The Unfinished Garden (25 page)

“No?” Tilly said. “Then why did you come?”

His hand hovered above the doorknob, and the kid in him, the
kid who had died with his mother, said,
Touch the
rainbow.
He did, but merely snuffed it out.

“You.” James stared at his hand. “It was always you. You’re the
reason I came, and you’re the reason I must leave.” He opened the door and a
blast of noise rushed in, a scraping and a thudding from above.

“You’re in danger, Matilda Rose, of becoming my greatest
obsession.”

Chapter 26

“Mommmyyyyy!” Isaac’s wail tore through her body.
Where was he?
Tilly ran to the study door and shoved
James aside.

Crutches clunked on the floorboards above and paws scrabbled
down the stairs, chased by the thunder of distraught child. That had to be good,
right, had to mean Isaac wasn’t hurt? Tilly stumbled and grabbed the newel post
as Monty shot between her legs and tore across the drawing room.

Isaac reached the bottom step and whispered, “Mommy,” but his
gaze was fixed on the open French door; Tilly might have been a ghost. But she
was
there, her child needed her and she
was
there. She hadn’t prayed in years. Truth was, she
had held on to her belief in God by her fingernails and had done so only for her
child. But Tilly was light-headed with gratitude. Her child needed her and she
was alive.
Thank you, God. Thank you.

“I’m here, my love.” Tilly swung around onto the stairs. “I’m
here.”

“Mommy?” Isaac hiccuped a sob and threw himself at Tilly.

James moved swiftly and silently into position behind Isaac,
helping her create a protective bumper, a parental bumper, around her child.
Tilly shivered, and imagined James humming as he soothed a screaming baby, as he
took that incredible focus of his and applied it to fatherhood. Instinctively,
she began to rock Isaac, while James stroked his hair.

“Tell your mother what happened,” James said, his voice low.
“So we can help.”

We.
James had claimed her trauma
and relabeled it
ours.
Once again, she had
underestimated him. His words, spoken minutes earlier, returned:
You’re the reason I came.
But he hadn’t confessed the
whole truth. Clearly, Isaac was part of that reason, too.

“Monty—” Isaac gulped. “He jumped on the bed while we were
playing Monopoly and, and—” He jerked in his breath, then released a tsunami of
tears. “He ran off with Bownba. I hate Monty. I hate him.”

When Isaac was little, Bownba was the fourth member of the
family. An imaginary friend in teddy-bear form with his own place setting at the
dinner table. To lose Bownba, or worse, see him mauled to shreds, was
unthinkable.

Tilly pulled back to hold Isaac’s face, her thumbs wiping his
damp cheeks. “Have I ever let you down, Angel Bug?” Isaac shook his head. “Then
I need you to stay with James while I rescue Bownba.” She raised her chin with a
sniff of bravado. “James, can you look after Isaac and help my mother
downstairs?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Tilly.” Mrs. Haddington lowered herself
onto the top stair. “I’m not an invalid. I can manage perfectly well by myself.”
She hurled her crutches down the stairs, muttering, “
Oopsy-daisy,”
when they clattered into her grandmother’s
spindle-legged table. “Go after the dog.” She waved Tilly off and then bumped
down to the next step on her bottom. “Go!”

Isaac spun around and flung himself at James. And it took all
Tilly’s self-control to not tug Isaac free. Four words stabbed at her:
It should be me.
But she couldn’t always be Isaac’s
first line of defense, couldn’t always be the person to comfort him. She had
tried to shut out others—fewer people, fewer chances for heartache—but she had
simply been running away, dragging Isaac with her. Until James had blocked their
path.

And now he was stepping into her role like a well-rehearsed
understudy. James tucked the sobbing Isaac into his chest and resumed Tilly’s
rocking. This was a keeper moment, one she wanted to squirrel away with the
scene of Isaac and Sebastian playing cricket. But that had been a snapshot of
happiness, an image she would have captured on film had she not stopped using
her camera except to record Isaac’s birthdays. This, however, was a private
tableau.

She kneaded her forehead.
Think, woman,
think.
She used to be good at this. Handling crises had been her
talent within the Haddington family.

Tilly jumped back, her mind blissfully clear. She ran into the
kitchen, levered off her clogs—surely an Amazon faced battle barefooted—and
turned the tap to cold. Water spluttered out, splashing slowly into the
washing-up bowl. Tilly cursed and jabbed the tap with her elbow. Where was
efficient American plumbing when you needed it?

