The Unfinished Garden (13 page)

“I won’t be alone. That’s the beauty of my plan. You and your
sisters have your lives, which is as it should be, and I’ll have mine with
Marigold.” Her mother ran a hand down her throat, then let it rest across her
chest. “Now, no more talk of you returning to Woodend.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. But I’d do anything to
save Woodend.”

“It’s not the house that needs saving.” Her mother spoke with
quiet precision, and her eyes bore into Tilly’s. That was it, then. Her mother
was hauling up anchor and pushing out to sea, leaving Tilly adrift in the
shallows.

She gazed at the dandelions springing up over her father’s
remains and tried not to feel like a spectator as her life atrophied. Her mother
gave a small “Well,” an empty word, a last-minute substitute for an entire
sentence:
I’m so glad we had this discussion.
Then
Mrs. Haddington began picking up gardening tools and clearing away cut grass and
dead flowers. Making sure everything was all neat and tidy before heading back
through the lych-gate.

Tilly stood still, surrounded by dead people. If only her
father were here to squish her into one of his bear hugs that smelled of cigar
and sandalwood shaving soap. Or if David could reach for her and say, “What’s
wrong, babe?” then throw out his sexy grin that obliterated every worry. But
there was no one to cushion her. No one.

* * *

Inside Woodend, Monty barked a welcome, and the gravel
under the car’s wheels made popping noises that echoed Tilly’s mood.
Pop, there goes a breast. Pop, there goes Woodend.
Could things get any worse? Yes, clearly they could.

Sebastian sat on the back doorstep lobbing gravel into an
upturned flowerpot like a disaffected teenager. Fabulous. Her brain was more
crowded than a city parking lot flashing the full sign, and now she had to find
space to park a problem that brought a flood of adolescent passion. How could
she have forgotten Sebastian was due for lunch and a ruddy cricket lesson? No
wonder sleep deprivation was the preferred torture of dictators worldwide.

Sebastian rose and gave her that look—head tilted, gray eyes
stretched wide—a precursor to sympathy, to handling Tilly as if she were a
cracked egg. Suddenly, she was eighteen again, with Sebastian so much older at
twenty. They were sitting in her father’s Rover, the hood buried in a ditch.
Sebastian’s voice droned around her:
What were you
thinking, Tilly, swerving to avoid a badger? Suppose you’ve jarred your
spine?
Then he left her alone in the night and ran to the nearest
farm for help. She had pleaded with him to stay, to hold her until she stopped
shaking. But Sebastian’s pattern was always to suffocate her with the practical,
while she longed for the comfort of the physical.

“Tilly?” Sebastian’s voice was as low and concerned in the
present as it had been in the memory. She shoved the car door open and looked at
the arch of crimson shower rose, its partially open buds glowing against the
paint-water sky. Her father had transplanted that rose from her grandmother’s
garden. A rose with Haddington history, history her mother was prepared to walk
away from.

She should help her mother climb out of the car; she should
answer Sebastian; she should…run. Tilly wriggled past him and raced through the
kitchen, through the hall, and into the cloakroom. She slammed the door, turned
the brass key in the lock and slid to the prickly brown carpet tile.
Thirty-seven and hiding from her family in a bathroom. Life hadn’t evolved much,
had it?

The cloakroom—or powder room as Isaac called it—was cool and
silent as a bunker. Thick walls provided natural heating in winter, natural
air-conditioning in summer and year-round soundproofing against the outside
world. The pipes behind the cistern rattled, signaling that someone was using
the kitchen tap. Sebastian, no doubt, as he filled the kettle and prepared to
brew a pot of tea, the English cure-all. No! He would tiptoe around her laden
with solicitude. Isaac was too perceptive, would realize his mother was in
trouble. Mind you, didn’t he suspect already? Wasn’t that why he’d begun
trailing her around the house, Bownba in tow? In the past three years she had
worked relentlessly to shield her son from the ugly side of life, but what if
she let it all hang out in one sniveling, tearstained admission? What if he
realized that his mother was as vulnerable as his father?

Panic ripped through her chest. No, no. Tilly pushed down on
nothing. Isaac believed her to be Super Mom, the big boss momma who kept him
safe. And that’s what she would be, as soon as she concocted a few sure-fire
tactics to keep her defenses in place. She rubbed her palms down her thighs and
contemplated the cloakroom walls. “Oldest walls in Bramwell Chase.” So said the
village builder who used to sneak her illicit toffees. These walls were
constructed of wattle and daub. Mind-blowing, that medieval mud and reeds could
blend, unseen, into the modern world. Tilly jumped up. That was it—a way to
weave back into everyday life so Isaac would suspect nothing. Everyone knew how
she felt about Woodend and would anticipate a smattering of gloom-and-doom on
her part. She would use that to her advantage until she got to grips with the
whole lump thingy. See? Sometimes all you needed was to rearrange the facts, to
click the Rubik’s Cube in a different direction.

