Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
“Hear me out,” she says. “I’ve been in more luxury homes and mini-mansions than you can shake a stick at. I’ve held meetings at the finest hotels, restaurants and country clubs. I’ve seen a lot, Adie Lou, especially how people that spend money expect to be treated.” Trish stops. “First impressions are critical. Word of mouth can make or break a new business. If people love a place, they’ll not only return but they’ll talk it up to everyone they know. I’m just worried that you can’t see the forest for the trees right now. You’re in survival mode.”
Trish grabs her coffee. “So, you’re planning to make breakfast in here, right?”
I nod and show her my kitchen plan that not only includes commercial-grade appliances but also expands the current island into a huge L-shape that extends into and replaces the little breakfast table my parents used.
“I like this,” she says. “And food will be served in the dining room?”
I nod again.
“What about when the weather’s nice?”
“I haven’t thought about that.”
Trish walks to the patio door. “What if you extended this patio, really tricked it out? This could be your outdoor yoga patio!” she says, her voice escalating. She hurriedly pulls on her rubber boots sitting by the door and walks outside, excitedly kicking snow off the patio with her feet. “You could surround it with shrubs—make an area private from the kitchen and the fish house—maybe put a fountain on the wall and a large Buddha on one side. It would be perfect.”
I look at the space as it is now and has been recently —the concrete cracked from the constantly shifting ground and extreme temperature shifts, moss covering it in the spring and fall, the DIY outdoor kitchen my father tried to build.
“Didn’t you say that you have to take all this out anyway to run a gas line?” Trish asks. “Why not just make it fabulous?”
I once attended a celebratory party in East Hampton given by the CEO of one of my firm’s previous clients after we’d won a Clio award, and the inn where I stayed had the most stunning yoga space in its garden.
“You know, I always wanted to teach yoga. I dreamed of having my own studio,” I say, as much to myself as to her. “That’s why I crammed in 200 hours over busy weekends while everyone else was still sleeping to get certified. Nate thought it was silly, but it was important to me.”