"I'm thinking I haven't really done anything like this since I was a little kid."
"I know," she says. "It's great, isn't it?"
Barbara closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath, lets it ease itself out.
"My mother used to have this giant cedar chest at the foot of her bed. It's where she kept all her prettiest things. And when I was a little girl, she would let me sit in it while she sorted through her clothes, picking out something to wear. That cedar chest, its smell, I think it's the first real smell I ever remember.
"Later, whenever we went to church and the priest would talk about heaven, I couldn't really picture it, you know? But I could smell it," says Barbara. "It smelled just like that cedar chest. It smelled just like this."
I roll onto my side. That way I can see her better.
"How did you find this place?"
"It was right after my father died. Mother and I spent that summer with Aunt Trula. She used to be big in the Royal Botanical Gardens and whenever she came here for meetings she'd let me have the run of the place."
"You were how old?"
"Not quite ten."
"Hard age to lose your dad."
"Weren't you about the same age?"
"Nine," I say.
"And to lose both your parents at once like you did."
I don't say anything.
Barbara looks at me, says: "You think that's what draws us together?"
"You mean, other than the knockdown, drag-out killer sex?"
"Yes, other than that."
"I've thought about it," I say.
"And your conclusion?"
"I don't know. It could be that each of us has the same hole in our heart and somehow, without even knowing, without even trying, we manage to fill it for the other one."
Barbara takes my hand, gives it a squeeze.
"Back then," she says, "this was where I came to fill that hole in my heart."
We lay there for several minutes, not talking, not needing to, enjoying the quiet.
Then Barbara sits up. She crawls to a tiny opening in the trees. She motions me to join her. We peer through the opening onto a wide bed of flowers, their creamy yellow petals in full audacious bloom.
"They're freesias," Barbara says. "Double Fantasy freesias. They import the bulbs from Holland."
"Pretty darn gorgeous."
Barbara nods.
"That's where I saw him," she says.
"Saw who?"
"John Lennon."
I look at her.
"The Beatle?"
"Uh-huh, he was kneeling on the ground, right there, in the middle of all the freesias."
"Was this like an apparition or something?"
She shakes her head.
"No. The real thing. He used to visit Bermuda all the time, he and Yoko. This was after he'd split up with the others. He spent lots of time walking around in the gardens."
"And you saw him standing right there?"
"I did."
"And you recognized him?"
"What do you think? I am from England. He was a Beatle. Of course, I recognized him," she says. "I was lying in here, off in my dream world, and I heard someone humming. I crawled over here, just like we are now, and there he was, kneeling in the freesias."
"By himself?"
"No, he had his son with him. Sean. He was four or five, a few years younger than me," says Barbara. "They glanced up, saw me staring out at them. And John Lennon said: 'Ah, will you look, Sean. It's a wee troll of the woods.'"
"And then you crawled out and joined them and the three of you became fast friends."
Barbara laughs.
"Not hardly. I scooted back behind the trees and hid there. I was very, very shy back then," she says. "He died later that same year, right after his last album came out. You remember what it was called?"
I rack my brain, but don't come up with it. Truth is, I've always been more of a Stones fan.
"Double Fantasy," says Barbara. "Like the flowers."
"And you were here to witness the moment of inspiration." "My solitary claim to fame." "Aside from knowing me." "Yes," she says, "aside from that."
She puts her arms around my neck. We hug. The moment is broken by the sound of my stomach in full feed-me mode. Barbara pulls away and opens the picnic basket. "I've got rare roast-beef sandwiches with horseradish sauce," she says. "And?"
"And some havarti." "And?"
"And a pinot noir from Oregon." "Not a bad spread," I say. "For a wee troll of the woods."
48.
After lunch, we stroll across the botanical garden to an adjoining park called Graydon Reserve. Atop a grassy bluff, with a commanding view of the south shore, sits a tiny chapel.
It's as plain and unadorned a place of worship as I've ever seen. No steeple, no arches, no architectural frills of any sort-just four whitewashed mortar walls and a cedar shingle roof. Behind it sits a small cemetery, with headstones old and new.
We stop so I can read the historical marker that stands alongside the path.
Graydon Chapel, built 1764, in memory of Capt. William Graydon, lost at sea. Erected by his loving wife, Ingrid, who mourned him until her own passing on January 27, 1811.
"Forty-seven years," I say. "That's a long time to mourn someone."
