“And yet thousands of people do. I’m lucky; I’ve always come back from dark places, because I’m a survivor. As are you.” The acrid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. Enough preamble. “Did David have a scar on his right cheek?”
“How do you know about his scar?”
He squeezed sideways to face her and almost lost resolve. In profile she looked so girlish, so vulnerable. Everything about her was delicate: her pale skin, her button nose, her blond eyebrows. He wanted to draw her close and protect her, which was crazy. She was tougher than he was. Just how tough, he was about to find out.
James placed a finger over his lips and considered his answer. But really, what else could he say? “I gave it to him.”
An empty supermarket bag tumbled along the sidewalk, whipped up in their backdraft. It joined a flattened McDonald’s Happy Meal box and a ripped packet of condoms under the spindly hedge by the edge of the road. Tilly slammed on the brake. James jerked forward, the seat belt whipping across his torso. Ouff, that wasn’t so bad, even if the car had stopped in the middle of a divided highway, ten feet from a roundabout.
“You were the crazy grad student with the bar stool?” Her voice was unnaturally high.
“That would be me.”
“You were at the University of Chicago with my husband?”
So far, so good. She hadn’t thrown him out of the car, not yet. “David was new to the Ph.D. program, and I dropped out shortly after the incident. It was the only time we met.”
“You left grad school because of my husband?”
“No.” He felt strangely calm. Who would have imagined full disclosure could be so cathartic? “I left graduate school because I have no patience. Academia moves too slowly for me. I didn’t mind the work, just the time it takes to reach the top. Although I assume David made a meteoric rise. I enjoyed his book, by the way.”
A car honked and James swiveled around. “I hate to be a backseat driver, but there’s a line behind us. You might want to pull forward.”
“And why, exactly, did you attack my husband with a bar stool?” She fed the steering wheel through her hands as they curved onto the roundabout, then hit the gas pedal and they shot across two lanes of traffic.
James clutched at his door. Shit. Was she going to kill him after all?
A white van tore past, honking, and the driver flicked two fingers at Tilly.
“Sorry,” she mouthed and slowed down.
James relaxed his arm but kept both eyes on the wheel. “Your husband slept with the woman I loved. Although, had I paused to think, I would have realized that he was blameless. She was a repeat offender, you see, but I loved her beyond reason. And yes, before you ask, that was the time I considered suicide.” He paused, waiting for a reaction she didn’t give. “I had to see the affair through to its bitter end. Fortunately, that turned out to be David, since it was the run-in with your husband that led me to therapy, not the struggles with ritualized behaviors and obsessive thoughts. I realized I was spinning too fast, responding to everything with anger.” James fiddled with one of his diamond stud earrings. “I had a temper like a twister in those days.”
“You and my husband fought over the same woman?” Tilly sounded cautious, but not angry. Would this be okay? Would she forgive him as her husband had done?
“David was blameless, Tilly. I stormed into the bar, picked up the stool and charged him. He stumbled, backing away from me. A logical response. Perfectly logical. Unfortunately, he took the table with him and landed on a broken glass.” James dug his hands deep into his hair and thrust back his head. Suddenly, the memory was fresh. He had dragged David up to pummel every last breath from his body and seen so much blood. “The blood jolted me back to reality. Although—” he paused, waiting for what? Reassurance? “—I was more shocked by it than he was. I took him to the hospital, paid his bill and drove him home. We had, of course, made peace before then. He had no idea that Isha was involved with another guy. And he was extremely gracious. He could have pressed charges, but he didn’t. If anything, he understood. I’ve always been grateful for that.” Now what? He waited.
She exhaled. “Thank you.”
Of all the responses, he would never have anticipated that one. “For what?”
“A gift from the grave.” Tilly glanced up in the rearview mirror, then clicked on her turn signal. “I always felt there was a piece of his story missing. Now I understand why. He was ashamed that he’d slept with another man’s girlfriend. David’s ego might have filled the East Coast, but honor was a merit badge for him.” They rolled toward a red traffic light. “And yes, he would’ve understood. He was drawn to people in crisis, people who needed him. I think it made him less insecure.”
