The Last Camellia: A Novel (2 page)

Addison

New York City

June 1, 2000

T
he phone rang from the kitchen, insistent, taunting. It might as well have been a stick of dynamite on the granite countertop. If I didn’t pick it up after three rings, the answering machine would turn on.
I cannot let the answering machine turn on.

“Are you getting that?” my husband, Rex, said from the couch, looking up from his notebook. He had an adorable fascination with old-school appliances. Typewriters, record players, and an answering machine circa 1987. But at that moment, I longed for voice mail. If only we had voice mail.

“I’ll get it!” I said, jumping up from the breakfast table and stubbing my toe on the leg of the chair. I winced. One ring. Two.

The hair on my arms stood on end. What if it was
him
? He had started calling two weeks ago, and every time the phone rang, I felt the familiar terror.
Calm. Deep breath.
Maybe it was one of my clients. That horrible Mrs. Atwell, the one who’d made me redo her rose garden three times. Or the IRS. Let it be the IRS. Anyone would be more welcome than the person I feared waited on the other end of the line.

If I turned off the machine, he’d call again. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, he’d keep circling until he got what he wanted. I had to answer it. “Hello?” I said airily into the receiver.

Rex looked up, smiled at me, then returned to his notebook.

“Hello again, Addison.” His voice made me shiver. I couldn’t see him, of course, but I knew his face—the patchy stubble that grew around his chin, that amused look in his eyes. “You know, I don’t care for your new name.
Amanda
suited you much better.”

I remained silent, quickly opening the French doors and stepping outside onto the patio that overlooked a tiny patch of garden—rare for the city, but all ours. A bird chirped happily from the little camellia tree Rex and I had planted last year on our first wedding anniversary. I hated that he was trespassing on my private sanctuary.

“Listen,” I whispered. “I told you to stop calling me.” I looked up at the apartment building behind our townhouse, wondering if he could see me from one of the windows above.

“Amanda, Amanda,” he said, amused.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he continued. “You’re all fancy now. I read about your wedding in the paper.” He clicked his tongue scoldingly. “Quite the fairy-tale ending for a girl who—”

“Please,” I said. I couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, the way it made me think of the past. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” I begged.

“You mean, you don’t
miss
me? Think of all the good times we had together. You remember the way we used to—”

“Stop,” I said, cringing.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said. “All stuck-up now that you married the
King of England.
You think you’re really something. Well, let me ask you this: Does your husband know
who you really are
? Does he know what you’ve
done
?”

I felt sick, woozy. “Please, please leave me alone,” I pleaded, feeling my throat tightening as I swallowed.

He laughed to himself. “But I can’t,” he said. “No. You see, I spent ten years of my life in prison. That’s a long time to think about things. And I thought a lot about you, Amanda. Almost every day.”

I shuddered. With him behind bars, I’d felt a false sense of security. His incarceration, for two felony counts of money laundering and a lesser charge of statutory rape, had felt like a thick, warm blanket wrapped around me. And now that he was out, the blanket had been ripped off. I felt exposed, frightened.

“Here’s the thing, baby,” he continued. “I’m sitting on a very valuable piece of information. I mean, you can’t blame me for wanting the same cushy life you have.”

“I’m going to hang up now,” I said, my finger hovering over the End Call button.

“This can all end well,” he said. “You know what I want.”

“I already told you I don’t have that kind of money.”

“You may not,” he said, “but your husband’s family does.”

“No, don’t bring them into this.”

“Well,” he said, “then I have no other choice.” I heard the chime of an ice cream truck on the other end of the line. I remembered chasing after those trucks as a little girl, wide-eyed, hopeful. I don’t know why; I never had a dollar for an ice cream sandwich, and yet they lured me still.

I pulled the phone from my ear and listened as the same notes sounded, a block away, perhaps. The melody struck terror in me. The truck was close. Too close.

“Where are you?” I asked, suddenly panicked.

“Why? You want to see me?” he said, amused. I could picture the menacing grin on his face.

