‘It was diseased, Mom,’ Heather butted in. ‘We had someone out here helping us, and he said that it was going to fall down anyway.’
‘I thought you’d like a little pond,’ Eddie said, looking forlorn. ‘I screwed up, didn’t I?’
She had shaken her head, trying not to show her feelings, but it was too hard. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes.
‘No, the garden is lovely,’ she had managed to say. ‘It’s just my dad . . .’
She had felt her daughter’s hand on her back as Eddie got up from the table and walked over to her. He put his arms around both her and Heather.
‘I’m sorry, Joy,’ he had whispered into her hair.
Shouldn’t the care and comfort of her husband and daughter have meant more to her than a garden? Yet she was not only shocked by the destruction of her wild garden but also by the fact that her own husband had known so little about her. All these years and he had never picked up on her passion for wildflowers. If she was so unknown to him, then what did she not know about him?
That night she had been unable to sleep. She had kept seeing her father’s face, his skin like pale yellow parchment, the distance already in his eyes, and she had been afraid he would die while she was away from him. She should never have come home. Waves of dread, of nausea, swept over her, the sensation compounded by the scent of all the dying wildflowers in her house.
She had been unable to bear it any longer and got out of bed, collecting up all the wildflowers and orange blossom in the containers around the house. She had lit a fire and laid out all her dead flowers and blossoms beside it, before feeding them one by one into the flames, watching them curl up and shrivel in front of her eyes. She had tried to let it go.
It’s only a garden, she had kept telling herself. What Eddie had done was through love. Yet every time she looked at those rows of tulips it felt like a punch to the stomach. She wanted to rip the cupid out of the fountain and smash it across the bonnet of her husband’s fancy silver Corvette.
*
Lewis told Samantha about all the plants that Joy had picked for him. Their names and where they should plant them. It surprised him how much he had remembered.
‘But I don’t know why you had to go so crazy,’ Samantha complained. ‘I thought you hated gardening.’
‘Maybe I just never gave it a chance,’ he said.
‘Well, this woman certainly seems to have inspired you,’ Samantha said sarcastically.
‘Come on, Sam, she was just helping me out. I told you she’s getting married.’
Samantha pouted at the steering wheel. Lewis put his hand on her knee to reassure her. He felt her flinch, ever so slightly. He removed his hand, feeling a little wounded.
‘Is it true you’re going to Ireland?’ Samantha suddenly asked him.
He froze in his seat. Had she found the postcards?
‘No, course not.’
‘But you told Dad you’re going for Easter . . .’
‘Oh that, I don’t know why I told him . . . I just needed an excuse to not go over to your parents for Easter.’
‘So you’re not going to Ireland?’
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘I knew you were making it up,’ she said with confidence as she turned into their drive and parked the car.
‘Well, maybe, I will go to Ireland,’ he suddenly said. ‘Since you’re going away.’
‘Driving to Santa Fe is slightly less expensive than going all the way to Ireland, Lewis. I mean, why Ireland of all places?’ Samantha gave him what he called her schoolteacher look. It used to turn him on.
That night he tried to make love to his wife. He knew she was awake. He could tell. He reached out for her, tried to draw her to him. She was lying rigid and still, her back to him. He kissed her shoulder and put one arm around her waist, tried to caress her breasts, yet Samantha put her cold hand on his and lifted it off her body.
‘Not tonight, Lewis, I’m tired.’
She was always tired, or had a headache, or wanted to be alone. He lay on his back, frozen by her rejection. Eventually he heard Samantha’s breathing even out. He slid out of bed and went down to the garage again, opened up the toolbox and pulled out those postcards. Once he had loved a woman who desired him night and day. Once he had been the centre of her world. Marnie. Their desire had consumed them. At the beginning of their marriage, he and Sammy had had good sex, but nothing like those months with Marnie.
He had wanted to kiss Joy Sheldon today. When he had given her that red plant he had wanted to kiss her rosebud lips and see her blush, feel her respond in a way that his wife hadn’t for years.