“Mom!” Isaac pounded on the door. “We’re back and Rowena wants
to know if you have the squits. Grammy says you’ve been in there for ages.”

Tilly flushed the lavatory—who knew why, but the action steeled
her—and called out in a cheerleader chirp, “Coming, Angel Bug! I want to hear
all about your morning.”

Right, time to face Isaac.
Tilly
tugged up her jeans, but they slipped down immediately. How had she managed, yet
again, to buy the wrong size? Had it been to prove Sari wrong, after she had
cheerfully pointed out, “You need them skintight, hon. That way they’ll still
fit once they’re broken in.” Skintight wasn’t Tilly and never would be, but no
matter how often she fried these jeans in the dryer, they would never fit. And
life was too short for jeans that didn’t fit. Next time, she would get it
right.

Chapter 13

High above, swallows circled, scouring for insects.
Tilly didn’t believe in omens, but she did believe in reading the behavior of
birds. And swallows that high? Definitely a portent. Good weather was here to
stay.

Sprawled across the old lounger, facedown, she listened to a
wren belt out its melody. What an impossibly deep, rich sound for such a tiny
bird. This was a moment to savor, a memory-in-a-bottle moment, with life at a
full stop and her only company the birds and the garden of Woodend.

Her mother had dragged Isaac and Sebastian to The Flying Duck
for a ploughman’s lunch—
best in the county
—and
Rowena had taken Monty to the groomers. Tilly had said three words to Rowena, “I
need space,” and Ro had shepherded everyone out. Was that the secret of a good
relationship, space to be alone without needing to explain why?

Two pigeons cooed in the lilac tree, and Tilly hoisted up her
forelegs and swung them back and forth. She closed her eyes and, for some
totally unknown reason, hummed the
Sesame Street
theme song.

The pigeons shot toward the paddock, flapping furiously,
clearly startled.
Now what?
Tilly dragged herself
up. If Sebastian had sneaked back, he would be sorry. Very sorry. She snorted
out a breath and turned, prepared for battle.

“Absolutely not.” She rubbed her eyes. “Either I’m dreaming or
you’re insane.”

“I’m obsessive-compulsive, not insane.” James stepped closer,
throwing his shadow over her. “I was expecting an answer from you. I didn’t get
one.”

“You flew all this way to find out if you’d hired a landscaper?
You’ve got to be joking.”

James shook his thatch of hair from his forehead; within
seconds it tumbled back. “I just spent $8,000 on a plane ticket. I hardly call
that a joke.”

No, but it did strike her as funny that in the past six hours
two people had sprung monumental surprises on her and she hadn’t seen either
coming. Blimey, she’d forgotten about James. She had delegated him to her mother
and not given him a second thought. Or a first thought, for that matter. Tilly
pursed her lips. What on earth had her mother told him?

“Would you mind if we sat?” He nodded to the bench beneath the
cherry tree. “I’m exhausted.”

Tilly led the way in silence, her mind trying to unscramble the
fact of James’s presence on the lawn at Woodend. Was he, indeed, a nutjob? After
all, who jumped on a plane for such a capricious reason? David. David had tried
to do the same thing after her father died. Would’ve succeeded, too, if Tilly
hadn’t restrained him with a serious money talk.

She sat down, scooted to the far end of the bench and waited
for James to settle with a respectable distance between them. But he sat butted
up against her, his rucksack clasped to his chest. He glanced at the seat as if
inspecting it, leaning into her as he did so. His thigh muscles tightened under
his black jeans, and Tilly suppressed the impulse to fan heat from her face.

“I’m still in motion,” James said. “It’s been a long day. A
long day. There wasn’t a single seat on the direct flight, not even in first
class. I had to change at JFK.” He glowered at Tilly. “I never change
planes.”

She would have pulled away, if she’d had anywhere to pull
to.

James rubbed at a blemish on his forearm. “What’s your
decision?”

“That’s it? Straight to business, no foreplay?”

“I don’t do small talk, Tilly.”

“Of course not. You’re driven by your need.” Tilly flexed her
fingers. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. You’re free to hire someone
else.”

“This is a heavenly spot.” James’s voice softened. “Quite
heavenly.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

“May I ask why you’re turning me down? I felt as if we had
connected.”