My chin quivered. “Please, leave me alone,” I pleaded. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“It could have been so easy,” he said. “But you’ve tried my patience. If I don’t have the money by the end of the week, I’ll have no other choice but to tell your husband everything. And when I say ‘everything,’ I mean
everything
.”

“No,” I cried. “Please!”

I walked around the building and peered beyond the fence at the side yard. The ice cream truck motored past, slowly. Children cheered and squealed as the melodic chimes poured through the loudspeaker, and yet, with each note, I became increasingly paralyzed with terror. “You have five days, Amanda,” he said. “And, by the way, you look stunning in that dress. Blue’s your color.”

The line went dead, and I looked down at my blue linen dress, before turning to the street. The walnut tree in the distance. An old Honda with tinted windows and a rusty hood parked nearby. A bus stop that cast jagged shadows on the sidewalk.

I ran back to the house and closed the French doors, locking them behind me. “Let’s go to England,” I said to Rex, breathless.

He pushed his dark-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Really?” He looked confused. “I thought you didn’t want to make the trip. Why the change of heart?”

My in-laws had recently purchased a historic manor in the English countryside, and they’d invited Rex and me to stay there for the summer while they continued their travels throughout Asia, where Rex’s father, James, was working. Rex, whose novel-in-progress was set in a manor in the English countryside, thought it would be perfect for research. And we both shared a love of old homes. From what his mother, Lydia, had said on the phone, the estate brimmed with history.

But the timing was off. My landscape design business had enjoyed a surge of activity, and I was juggling four new clients, including a massive garden installation on a rooftop in Manhattan. It was a terrible time to leave. And yet now I had no choice. Sean didn’t know about the manor. He wouldn’t find me there. The trip would give me time to think.

My eyes darted around the living room nervously. “Well, I don’t. . . . I mean, I didn’t.” I sighed, collecting myself. “I’ve just been thinking it over, and, well, maybe we do need a getaway. Our anniversary is coming up.” I sat down on the couch beside him, twirling a lock of his shiny dark hair between my fingers. “I could explore the gardens, maybe even learn a thing or two; you know everyone’s crazy about English gardens here.” I was talking fast, the way I do when I’m worried. Rex could tell, I know, because he squeezed my hand.

“You’re nervous about the airplane, aren’t you, honey?” he said.

True, I did have a bit of airplane fright, and my doctor had prescribed Xanax for such moments. But, no, Rex didn’t know the real reason for my anxiety, and I could never let him find out.

There was a time when I believed I’d tell him the truth about me. But the longer I waited, the more it seemed impossible to open my mouth and utter the painful words. So I didn’t. Instead, I hid behind my carefully crafted story. A girl from a wealthy family in New Hampshire whose parents had died in a car accident years ago. The money that had all been lost in a fraudulent investment scheme. Rex had believed it all, believed in
me
. He didn’t wonder why I didn’t get Christmas cards or birthday calls. He didn’t ask if I wanted to visit my childhood home. He admired my strength, he said, that I could live in the present and not mourn the past.
If only you knew.

I tucked my hand in his. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “And you said that the house would be the perfect place to really dig into your research—let’s do it, Rex. Let’s go.”

He smiled, touching my cheek lightly. “You know I’d love to make the trip, but only if you’re certain.”

“I am,” I said, shifting my gaze to the window and eyeing the rusty car parked on the street. I stood up and pulled the drapes closed. “The sun’s so bright today.” I continued, reaching for my phone, “I bet I can call the travel agency and get tickets for tomorrow.”

“Really?” he said. “That quick?”

I forced a smile. “Why not? We might as well make the most of the summer.”

“Well,” he said, setting his notebook aside, “I’ll phone my parents and see about arrangements. Wait, what about your clients?”

