It really was one of the most beautiful pieces of property in the county. During the Historic Garden Week with her mom, they would sit with the older ladies from the area and sip hibiscus tea while eating biscuits stuffed with Virginia ham. Once or twice her mother had invited her father to join them, but he had always politely begged off.

“Better I let you ladies enjoy it,” he would say, grinning as he retreated to his office.

Mother and daughter had shared this adventure until the year Libby turned thirteen and her mother passed away from a drug overdose that her father had always insisted had been an accident. Pain medications did not mix well with wine.

“She left me,” Libby had said.

“No, baby, your mother would never have left you.”

“My first mother gave me away,” Libby had insisted.

“No, she gave you to us to adopt.”

“When I’m a mother, I will never leave my baby.”

Libby remembered a lush flower arrangement from the Carter family arriving at the funeral home for her mother. It was not the largest by far, but it was stunning, and the blooms looked as if they had been picked from Woodmont’s gardens. It simply read CONDOLENCES FROM THE CARTER FAMILY. A similar arrangement had arrived when her father passed in January, though this one came from a florist.

The senior Dr. Carter, Edward, had been an ob-gyn like his father before him. She supposed that her father had crossed paths professionally with Dr. Carter during the years he had practiced medicine, and the family had reached out in their grief as a professional courtesy. It was a small community, and everyone knew each other.

Dust kicked up around her tires as the road hooked to the left and then to the right. A small sign read MAIN HOUSE and pointed left. She went left.

She had been here enough times to know the road fed into a circular driveway that wound around a tall white colonial house.

To the left and right were two large gardens. The one on her left was a floral garden bordered by neatly trimmed boxwoods. Access was made through an archway wrapped in thick strands of honeysuckle. In the center of the floral garden was a copper sundial atop a weathered stone pillar. Etched into the metal were the words from an English poet: “A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs.” The floral garden emanated from this center spot, spiraling outward in a circular arrangement of poppies, daylilies, and blue cornflowers.

The garden on the other side of the road was the more practical of the two, though it was no less beautiful. It sported gravel pathways defining square beds bursting with lush fresh herbs, and a trellis displayed vines supporting ripening tomatoes, clusters of cucumbers, and purple and green string beans. Scattered among the vegetables were flowering bushes that added a controlled wildness that kept it from looking too staid.

All traces of Saturday’s wedding had been cleaned up, and the place looked as pristine as it had when she had done the walk-through with the bride.

Out of her car, she hefted her backpack on her shoulder. A dog’s deep woof followed by the yap of another dog sounded close. Both were moving toward her at top speed. And this is when the lonely photographer is mauled by the wild animals.

The deep bark turned out to belong to a black Lab mix who was not more than a year old. The second woof was attached to an old dachshund with short hair, bowed legs, and a big-dog attitude. The Lab scooped up a stick in her mouth, wagging her tail so quickly it was a miracle she made any forward progress. The dachshund remained aloof, though his hackles were not up. The Lab promptly dropped the stick at Libby’s feet while the dachshund sniffed the air around her.

“Hey there, guys.” She ran her hand over the Lab’s collar until she touched the name tag. “Kelce. That’s a different name.”

The dog barked at the sound of her name.

Libby picked up the stick, tossed it, and watched Kelce bound after it. The dog retrieved the stick and quickly returned. Libby tossed the stick again. Kelce took off running.

The dachshund made no attempt to get in on the game.

“What’s your name?” His tag read SARGE. She rubbed him between the ears. “Good to meet you, Sarge.”

After walking around the house with her newfound friends, she climbed the hand-hewed stone steps to the porch. At the wedding, the house had been open and welcoming and full of laughter and music. Now, closed up and quiet, it had a standoffish air.

She knocked on the front door as Kelce dropped the stick at her feet. “You can do this all day, can’t you?”

Kelce nosed the stick toward her.

“Libby?”

Kelce, Sarge, and Libby turned at the sound of Elaine’s familiar voice. “Elaine.”

Elaine stood in the circular driveway as the dogs rushed toward her. She wore faded jeans, a T-shirt that read WOODMONT, and boots all covered in dirt. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail on the verge of escaping the rubber band, and she wore no makeup. Her skin was paler than Libby remembered, and there were slight shadows under her eyes.

An odd sense of nervousness slithered up her back. It made no sense that Libby should be so nervous. This was about a job of sorts. She had done hundreds like it.

Elaine walked up to her. “Right on time.”

“It’s an obsession with me.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Elaine replied. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m covered in dirt. I’ve been pulling vines off the old greenhouse, and the job turned messier than I imagined.”

“I didn’t realize there was a greenhouse on the property.”

“Only a few of the old-timers remember it. It was closed down in the mideighties. My grandfather had built it for my grandmother as a wedding gift. After they died, I had it closed up because it wasn’t the kind of project my twentysomething self wanted to maintain. Over three decades later, I see its beauty and regret my decision to neglect it for so long.”

“You took over this property that long ago?”

Elaine motioned to two white rockers, and they both sat. “My grandparents left the property to me when I was about your age, maybe a little younger. It always goes to the oldest in the next generation, though I was the only Carter left at the time. Ginger’s late father, Jeb, managed the place, but as he got sicker, I didn’t have the heart to place too many demands on him. He did less and less, and when he passed, I didn’t replace him. We stepped back, and nature took over, as it always does.”

“The gardens look amazing now.”

“I can thank Colton for that. When he called two years ago and asked about the job, it seemed like perfect timing. There was so much work to be done in the main gardens, and Margaret wanted her grandchildren close. I asked Colton to concentrate his efforts on the main gardens and also a major kitchen renovation.”

“Colton helped me out at the ceremony. He swooped in and gave me a lift in the rain. But he was scarce for most of the family photos.”

“That’s Colton.”

“So you’re gearing up to be an event space? What I saw on Saturday was nicely done.”

“That was a favor to Ginger. I’ve not committed to opening the place up yet. But I want Woodmont photographed and cataloged so that if I do decide to open up, I’ll be ready.”

“I have pictures to show you from the wedding and some from the walk-through a couple of weeks ago. Neither day was ideal, but if you get a few more days like today, there’s no doubt anyone could take a good picture.”