Bleeding Heart by Liza Gyllenhaal Page A

happened between us. I had plenty of other things on my mind.
    Gwen, for instance. And Mackenzie. The two of them separately. As well as the possibility of the two of them together. Gwen had dutifully reported back to me after Mackenzie’s visit to Bridgewater House. The meeting had gone well, she told me. He’d seemed interested in the project. He thought the property was indeed beautiful and deserved to be preserved. Gwen felt hopeful that they could work together. Mackenzie had requested that she submit a formal grant proposal.
    “And?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “Well, what did you think of him? You asked me the same question a couple of months ago, remember? Would you say he has a soul or is he just all about making the big buckaroonies?”
    “He seems very nice,” Gwen said.
Nice?
That was such a namby-pamby word—not part of Gwen’s usual vocabulary at all.
    “What’s going on?” I asked her.
    “Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Yes, you do! What really happened with Mackenzie? You’re being cagey. You’re hiding something.”
    “And
you’re
being paranoid. And, if I may say so, more than a little insulting. I know perfectly well what you were implying when you told me not to be unprofessional. You were worried I was going to act like a fool in front of your big-deal client. Plus you have no real faith in my ability to make this campaign a success. You hurt my feelings, Alice. If I was hiding anything—I guess it’s that.”
    If she’d meant to put me on the defensive, she’d done a good job. I apologized, and we got off the phone soon after. But the following Friday morning she left a voice mail saying she wasn’t going to be able to make it to the movies that night. Something had comeup. The same thing—whatever or whoever it was—came up again the week after. I called her a couple of times, but kept getting bounced to her voice mail. I decided to let it go—and let her make the next move to get back in touch. I was relieved to think that I was the problem, and that my worst fears hadn’t materialized. At least, I hoped that was the case. I wasn’t able to gather any collaborating evidence from Mackenzie.
    Though I was spending almost every waking hour at his house these days, I hadn’t actually seen him since the day he stopped me in front of the garages. Our early-evening idylls on his deck had come to an abrupt end. But I assumed he was in residence because his helicopter was there, and I would occasionally hear his voice behind his office door when I came in for one of Eleanor’s lunches or snacks. Sometimes Mara would join us as well. Eleanor had issued her and Danny a standing invitation to drop by for meals anytime they wanted. But most days Mara and I were too busy for more than a store-bought sandwich wolfed down on the run. I was overseeing the installation of the most complicated and expensive project of my career while Mara was almost single-handedly running Green Acres in my absence.
    “Mrs. Bostock wants you to call her,” Mara told me one morning in early June as I was heading out to the site.
    “Can’t you follow up on that?” I asked. Brook Bostock, one of our wealthiest clients, was generally easygoing, but she tended to chatter on. I didn’t have time for that today. Damon Fagels was due at Mackenzie’s in less than an hour to start mounting the wrought-iron fixtures.
    “She’s called three times,” Mara said. “She wants to talk to
you
. She asked if you were ever here these days.”
    “Okay, I’ll try her on my cell later,” I said, pushing open the door.
    “And Vera Yoland called again.”
    “Again?” I asked, turning around. Vera Yoland sat on the board of the Berkshire Botanical Garden and the Berkshire Natural Resources Council, was past chairwoman of the Lenox Garden Club, and had her fingers in just about every important horticultural pie in our area. I’d been introduced to her half a dozen times since moving back to