I winced inwardly, remembering the intricate boxwood-lined courtyard I’d planned for a client and the adjoining butterfly garden for her two little girls. I’d promised that the installation would be in place by the end of next week, for her daughter’s birthday. My assistant, Cara, would have to oversee it all. She’d do a fine job, but it wouldn’t be the job I’d do. The astilbes wouldn’t be spaced perfectly. The hebe wouldn’t be clipped into smooth spheres the way I’d envisioned. I sighed. I knew I couldn’t stay, not with the dark cloud that hovered. I just had to make sure it didn’t follow me to England.

“Ready?” Rex asked in the doorway the next evening. I’d managed to book us two seats on the nine p.m. direct flight to London.

“Yeah,” I said from the doorstep, cinching my scarf higher on my neck. I took a few steps toward the cab waiting at the sidewalk, then froze.

Rex looked at me. “Is that the phone ringing?”

I shivered, looking back at the house. The ring was muffled but detectable.

“Should I run back and get it?”

“No,” I said, hurrying to the car. “Let’s not stop. We’ll miss our plane.”

Flora

New York City

April 9, 1940

“D
id you forget to pack your tweed coat?” my mother asked, looking frazzled. The wind had blown her gray hair into her eyes, and she swiped it aside with a flour-dusted sleeve.

“Mama,” I said, smoothing my gray jacket. “I have this one. I won’t need it.”

“But that’s much too light,” she said. “It’s cold in
England
, Flora.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. I knew my mother’s concerns were greater than my choice of outerwear, and I could tell by the way she held herself that she was on the verge of crying. “Please, don’t worry, Mama,” I said, tucking my arm around her.

She buried her face in her hands. “I just wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Oh, Mama,” I said, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of my dress. My initials, FAL, appeared in the right corner, carefully embroidered in red thread. She’d just finished a fresh supply, pressing each cloth into perfect, stiff little squares mere hours before my departure.

“I won’t let you waste a handkerchief on me,” she said, sniffing. Papa tucked his in her hand. “Look at me carrying on this way.” She sighed and reached for my hands, holding them up before her. “My little girl, all grown up.”

I was their only child; my mother and father might have liked me to go on living with them forever, waking before sunrise to tend to the bakery below the apartment in the Bronx. Starting the dough at dawn, readying the pastry case for the breakfast crowd, I kept the place running with such efficiency it sang.

I wondered how they’d go on without me. Mama’s wrists were getting tired, and her shoulder had all but given out from years hunched over the kneading board. And Papa’s poor eye for business was just as concerning. Last week a schoolboy slipped his hand in the till and ran out with seven dollars. Papa didn’t chase after him; he’d noticed the hole in the child’s shoe and let him go. It would’ve been fine if we didn’t have a leaky roof to fix or an electricity bill to pay. Mama always said that if he could, Papa would give every loaf of bread away. That’s the kind of man he was.

And yet, someone had to keep an eye on the books. The little apartment above the bakery didn’t pay for itself. In fact, last month the landlord showed up, angry and red-faced. Mr. Johnson had demanded payment for three months of back rent. I appeased him with a loaf of cinnamon bread and promised we’d pay.

I looked at the ship nervously.

“I’m so proud of you,” Papa proclaimed, cupping my cheeks in his hands.

“Our little girl,” Mama added. “Off to the London Conservatory to become a botanist.”

I could hardly look at them, knowing the secret I kept. The deception was more than I could bear.

“She’ll be running the place in no time,” Papa chimed in.

I feigned a smile, even though my cheeks hurt. There was no job at the London Conservatory. No apprenticeship. It was all an elaborate tale I’d made up to hide the real reason for the journey. Yes, I had dreamed of becoming a botanist, my entire life, really. I’d thought a great deal about the various species of maple and rhododendron while braiding challah, and I’d successfully planted a wisteria vine in a large pot and trained it over the awning of the bakery. And at night, after we closed shop, I volunteered at the New York Botanical Garden. Sweeping up cuttings and fallen leaves hardly seemed like work when it provided the opportunity to gaze into the eye of a Phoenix White peony or a Lady Hillingdon rose, with petals the color of apricot preserves.