In the paddock, a woodpecker laughed.

“I can’t give you the attention you need.” A hopelessly
inadequate response, but what else could she say?

“In that case I gambled and lost. I’m not in the habit of doing
either. I shouldn’t have told you about my OCD. I realize that now. Normally, I
wouldn’t. Life has taught me the value of concealing my quirks. But then, I’m
usually an accurate judge of character.”

“This isn’t about you, James. It’s about me. I don’t care if
you’re purple with large green ears and a tail. I can’t pander to any client
right now. I have a truckload of my own problems to deal with. No room at the
inn, I’m afraid.”

He gave a sigh, but it was a sigh of acceptance, not surprise.
He glanced at the bench again and then heaved his backpack onto it. “Let me
help.”

Was he for real? No wonder James was so successful in business.
He probably never saw obstacles, just kept on trucking toward his goal. “Thank
you, but I don’t think so. I’m sorry for the deception, by the way. My mother
was spinning a yarn for my benefit, although you seem to have that sussed. She
knows I’m out of sorts…she just doesn’t know why. And no offense, but if I
haven’t confided in my mother, I’m hardly likely to turn to a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger, Tilly. You’re someone I recognize.”

In the four weeks since they’d met, James’s beard had filled
out and been trimmed. It now had shape and style. His hair, however, was
shaggier, wilder, and he had more earrings than she remembered: two stainless
steel studs in each ear. He looked like no one she had ever met before. But when
he forced his hair behind his right ear and turned into her gaze, she sensed
empathy, a tangible feeling she remembered from her young widows’ support group.
Why had she quit? Had the oppression of other people’s grief driven her away, or
had it been the horror of examining her own?

“And Isaac’s remarkable. Remarkable.” James continued to watch
Tilly as she continued to watch him. “My mother died when I wasn’t much older
than Isaac, but I never handled myself as well as he does. The most
complimentary adjective anyone used about me was
weird
.” James gave a smile, but the edges turned down. “I understand
the tenuous balance between an only kid and a grieving parent. How easily it can
be tipped. How you might need someone to fall on other than Isaac.”

“No offense, but this isn’t A.A. You’re not the buddy I call
when I slip off the grief wagon. My life’s taken a bit of a U-turn, which is
fine. I can deal. But I need to close ranks, sort it by myself.”

“You told me gardening was your Prozac,” he said. “Are you
gardening?”

Tilly drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around her knees and
huddled into the arm of the bench. “Look. I appreciate the concern, but I’m
trying to have a personal crisis here. Emphasis on personal. As in no audience
allowed. As in go away. As in none of your business that I have some
ocean-fearing megalomaniac running my nursery, that my childhood sweetheart
materialized out of nowhere with two children and no wife, that he’s been
spilling his guts to my best friend who forgot to tell me he’d taken up
residence in a farmhouse
she
owns, that my mother
wants to sell my childhood home, that I have a— Bugger.” A tear leaked onto her
cheek. She rubbed upward, trying to force it back.

He reached into his rucksack and removed a small Ziploc of
folded tissues. Without a word, she accepted the tissue he offered her and
blotted her eyes.

“I want to be clear—I’m not crying. Crying is for wimps.” She
sniffed.

“Crying is good for the soul. Everyone needs to cry,
Tilly.”

“Do you?”

“I bawl over the slightest jab, physical or emotional. I’m so
terrified of needles that I have to sedate myself before having dental work
done, and I blubber through happily-ever-after movie endings, death scenes in
literature…” He paused. “And coffee commercials.”

She raised her head. “That sappy one when the son pulls up in a
taxi on Christmas morning, sneaks into the house, makes coffee, and the mother
comes down in her dressing gown and says, ‘Oh, you’re home’?”

James’s loose smile said, Guilty as charged.

Tilly blew her nose, not that she needed to, but it gave her an
excuse to look away. “How come you have pierced ears if you’re scared of
needles?”

“You think suffering for vanity is a female prerogative?” James
hooked his thumb inside his waistband and, lowering the edge of his jeans,
revealed a small tattoo above his hipbone. Tilly shivered, but whether from the
inked, coiled snake or from the glimpse of black underwear, she wasn’t sure. “I
was drunk.” He gave the smallest of shrugs.

A pierced, tattooed pirate—the new best friend she didn’t want.
Isaac would love this.

“Been a bad few days. Probably some hormonal crap. Womanhood’s
a bitch, you know. But I’m fine now, really.” Her bottom lip betrayed her with a
wobble. “Chip, chip, chipper.”