At least that bastard dog couldn’t go far. The paddock gate was
latched and the outer gates shut. Monty was trapped, his only bolt hole the
place under the hedge where he dragged all his kills. And if she had to worm in
after him like a tunnel rat, she would.

The tap squeaked and juddered as she screwed it shut. Then,
muttering every obscenity she could muster, Tilly hoisted the bowl from the sink
and lurched out of the back door with her load. Monty was tearing around the
lawn in circles, delighted with his new game. Keeping her eyes on his, she edged
onto the lawn and crouched down. Icy water slopped onto her jeans, but she
didn’t flinch. Balancing on the balls of her feet, Tilly anchored her toes in
the cold grass.

“Monty.” She dropped her voice and rammed the ground with one
finger. “Come. Here.” Then she reestablished her grip on the sides of the
bowl.

Monty wagged his tail and spread his front legs, poised to
spring.

Tilly narrowed her eyes.
Do it,
dirtbag.

As Monty bolted toward her, she knew he’d veer to the right.
Damn, but he was predictable. She sprang up and threw the contents of the bowl
at him. Monty skidded to a halt and dropped Bownba.

“Do that again—” Tilly reached out and drew Bownba toward her
“—and I’ll give you to Rowena. Got it?”

Monty gave a whine and flopped onto his stomach.

“Bownba’s safe!” Tilly called out, and then collapsed onto her
haunches. She was the victorious, all-conquering mom-heroine.
I am mother, hear me roar.

Isaac catapulted into her. “You saved him, Mom! You saved
Bownba!”

“Super Mom to the rescue.” Tilly hoisted the damp, slimy bear
over her head and waited for James to claim it.

“That’s a nasty wound,” James said. “But I have no doubt Super
Mom can fix it.”

Mrs. Haddington, who had hobbled onto the patio, bellowed with
laughter.

“Mom doesn’t sew,” Isaac explained.

Tilly glanced up at James, but he was eyeing the teddy dangling
from his pincer grip, disgust etched on his face. He really was the sexiest man
she’d ever met, even though he wouldn’t kiss her.

“Don’t sew, don’t dust, don’t bake.” Tilly gave a ragged laugh.
“I’m a lousy cook and I lose socks in the wash.” Was she trying to prove that
she was worthy of him, or that she wasn’t? “I’m the anti–fifties housewife.”

“As every woman should be.” James dug a folded white tissue
from his pocket—one of those super-large super-strength kind—and swaddled Bownba
like a mummy. “Luckily, Isaac, I have everything we need to mend Bownba. Would
you fetch my backpack from the hall?”

“Sure!” Isaac bounced off.

“I see the two of you have the situation under control,” Mrs.
Haddington said. “I think I’ll go and settle myself in the kitchen. It’s almost
time for
The Archers.
Monty, come with me, you bad
dog.” Monty snuffled her leg. “And no, it’s no good trying to make nice. That
was a despicable thing to do. No pizzles for you, in fact I….” Her voice trailed
off as she hopped over the step into the drawing room.

Silence, thick as Carolina humidity, settled on the patio,
broken only when the sounds of a radio soap opera drifted through the kitchen
window. Tilly smiled nervously, tempted to say:
Now, where
were we?
But it was James who spoke first.

“Pizzles?” He placed Bownba on the patio table.

“You don’t want to know….” She tried to add something witty,
but her humor failed her. And without it she felt exposed. Talking to James had
always been easy, but Tilly’s stomach prickled and burned as if she had poison
ivy on the inside.

“Is there anything you don’t carry in that backpack of yours?”
she blurted out.
Terrific. Nothing like an inane comment,
Tilly.
Why couldn’t he have kissed her? One little kiss. No biggie.
Or maybe it was a huge, effin’ biggie. The first guy she’d attempted to kiss in
three years, and he’d rejected her.

“Since I don’t do spontaneity, I need to be prepared for every
eventuality.” James unfurled the tissue, then used it to cover his fingers as he
splayed Bownba’s limbs. “But you know me well enough to have figured that
out.”

Yeah, right. She’d figured him out so well that she’d tried to
kiss him, which seemed to be the last thing he wanted. “Isn’t flying home
tomorrow spontaneous?”

“Hardly.” He smiled and lifted his head, and once again she saw
the child in the man, a passionate child, quick to find enthusiasm or anger. “If
I stay I’ll end up brawling with Sebastian. And contrary to what you might
believe, I like the guy. Well, I respect him.”