Yes, horticulture, not pastries, was my passion. I suppose Mr. Price knew that when he propositioned me at the bakery two months before.

“The name’s Philip,” he had said. “Philip Price.” He slid a white business card across the counter. “I understand you work at the Botanical Garden in the evenings.”

I nodded. “Yes, but how do you—”

“I’m looking for someone with a keen botanical eye,” he said, popping a piece of roll from the sample tray into his mouth, “for an important job.”

Mama had warned me about men like this, with hair so slick it glistened under the bakery lights. I shook my head before listening to his proposal. “No, thank you,” I said quickly, bagging up his order of six cake doughnuts. He took a bite of one before handing me a crisp dollar bill. “My parents own this bakery,” I continued. “I have to stay on to help them.”

He looked around at the little bakery, his eyes stopping at the crack in the countertop, the peeling paint on the trim around the doorway. “So it’s a profitable enterprise you have going here?” he asked.

I didn’t like the tone of his voice, prying and condescending. “Well, we’re not Rockefellers, if that’s what you’re asking.” I frowned. “Mama and Papa opened this bakery twenty-three years ago. I grew up here.”

“I see,” the man said, his voice tinged with scorn. “How sentimental.”

I turned back to the pastry case, annoyed.

“Listen,” he said again, “I know your parents have fallen on hard times.”

My eyes met his again.

“I hear that rent can be steep in this part of town,” he said, dusting a bit of powdered sugar from his mustache. “You must be so worried about them.”

I was. Papa refused to raise prices, on principle. But if they couldn’t turn a profit, the bakery would have to close soon. I knew that. I turned back to the tray of scones I needed to box up for an order. “Will that be all, Mr. Price?” I asked. My family’s financial problems weren’t his concern.

“I can help,” he said.

I smirked. “No offense, but we don’t need any help.”

“I can offer you a job,” he continued. “A good one—one you are uniquely qualified to do.”

“But I just told you, I work
here
.”

The bells on the front door chimed. “Still have day-old whole wheat on the rack, Flora?” Mrs. Madison, a regular, asked. The old widow lived on a frighteningly tiny pension, and Papa had instructed me to always give her fresh bread and charge her nothing for it.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, turning toward her with a smile. “Nothing but the finest.” I handed her a loaf of whole wheat, still warm, and she fumbled with her pocketbook. “You go on now,” I said with a smile. “Papa insists.”

Her eyes smiled up at me. “Thank you, kindly, dear,” she said, tucking the loaf into her shopping basket.

Mr. Price circled back, smiling. “Wouldn’t you love to do that again and again, knowing that money didn’t matter?”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Listen, sir,” I said. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I think it’s time you show yourself the door.”

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I could see from the open flap that it was thick with cash. He slid it across the counter.

“You can expect ten times that when you finish the job,” he said.

My mouth gaped.

“You have my card,” he continued. “Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the envelope, counting the bills, wide-eyed. It was enough to pay the rent and then some. He tipped his cap at me before turning toward the door.

I called him a week later after a debt collector roughed up Papa in the alley behind the bakery. He’d hobbled into the kitchen with a bloodied face.

“Mr. Price, this is Flora Lewis,” I said in a shaky voice. “I’m ready to speak to you about that job.”

“Good,” he said. “I had a feeling you’d call.”

The wind swept across my cheek on the dock, jarring me back to the present. No, Mama and Papa must never know the real story behind my journey to England. Mama wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.

I kissed their cheeks before walking to the gangway and handing my ticket to a man at the bottom. As I took one last look at them, I felt a pang of guilt. Papa, with his kind smile and round face; Mama with her arthritic hands.
How will they get on without me?
Yet I knew that if I didn’t leave, I would have flour under my fingernails forever. I longed to see the world beyond the bakery, if only to know that it existed.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Mama called to me from the dock as Papa walked toward me. “Promise me you won’t stay away too long.”

I nodded. A sheet of rain blew sideways, splattering my face with large droplets. “Good-bye,” I cried. “I’ll write you when I’m settled.”