Her vision blurred; he handed her a fresh tissue.

“Don’t be nice to me.” She honked into the tissue. “It won’t
help. And it certainly won’t make me change my mind about your garden.”

He laid his arm across her shoulder, the weight of it so
unexpected. Without pushing her down or tugging her close, his arm was just
there. And yes, she could dismiss what she was about to say as the math of
timing: Good listener + need to talk = Tilly blurts out all. But it was more
than that. He was a fellow survivor, a companion plant sharing the same pot,
feeding off the same balance of sun and shade. He understood pain, not the kind
that came with blood or broken bones but the kind that tore through your being,
tunneled into your soul and exploded in some unseen place you hadn’t known
existed.

“I have a lump,” she said, and all the pieces of butt-kicking
optimism she had struggled to keep in place toppled. Tilly was shocked to
realize that the gulping cries were her own. What an awful sound, like that of a
hungry baby ripped from his mother’s breast. And throughout James sat still, his
body framing hers.

“Breast?” he said, after she lapsed into dry sobs.

She nodded.

“I can help.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly. “I can help.
I’m a walking encyclopedia on breast cancer. It’s an old obsession, my original
obsession.”

Tilly gave him a sideways look. “Girlfriend?”

“Mother. Everything goes back to the same starting point for
me.”

So, he, too, had lost the person he loved most. Tilly sucked in
a breath that seemed to bruise her internally. She had forgotten that breast
cancer killed people with faces, people with names, mothers with young sons. She
caught the corner of her lips with her teeth and bit down. A warm, rusty taste
filled her mouth. She swiped her finger across her lip and inspected it. Blood,
she was staring at fresh blood.

“How old were you?” Her voice sounded thick and phlegmy.

“Ten. The same age that I lost my life to OCD.”

“There’s a correlation?” She sniffed. “Between OCD and
grief?”

“My family tree is a map of addiction, mental illness,
hypochondria…enough red flags to suggest my OCD is genetic. But, yes. There is a
link between grief and the onset of OCD.”

“Oh, dear God.” Tilly drilled her fingers into her temples.
“Isaac.”

“Your son doesn’t have an obsessive-compulsive gene in him. If
he did, I would have noticed. He’s fine, Tilly. He’s fine.”

“But if something were to happen to me?” She wanted to clutch
at James, snatch his reassurance. “Couldn’t that push him over the edge? I mean,
it’s a double whammy for a child who’s already lost one parent.”

“Now you’re awfulizing. You have to stop the thought right
there.”

Pressure built between her eyes. “Awfulizing? Is that even a
word?”

“If you have obsessive-compulsive disorder, yes.”

“You guys have your own language?”

“The fringe benefits are myriad.”

He smiled at her and Tilly felt some small measure of release.
Her head drooped onto his arm, still draped over her shoulder, but she tensed
immediately. Would he misinterpret her need for physical comfort, do something
as inappropriate as attempt a kiss? If he did, that would be a shame, because
then she would have to slug him. But his arm didn’t move, and she relaxed into
the knowledge that James was someone she could trust.

“You do realize that nine out of ten lumps are benign?” he
said.

“So the professionals tell me. But the waiting is chewing me
up. I need answers so I can figure out where to go from here. I can walk around
the supermarket without a list, but I can’t deal with a crisis without a game
plan. I must have one for Isaac’s sake. And it could be another ten days before
I get an appointment. How do I distract myself for ten days?”

“By gardening.”

It was the right answer; in fact, the only answer. But was it
just a lucky guess? Or was he, once again, motivated by his own need?

“I realize you can’t design a garden long-distance,” James
continued, “but I’ve loaded a virtual tour of my property onto my laptop. I was
hoping we could explore some ideas together.”

’Course you were.
Tilly rolled her
cheek along his arm so she could stare down his smugness, maybe guilt him into
wiping the victory smirk off his face. But his expression offered only
understanding. Once again, she thought of her support group, and an idea began
to form.

“Did you bring any luggage?” she asked.

“I left it at some quaint place called The Flying Duck,” James
said, with a scowl. “A temporary measure until I find a real hotel. I had no
idea that travelers in this day and age were expected to share
a
bathroom.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Two weeks. I had to pick a return date and two is a favored
number for obsessive-compulsives. We like pairs.” He stretched out his long legs
and crossed his ankles, but his arm stayed in place. “Two is a perfect number.
Perfect.”

They sat quietly, losing time, and Tilly’s eyelids grew heavy.
If she could just rest her eyes for five minutes…but the church clock chimed
three. Where had the afternoon gone?