She hugged her stomach. “Being here without you is going to
feel so strange. You’ve become part of the scenery.” Ugh. That’s not what she
meant. Not even close.

James stared at a clump of dead aubrietia trapped between two
paving slabs.

No. This was not ending in a failed kiss. “We need to talk,
James, about what you said.”

“Not now.” James gave a nod toward the house.

Isaac staggered out, James’s bag clutched to his chest.
“Jeez-um. That’s heavy.” He dumped the bag next to Bownba.

“For good reason,” James said. “Isaac, would you care to assist
with surgery?”

Isaac’s eyes grew wide with delight. It was so easy to help a
child bounce back. Simply hold out warm arms and wait for the scraped knee to be
forgotten, the tears to become a smile. Love and kindness, the cure-all for
kids.

And yet Tilly, who was surrounded by boatloads of love, was
still sinking in quicksand. Thoughts scrambled through her mind, jostling for
prominence. This quicksand, this sadness that sucked her down every day, was it
the final remnant of grief? Or was it the tug of stolen dreams—the children
never conceived, the old age she should have lived with David? Dreams she had
lost but couldn’t abandon. And how daft was that?

She sank to a cold, wrought-iron chair and watched James’s
long, thin fingers thread a needle on his first attempt. He would be a gracious
lover, a skilled lover, a gentle lover. And no making love in the dark. He would
want his lover exposed—she shivered—he would want to see.

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she was holding back from
life. If so, what was she so scared of? That she couldn’t love again, or that
she could?

* * *

Tilly bundled a sopping Bownba into a pillowcase,
knotted it, then placed it in the drum of the dryer. The tree house was finished
and supper cleared up. James had run out of reasons to stay, and Tilly had run
out of excuses to create more. He leaned against the fridge in the scullery,
arms crossed, as if waiting for her to speak.

“How about a coffee?” She was grasping at air—James didn’t
drink coffee in the evening, but panic bred desperation.

“No, I need to go pack. My taxi’s coming at six.”

“I wish you’d let me drive you to the airport.”

“I know, but I’d prefer not.”

“Then give me a minute, and I’ll walk you back to the
Hall.”

“No, Tilly.” James straightened up and extended his hand.

He had
got
to be joking. After all
they’d shared, or not shared, he wanted to shake hands? She slammed the dryer
door. “Dammit. You’re not walking out on me, not without an explanation.”

“I gave you one.” He slid his hands into his pockets.

“Rubbish. You threw some garbled speech at me. It meant
nothing.”

“It meant a great deal to me.”

She felt color bursting on her checks, and it wouldn’t be
attractive. A blush this strong would manifest itself in scarlet blobs that
resembled an alien strain of measles. Great, the final memory he’d carry home
would be of Tilly the Martian.

James, however, was drained of color. Pale and unnaturally
still, he seemed taller than ever. The expression on his face had tightened, as
if he had locked down his features, preventing them from betraying emotion.
Although one muscle rebelled, twitching in his neck.

“Get your shoes on.” His voice was flat. “I’m saying goodbye to
your mother and Isaac, and then I’m leaving.”

And after he stalked out, his anger remained.

* * *

James strode through the paddock and across the wooden
slatted bridge over the stream where she and Rowena used to collect jam jars of
tadpoles. He ducked under the brambles dotted with hard, green blackberries,
threw open the gate to the field, and left Woodend without a backward
glance.

Evidently, he was taking the scenic route to the Hall—via The
Chase.

The stream gurgled beneath her as Tilly clomped over the
bridge, desperate to keep James in her sights. Man, he could walk fast. She
paused to heave the gate shut, since James had wedged it into the hedgerow, then
huffed out a breath and gave chase. But every step was like trudging through a
snowdrift. Tilly’s feet slid around her mother’s Wellington boots making a
strange
thwup
sound. Not one of her better
decisions, and she’d have huge blisters the next day to prove it. But when she’d
grabbed the nearest footwear, her only thought had been to guard the exits so
that James couldn’t sneak out. And he hadn’t. He had stormed out of the back
door and challenged her, with a thunderous expression, to follow.

“Could you slow down, please?”
Before I
trip and break my neck.
“Better still, stop.” Tilly jumped over a
clump of bracken and drew level with James.

“I’m curious.” He ground down on a thistle with his right foot.
“Do you honestly believe that I’m here because of gardening lessons?”