Regina, who’d asked to be contacted with daily summaries, agreed that hosting a church service—a celebration of God, she called it—was a wonderful idea, and Eric congratulated Marianne again for her foresight. “I knew you’d be good at this,” he said, thumping her back as she typed up a program in the office. Something about him had perked up recently—he wasn’t complaining about his students, even about Davonte. His cheerful bustle reminded her of the manic time before they’d gotten engaged, when he was meeting with agents and strategizing about editors and publishers in his free time. Everything was possible, and every menial task was performed in anticipation of a reward. It was like wrapping presents on Christmas Eve or standing in line at an amusement park—there was bound to be a letdown.

The hastily organized service, held on the beach, seemed to satisfy everyone. Marianne counted, and every student was there, squinting from folding chairs sunk crookedly into the sand. Even Tom attended, bowing his head as Patty Connor, the tearful memoirist from his workshop, led the group in a confident and clear-voiced prayer. Davonte sang, unaccompanied, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” and “Order My Steps,” hymns he must have carried with him since childhood. His voice was so pure and strong that Marianne felt a little swell of pride as beachgoers power-walked behind him, stepping into the surf to avoid disrupting the service while craning their necks to see.

It was wonderful, the students agreed when it was over, carrying their chairs back to the dining hall. They had the rest of the day to read and write, and they talked about how inspired they felt, after the service. Davonte gathered up chairs from some of the older women and carried them in a tall stack, and Tom and Patty hugged.

“Amazing,” Sophie La Tour said, linking arms with Marianne and walking back with her to the garden. Marianne hadn’t seen her since the session began. She wanted to tell Sophie everything—the feelings she was having for Eric, his romance with Regina, the fears she’d developed about their new funders. But she also wanted to seem successful—to feel successful. “You pulled it off.”

“We’re so happy it’s going well,” Marianne said, using the pleasant, cunning neutrality she’d picked up from GWGW. “And your sculptures are a hit—people have already asked me where they can get them.” That part wasn’t exactly true—they’d asked, a little skeptically, where she’d gotten them—but she felt she owed something more to Sophie, who’d done the work for free.

“You can give them my card,” Sophie said, after inspecting and approving the garden’s reverse chronological layout. She made minor adjustments, turning statues slightly, brushing away pollen, snapping branches that obscured vignettes. “Next Sunday, if you want a bigger crowd, I can put up a notice for my guests.”