"I think about her every time I come here. I've got this picture of her in my head."
"Standing on the bluff all alone, looking out to sea, wiping back a tear from her eye, forsaken and forlorn?"
Barbara shakes her head.
"No, not like that at all actually. I see her sitting here, her skirt spread out on the grass, surrounded by children, her grandchildren probably, telling them stories about their grandfather, the sea captain. Smiles and lots of laughter." She looks at me. "Happy mourning, I suppose."
We walk up a stone path to the chapel. Three narrow wood-frame windows line the chapel's side walls. They are open to take full benefit of the ocean breeze.
From inside the chapel comes the sound of singing. Well, not so much singing as chanting. There's not a lot of melody to it, but it sounds pleasant enough.
"We're in luck," Barbara says. "They usually only sing at early morning and evening services."
"Who's they?"
"The sisters who look after the chapel."
"Sisters as in nuns?"
Barbara nods.
"But they aren't your typical nuns. They're part of a small nondenominational order that lives on the property. Both men and women. It's like a commune, a collective. Some of the nuns are even married to some of the men."
"No, not your typical nuns at all."
"I think they take a vow of celibacy."
"I'll pray for them," I say.
The door to the chapel is open. We peer inside. There are only four rows of pews with room for no more than a couple of dozen worshippers.
Two women kneel in a front-row pew. One is quite old, her white hair pulled back in a braided bun. She is large and round and soft looking, wearing a tunic of coarse gray fabric draped over a long skirt made from the same cloth.
The other woman is much younger, in her thirties perhaps, her dark hair cropped short. She wears a yoke-necked dress of light blue, a longsleeved white blouse beneath it.
The older woman chants a verse of psalm, then the younger woman repeats it with a slightly altered tone. The words are Latin, not that I can make out any of them.
"It's the old Gregorian method of chanting," Barbara whispers. "Quite lovely, isn't it?"
I nod. Because it is quite lovely-ageless, soothing, all that.
The women finish singing and spot us by the door. They smile and nod hello. "Please, join us," says the older woman.
"You don't mind?" Barbara says.
"Oh, my goodness, no. We'd be delighted," the older woman says. "Sister Eunice just arrived yesterday to help us with our work here. We were letting our voices get to know each other."
"I'm afraid my voice is being a bit standoffish," Sister Eunice says. "Sister Kate must indulge me."
"Nonsense," Sister Kate says. "You sing beautifully."
Barbara steps inside and goes to a pew in the back row. She kneels, closes her eyes, and prays.
I kneel beside her. I pray the prayer I always pray on those rare occasions when I frequent a church: "Dear God, let good things happen. And if you can't do that, then let the bad things be less bad. Thanks a lot. As for my part of the deal, I'll try to do better. Amen."
Barbara finishes her prayer and sits back in the pew. I do the same.
Sister Kate holds up a stainless-steel tuning fork and thumps one of its tines with a finger. She matches its note with her voice and begins another chant. Sister Eunice chimes in when it's her turn.
We sit listening to them for twenty minutes or so and, yeah, I start feeling all warm and holy. I mean, it's not a moment of epiphany with the fiery hand of God reaching out to embrace me. And I am not so overwhelmed by the experience that I feel a need to speak in tongues or put aside my venal, corporeal ways to seek eternal salvation. Nothing like that. But it is elevating, and I'm getting a nice little buzz just being here.
The cozy little chapel is comforting in the same way that the stand of cedar trees creates its special sanctuary. It is utterly humble. The altar is a plain pine table. A simple brass crucifix hangs on the wall behind it.
My gaze drifts upward to the ceiling. A rough-hewn beam runs the length of it. A second beam intersects it, acting as a brace. It's a nifty combination of form and function-both roof support and a large cross, sheltering parishioners from above. The beams are not cut from single pieces of timber, but cobbled together from various types of wood. It took some work to put it together and the effect is like a piece of sculpture. It's beautiful.
When Sister Kate and Sister Eunice finish singing, Barbara and I thank them for sharing their voices with us. An alms box sits by the door and I slip some money through its slot.
On the wall behind the alms box, there's a bronze plaque.
"In thanks to Sir Teddy Schwartz," it reads. "Whose hard work and determination restored this chapel to its original condition following Hurricane Emily in 1987."
"Have you seen this before?" I ask Barbara.
"No, matter of fact, I've never noticed it."