“Go on, honey,” Papa said, tucking a cinnamon roll wrapped in wax paper into my pocket. “The ship’ll leave without you.”

I waved and walked on, this time without looking back.

“Sailing to England, all by yourself?”

I turned around to see a man leaning against the railing of the upper deck a few feet away. About my age, maybe a few years older, he wore a gray suit and a herringbone cap, which he tipped lower on his forehead. I might have nodded and walked on—after all, my plans were none of his business—but he smiled disarmingly. “I remember the first time I sailed across the Atlantic by myself,” he said, walking closer, as if we were old friends. I liked the sound of his British accent, and I wondered what he was doing in New York. “I was nine years old, and scared out of my wits.”

“Well,” I said, stiffening. I hoped I didn’t look how I felt: like a little girl who had become separated from her parents. “I’m not the least bit scared.”

He nodded, eyeing my suitcase, but I quickly set it down behind me. Papa’s old set wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was all we had. The canvas appliqué was worn and tattered, and the brass hinges had tarnished to a dull brown. “So, what brings you to England?” he said, taking off his hat and twirling it around his index finger.

My eyes darted.
What should I say?
“I, I—” I fumbled, “I’m going to be working at the London Conservatory.”

His eyes widened with interest. “Oh? So you’re a botanist.”

“Well,” I said, hoping he couldn’t see how flustered I felt, “I—”

“My mother used to go up to the London Conservatory all the time,” he said. “It’s quite a place.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, I should be—”

“Where will you be working?” he asked, taking a step closer. “I mean, in which greenhouse?”

“Ah,” I stammered, “well, all over, I suppose.”

He nodded, extending his hand. “I’m Desmond.” His green eyes sparkled.

“Flora,” I replied. As I took his hand, my ticket slipped from my grasp and fell to the deck.

Desmond knelt down and retrieved it. “So, let’s see, you’re on the—”

“Thank you,” I said, quickly collecting the slip of paper that revealed my humble cabin number, certainly far from the fancy stateroom he’d be staying in. “I’d better be going now.”

A steward approached. “Miss, may I help you find your stateroom?”

I nodded, gazing up at the enormous ocean liner.

“See you around,” Desmond said, donning his cap again and tipping the brim once more, as he ascended the nearby stairs to the upper deck.

“Are you in first class?” the steward asked skeptically, eyeing the stairs where Desmond had disappeared.

“No,” I said. “I believe I’m in, er, third class.”

He grunted, then pointed to another steward, this one younger, who led me down a flight of stairs, and then another, deeper into the bowels of the ship. We walked down a dingy, poorly lit hallway, until he stopped in front of a nondescript door. “Your cabin,” he said, without emotion. Inside, there was a bed with a shabby coverlet and a small table on which a single withered yellow chrysanthemum languished in a glass vase of cloudy water. The room measured about the size of the bakery storeroom, but I indulged in the very first space I could claim as all mine as if it were a penthouse. I sighed contentedly. “Thank you,” I said a little too enthusiastically. The steward nodded and left.

I pressed my nose against the tiny porthole. The glass fogged up, and I wiped it with the sleeve of my dress until I could see the pier outside. I watched for some time, until a horn sounded, and the engine began to rumble and vibrate as the ship pulled out of the harbor slowly, as if it were reluctant to begin the journey. But the ship gained speed, and I watched as a fogbank swallowed up the city in a slow and steady gulp.

What did my mother say?
Yes, “Keep your purse with you at all times. There are thieves on those traveling ships.”
If she only knew.

I had promised to meet Mr. Price that afternoon, so I ventured out the door and followed the blue-carpeted walkway down one turn and then another. “Excuse me, sir,” I said timidly to a crewman. “Would you please direct me to the promenade deck?”

He eyed me with amusement. “So you fancy the finer quarters, do you?”

My cheeks flushed. “Well, yes—I mean, no,” I said, flustered. “I’m meeting someone there.”

He shrugged, pointing to the stairs. “Suit yourself.”