*
‘Happy birthday, Mom,’ Joy said, presenting her with the Easter lily cactus.
Her mother took it gingerly. ‘Oh thank you, Joy,’ she said. ‘It’s a little big though.’
‘I’ll plant it for you, Mom. I just thought it was so bright and positive.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ her mother said, putting it down on the hall table. Joy immediately regretted giving her the plant. She had made the mistake of gifting her mom something that her father would have liked. Teresa Porter would much prefer perfume or some jewellery.
Her mother led the way down the corridor into the kitchen. Joy could tell that she was being a little careful with her. The silence between them hung heavy and loaded.
‘I baked especially for you,’ her mom said.
As they entered the kitchen Joy spied a loaf of banana bread steaming on the counter. She didn’t have the heart to remind her that it was her dad who’d liked banana bread, not her. It seemed that both she and her mom were unable to let Jack Porter’s favourites go.
Joy sat down on a stool at the breakfast counter and looked out the glass patio doors. Her father’s garden had been his pride and joy. To her shame she could see that it needed urgent attention. She made a promise that when she planted that Easter lily cactus she would tidy things up a bit.
At the end of the garden were three palm trees in a row, and behind that she could see Camelback Mountain. How many times had she sat with her father and watched the sunset – the screaming purples and clamorous oranges of an Arizona horizon filtering upwards to create the awesome fire in the sky?
To one side of the garden was an orchard of orange and lemon trees, already filling with fruit and blossom.
She turned her attention back to the slice of banana bread before her and picked at it with her fork.
‘You’re late,’ her mom accused as she poured her a glass of iced tea.
‘Sorry, Mom, but I’m here now.’
‘Can Eddie and Heather not come over? I baked so much.’
‘Eddie’s working this evening. And Heather is at the Princess Resort with Darrell going over some of the details for the wedding.’
Her mother sighed and shook her head. ‘That girl is too young to get married.’
‘I know, Mom. But she’s made up her mind.’ Joy tried to swallow a bite of banana bread. It was a little dry and stuck in her throat. She took a swig of iced tea to help it down.
‘Just like you,’ her mother said, looking glum. ‘I guess this Darrell fellow is sensible enough. Heather told me he’s going to be an accountant and that his mother is giving her a job in her beauty salon at the Hyatt Resort.’
Her mom took a dainty bite of banana bread before speaking again. ‘It’s important for a girl to have a career even if she’s a mom.’
Joy tried to ignore the stab at her. Her mom thought she was lazy, or that she didn’t want a job. But the truth was Joy fantasised about having her own business and being financially independent. Like she had told Lewis Bell today, she wanted to help people grow plants and do up their gardens. She’d even told him about wanting to name the business after hummingbirds, though she hadn’t told him why – that she was fascinated such power could come from something so small.
She wanted to specialise in cacti and succulents. That was one reason she had been volunteering
at the Botanical Garden. She had even asked Eddie once if he’d mind if she went to college to study plants. She had told him she wanted to get a job in a nursery, though she’d been too shy to tell him about her big dream.
‘Why would you want to go to college to study something like that?’ he’d said, looking puzzled. ‘All that money to do some course that young people do? It’s not a proper job, Joy. It’s bad wages. If you want to work you should learn to type, get an office job like your mom.’
So she had signed herself up for a course in basic secretarial skills, but it had been a disaster. She couldn’t type because she was unable to memorise the letters on the keyboard, and her fingers had got all tied up in knots. She was terrible at it, and too embarrassed to tell her mom about her failure, though Eddie had tried to be kind.
‘You don’t need to work, Joy,’ he’d said. ‘I can make enough money for both of us.’
Then he’d kissed her on the forehead. ‘Besides, I like having you here when I get home. I appreciate all that you do for me. Cooking and cleaning is a job as I see it.’
