He gave a wave from the small tractor-mower he drove, and Lauren waved back. The place looked better already. The yard started to show a shape, and the flower beds seemed more colorful. There was still a lot of weeding and edging to do, but the bright orange of the daylilies’ faces illuminated the whole area under the big, shady maple. The freshly cut grass smelled divine. Lauren took a deep breath as she walked into the house. She felt uncharacteristically serene as she went inside. In the city, Lauren still kept her own small apartment in Murray Hill, but she spent most of her time with Charles in the penthouse. Most evenings when she left her job at the museum, she walked the six blocks to the apartment building on West 67th, greeted the doorman, and took the elevator up to the private penthouse entrance. There was no need to unlock the door. The doorman would have already alerted Dennis, Charles’s house manager. Dennis would be waiting for her, welcoming her with a smile. He would take her coat, and she would walk through the front foyer, decorated with Charles’s Chinese porcelain collection, into the wood-paneled den.
