Bleeding Heart by Liza Gyllenhaal

consequence, I was expecting a shipment of the last of the specimen trees—a dozen black-barked river birches—that afternoon. As I waited in the driveway for the delivery, I looked down and saw Mackenzie below. I’d yet to walk him through the nearly completed garden rooms, but there he was, pacing back and forth across the sundial terrace as if it had been in his possession for years. I shielded my eyes against the afternoon sun, watching him stop, turn, and walk back the other way. His head was down. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. He appeared to be talking to himself. It took me a moment to realize that he was on a hands-free phone.
    It had been several weeks since I’d seen him, and I was shocked by the change in his appearance. Even from this distance, I could tell he’d lost weight. He moved slowly, hunched over a little, as though in some pain. I’d been so preoccupied with my own concerns that it hadn’t occurred to me that Mackenzie might not be just overwhelmed by work—or distracted by a new love affair. He’d always seemed so much bigger than life to me. It was unsettling to think that he could actually be ill.
    The delivery truck arrived, and I spent the next hour or so overseeing the planting of the new birches at the northern edge of the property. The whole time I was working, however, I also had my eye on Mackenzie as he moved restlessly around in the gardenbelow. He remained on the phone, occasionally shaking his head. His tone seemed subdued. Not once did I see him laugh.
    After the crew left, I debated about what to do. Though I longed to approach him about the Open Day—in fact, this was probably my last chance to do so—I couldn’t imagine interrupting him during what was obviously a serious call. But he solved the dilemma for me. He stopped in midstride, looked up the hill at me, and—almost as though he’d read my mind—waved me down. Then he continued pacing.
    “. . . I’m not sure how many more times we’re going to have to go over this,” he was saying as I approached. He nodded vaguely to me, and went on: “I’ve talked to your lawyers. You’ve talked to my lawyers. Your lawyers have talked to my lawyers. Listen, Sal, the point is, your team had its shot at due diligence. Six fucking months of it . . . Okay, but that’s your problem now, isn’t it? Do you really think bringing in even
more
lawyers is going to solve anything?”
    Mackenzie turned and crossed the terrace again, walking right over the beautiful stone-and-iron compass mosaic that Nate and Damon had laid into the pavement. I doubted he even noticed it.
    “Take this to the press?” he cried. “Go on! Be my guest! You have my absolute blessing to look like a total fool. No, I’m not gloating. You’ve got to know how sorry I am about what’s happened.”
    He turned back in my direction, shaking his head.
    “So why not shut up for a minute and listen to what I have to say? Right, I realize that, but I really am trying to help. Okay. The best thing you can do—in fact the
only
thing you can do as far as I’m concerned—is to just suck it up and take one mother of a write-down. Yes, I understand. But you know what I think? You’ll be roughed up in the market for a week or two, but then you’ll bounce right back. No, really. Sure. Me, too. Yeah—I wish.”
    He stopped pacing and stood with his back to me, looking out over the valley. I didn’t realize the call had ended until he said to me without turning around, “Word of advice, Alice: never do business with friends.”
    I’d heard him mention “Sal,” and wondered if he’d been talking to Sal Lombardi, whose calls I’d tried to return earlier in the week. But Sal’s wife, Gigi, had told me her husband was down in the city and she had no idea what he might have wanted. Though Mackenzie’s comment almost begged the question, I decided not to ask him if he was referring to his neighbor. The last thing I needed was to get caught in the