She was pulled from her thoughts by her mother, who was rifling through her handbag. She pulled out a pink envelope and handed it to her.
‘Ray sent me a card,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he a sweet boy?’
Joy felt a surge of pride. Her son was so thoughtful. She tugged out the card, which featured a picture of an extravagant bouquet and the words ‘Happy Birthday to a Special Grandmother’ printed in gold.
‘It’s lovely, Mom. Shall I put it up?’
Her mother nodded and she popped the card on the windowsill, taking another long look at her father’s garden.
‘I should come round and tidy up the garden,’ she said.
‘If you want,’ her mother replied, sounding not the slightest bit as if she cared.
Joy sat back down again. She took a deep breath.
‘Mom,’ she said, ringing her tea glass with her finger, afraid to look up. ‘Remember what we talked about last week – about what Daddy said to me before he died?’
She felt her mother tense on the opposite side of the counter. ‘I don’t want to discuss that now, Joy.’
She looked up, straight into her mother’s eyes. She could see the fear in them. ‘Mom, please. I just need to know a few facts.’
She reached out and picked up her mother’s hand, held it in hers. Her hands were still soft as velvet yet Joy could feel the veins bulging through her skin.
‘You’re my mom, and always will be. That will never change, but I need some answers.’
Her mom shook her head, her eyes tearful now.
‘Please, Mom, I love you, and I loved Daddy. I know I couldn’t have had better parents, but Daddy said my birth mother was Irish, and I just want to know who she was . . . and her story . . .’
Her mom pulled her hands away with a strength that surprised Joy.
‘I don’t understand you, Joy. It’s nothing but selfish of you to keep going on about this when your father is gone.’
‘But wouldn’t you want to know if it was you, Mom?’
‘No, I would not,’ her mother said, adamant. ‘I would feel lucky to have the life that I have. Why do you want to know about a woman who rejects her own baby? All it will do is hurt you.’
‘Please, Mom; I just want to know her story. Life is never so black and white.’
‘I thought your father told you the story. Remember – his last words to you.’ Her mother became so agitated that she got up from the counter and walked away towards the patio doors. ‘I don’t understand why he would do such a thing when we always agreed you should never know.’
‘Mommy, why didn’t you tell me?’
Her mother turned round to face her, clutching her hands in distress. ‘We didn’t want you to be hurt. We are your parents, and we loved and supported you.’
She walked towards Joy again, a look of panic in her eyes. ‘And haven’t we? We never made you feel bad about getting pregnant or marrying young . . . I mean, I could have persuaded you to have your baby adopted. I never wanted you to waste your life with that Eddie . . .’
Joy tried not to react. What compelled her mother to say such cruel things?
‘This has nothing to do with me and Eddie. It’s to do with who I am.’ She spoke as firmly as she could. ‘I need to know.’
‘Please, Joy, stop badgering me. I can’t take this at the moment.’ Her mother’s face was pinched into a determined grimace, her tears held back. ‘It’s my birthday – don’t spoil it for me.’
Joy dropped the subject again, although inside she was burning with disappointment. Who decreed that her mother got to control her life even now she was an adult herself? She just wanted to know the story of her own birth. Why did her mom have to block her like this?
And yet maybe she was right. Why should Joy hunt down a woman who never wanted to know her in the first place? She couldn’t explain her desire for truth. It was a force that drove her on. A curiosity to find out what she was made of and why she was the woman she was. What had she inherited from her mother, and her father, in Ireland? And what traits had she passed on to Ray and Heather? It was an urge to belong, to be part of something that hounded her. Her mom would say that she was a Scottsdale girl. An American mom, as wholesome as her, but Joy didn’t feel like that. Sometimes she sensed the dark edges of her heart curling inward, and a desire to break free from the role created for her. She felt this was the unknown Irish part of her – and it refused to be quiet.
London, 14 April 1967, 9.23 a.m.
