Impressive,” Felix said.
“And this”—Eudora swept her arm to the right—“represents the globe with its lines of longitude and latitude. Quite fascinating when you consider the dedication of the garden was in 1939.”
“On the eve of World War Two,” Felix said. “And this year marks its seventy-fifth anniversary.”
“Precisely, hon. And the pergola is the original structure.”
The structure above them had endured over seven decades and any number of weddings. He’d never thought about history in terms of gardens before, despite listening to busloads of National Trust retirees twitter over Saint John’s garden, designed by the famous English landscape architect Capability Brown. Continuity, longevity, places that had established a timeline: these were important. Felix had little interest in the contemporary.
“But we’re starting in the wrong place,” Eudora said. “As everyone does. To experience the true joy of the Historic Gardens, we need to be on the other side of the pond, by the original entrance. Come.”
Eudora started walking, and Felix followed.
“We’re stepping on Tennessee stone, although”—she pointed to a low, circular wall surrounding a small pond and a statue of Cupid holding a large shell—“that’s Duke stone. Bless my soul, would you look at that?” Her voice turned girlish. “The tulips are coming up. I love tulips.”
“So did my brother, Tom.”
“He was a gardener?”
“A landscape architect. Much sought after by the rich and famous.” The pride in Tom’s success never abated.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
Felix stroked his designer cashmere scarf, his last present from Tom. Tom had been an extravagant gift giver. I miss him every day, every week, every month, every year. The void created by Tom’s death was a rip through the universe, an open wound that would never heal. “He died of AIDS. Hard to forget such a slow, painful death.”
“Ah,” Eudora said. “But even under the shadow of death, one can celebrate life. Each day with a loved one is a blessing.”
“I’m not sure that applies to AIDS.”
“Dahlia had a drawn-out death. Cancer. But we took joy where we could, right up until the end.”
They climbed the slope behind the pond, and Felix forgot to check his watch. Eudora paused by a cluster of ceramic pots in grays and browns that spewed over with plants in eclectic shades of green, gold, and bronze. He looked up—across the green water of the pond, streaked with orange fish, to the white steps and multihued walls, and, finally, to the pergola and the backdrop of forest. The gardens were surrounded by naked trees, and yet the plant beds were filled with layers of life.