The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [47]
Simon’s step was lively as he headed toward the library, again on foot. This time I’ll introduce myself. I’ll ask her name. . . .
He blended in with the gathering crowd that gravitated toward the library, then passed through the gate, his eyes searching, searching . . .
And found her.
Her face was still obscured by the oversize dark glasses, but her hair hung down past her shoulders in glossy black ringlets. She wore a dress of soft green that followed the curves of her body gently and swung loosely around her calves, and she stood with her hands on her hips, speaking with an eager young man who scribbled down every word she said in a spiral notebook. Amused by the antics of the apparent cub reporter, Simon stepped closer.
“. . . and was really going for a space where visitors might find comfort and inspiration. I wanted to create a serene environment where groups or individuals might experience a sense of peace, which is so necessary for a cancer patient.” The woman leaned forward slightly as if to better hear the reporter’s next question, which Simon couldn’t quite hear.
“Well, of course I had planned this as a memorial for Laura Bannock, who as you know lost her struggle last summer. . . .”
She had taken the young reporter’s arm and steered him in the direction of all the things she most wanted him to see, though any fool could tell the poor man was mesmerized by her.
Not that I blame the guy. Simon smiled and watched as she wrapped the young man around her little finger.
“Now, there will be a fountain in the center of the oval and, eventually, a stone bench nearby. We’re still soliciting donations; do you think you might be able to fit that into your article somehow?”
Oh, I’d bet the rent on it. Simon chuckled to himself and walked down a grassy slope to the lake, leaving her to her business. For the moment.
There were several small rowboats tied to a narrow wooden dock, but no one seemed interested in taking them out onto the lake. Several wood ducks swam noisily through the reeds that grew at the water’s edge, and a small flock of sparrows chirped from a nearby hedge. All in all, it was peaceful enough, certainly, Simon thought as he strolled along, a fitting-enough setting for the memorial to a woman who apparently had been well regarded in the community.
Simon looked back to see that the crowd had started to surround the small gazebo that stood at the farthest edge of the garden. He wandered back up the slope, arriving just as the dark-haired woman began to address the crowd.
“We thank you all for coming. It gives me so much pleasure to see the community so well represented. As a longtime friend of Laura Bannock’s, I mourn her, as so many of you do. But I’m so pleased with the manner in which her family chose to celebrate her life. I am so honored to have been asked to design her memorial. This little park, this garden, is a place where we’ll all be welcome to take a moment from our day-to-day and just relax and reflect.” She held up a pair of scissors with exaggerated blades. “Mrs. Bannock, I think you should cut the ribbon on the gazebo and officially open the garden.”
A thin woman with spare features wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark blue pantsuit stepped up and accepted the scissors. “I think we should all thank Dina for the lovely garden she designed for us.” Mrs. Bannock tucked the scissors under her left arm and led the applause. “You should all know that Dina did all this work for free and donated the plants, too.”
Dina. The name rang in Simon’s ears. Her name is Dina.
More applause.
“She and Polly Valentine, there—Polly, we all thank you and welcome you to the community—and, of course, Jude . . .”
At the sound of the name Simon’s head snapped up.
“And the students in the horticulture class from the local high school, who helped plant all of the trees.”
The applause spread around him. Simon craned his neck to see if he could tell who was who, but there were too many people gathered around the gazebo. Finally, he tapped the shoulder of a man several