Some of Lewis and Marnie’s designs were already spread out on the meeting table when she came into George’s office with his cup of tea. She walked around the table, the cup tinkling in the saucer, eventually placing it with care beside her boss. Lewis didn’t look at her, but he could feel her hawk stare as George picked up one of her images.
Sensing her more than usual interest, George looked up. ‘Yes, dear?’ he asked her, peering at her over the top of his spectacles.
Marnie hesitated. Lewis sensed her draw breath. He begged her wordlessly not to say anything – not yet – for the truth needed to come from him.
‘I was just wondering if Mr Bell wants another cup of tea.’
‘Don’t worry about him, my dear. He can go and get himself one from the pot. We can’t have you running around after us all the time.’
Yet still she didn’t leave the room. Lewis stole a look at her. She was clutching her hands, shifting from one foot to the next.
‘Yes?’ George snapped. ‘Is there something else?’
‘I wondered . . .’ Marnie paused. Lewis couldn’t bear to look at her. He stared down at his shiny black shoes. Please, he silently beseeched her, don’t expose me.
‘… if you would like a plate of custard creams with your tea?’
Lewis almost slumped with relief in his chair.
‘No, no. We’re fine. We’re busy. Off you go now, there’s a good girl. I’m sure you’ve lots of typing to do.’
George shook his head at Lewis as if to say ‘Silly woman’. If only he knew.
Lewis glanced at Marnie as she left the room. She looked right at him, two spots of colour on her cheeks. He wondered if she was very angry or just nervous like him.
The door clicked shut behind her. George lifted one of the designs up and stared at it, then he got up and walked over to the window. Lewis fidgeted at the table.
‘Incredible.’ George turned back to Lewis, the drawing still in his hand. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, my lad.’
‘I have?’
‘Yes, this is the way forward. All these vibrant colours. You can see it in the culture – fashion, music, art. London is full of colour, Lewis! That’s what Eva keeps telling me.’
George walked towards him, flapping one of Marnie’s designs up and down as he spoke.
‘It’s pure genius to merge the letters and create more colours. Simple, yet so effective.’
George sho
ok his hand vigorously. ‘I’m impressed, Lewis; I really am.’
Lewis felt as if he was glowing with pride. He couldn’t wait to tell Marnie how well their work had been received.
‘Good job.’ George took another sip of his tea and sighed in satisfaction. ‘I have to say that Irish girl makes the most splendid cup of tea.’
Lewis winced. He wished George could know the true extent of Marnie’s talents.
‘I tell you what, old chap,’ George said, going over to his desk. ‘Let’s give our cuppas a bit of an extra Irish kick, shall we? I have some of that Beagles whisky in here.’
‘It’s a bit early . . .’
George raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Lewis, you’re one of the big boys now.’ He poured out two hefty measures of whisky, handing a tumbler to Lewis. ‘Besides, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
Lewis gulped back the liquid, harsh at this time of day. Could this be his moment? Would George make him a partner?
But his boss opened a folder on his desk, pulling out a single sheet of typed paper.
‘I feel I can trust you with this rather important project.’
He handed Lewis the paper. The letterhead was hideous, like the worst kind of wedding invitation from about ten years ago.
‘Phoenix Airlines,’ Lewis read.
‘Yesterday I heard that they’re about to be transformed into Phoenix International Airlines.’ George’s expression had transformed from jovial to serious. ‘In a couple of days they’ll be inviting pitches from design agencies around the world for a new corporate identity. They want to rebrand everything from their letterhead to their uniform to the logo on the side of the aeroplanes.’
It was every designer’s big dream. The chance to create a whole new visual identity for a big airline. Lewis had fantasised about something like this since he’d started his career.
‘I have been lucky enough to procure a dinner engagement with the fellow in charge of selecting the design agency that will create their new identity tonight.’ George sat back in his chair, took a slug of his whisky and looked ridiculously pleased with himself. ‘Studio M is ahead of the posse, so to speak.’
The Gravity of Love Page 8