The light turned to amber, then to green. James liked that about English traffic lights, that they gave you more time. In America you had to go from stop to start with nothing in between, but James could never have enough transition time.
She flashed a smile at him. Thank God. He’d been right to tell her.
* * *
What a blessing truth could be! How it lent perspective! Now she knew, one hundred and one percent, that she could never fall for James. His revelation had leveled the space between them, put their relationship on a plane she understood—finally. After all, no way could she fall for the man who’d disfigured her dead husband.
I mean, come on, how much guilt can one person carry?
“If David were drawn to underdogs,” James said, “I fail to see how you fit in.”
“I kept his life uncluttered so he could produce brilliance. I was the subservient partner.”
“Your theory’s off.”
He’d lost her, totally. “Excuse me?”
“If David relied on you to shore up his life, then you were the power behind the throne, not the handmaid. Don’t sell yourself short, Tilly. You’re a strong, capable woman who created a successful business out of tragedy.”
Interesting, she’d never looked at it that way, but that didn’t mean James was right. She appreciated his “Go, Tilly” speech, but really, he had no clue. “It wasn’t deliberate, James. I was clinging to the life David and I had created, keeping our world the same for Isaac’s sake. Since my business allowed me to do that, it was a means to an end. Enjoying the work was a bonus.”
Tilly braked and they crawled into another traffic jam. She felt a pang of longing for swaths of empty roadways that cut through Carolina forest, for dodging turkey vultures picking at roadkill, for stopping to rescue turtles. She glanced at a tiny roadside garden spilling over with pastel colors and longed to see her sun border vibrating with hot tones.
They started moving again, and as they turned left toward the hospital carpark, a memory jarred from four months before David died. They were camped out in the basement following an ice storm, with no power and no running water. She could hear David’s retort to her suggestion that they invest in a generator: “Forget it, babe. We won’t be here long enough to make a generator cost-effective.” And to prove his point, once phone service was restored, he floated the word that he was for hire. After five days of struggling to burn frozen logs and melt ice to flush the lavatory, David announced he was done with country living. And once David made decrees, he didn’t back down. But Tilly had her garden, her friends, a world of her making she couldn’t relinquish. Wasn’t that why she’d used the leftover life insurance money to put in the generator David deemed so pointless?
&n
bsp; Had guilt enabled her to edit the past, erase the bits she didn’t like? Yes, she always knew North Carolina was little more than a career pit stop for David, that he was using it as a rung on his career ladder. But the ice storm had sped up his desire to head back to civilization—his words, not hers. And that—Tilly pulled into the hospital parking lot—would have led them into a head-on collision.
The car spluttered into silence, and Tilly reached into the back for her rucksack. Okay, then. Time to meet her future. But the future was only safe when you knew where you were heading. And a triple assessment at the breast clinic was an unmarked detour. And so, a hidden voice hinted, was the man sitting next to her. The one she could never fall for. Tilly flung open the car door, and her stomach did some weird hula dance.
“James, we have a problem. My legs won’t work.”
He frowned, then clambered out and walked around to the driver’s side. As he leaned forward and placed his hands on her seat, his black shirt flapped open, allowing a glimpse of black chest hair and the dark shadow of a nipple. Lust socked her, good and hard. How did James Nealy kiss? Slow and tantalizing, or fast and passionate? She shook her head.
“When you asked about fears the other day, I didn’t mention one.” Her eyes scanned the parking lot frantically for a distraction and settled on a license plate. “I should have, when I said I couldn’t drive, but I didn’t want to sound silly, didn’t want you to think…I mean, no, that’s not what I mean.” Great, she was babbling. James crouched beside her and said nothing. “I watched Daddy die in this hospital. And then David, watching David for five days—” Pinpricks of heat stabbed her chest. Was this a hot flash? Wasn’t she too young for this premenopausal crap? “Hospitals,” she forced out the word. “Can’t deal with them.”
Heat shot through her body as the parking lot shrank. Actually, it didn’t shrink so much as break into pieces and tumble like fragments at the end of a kaleidoscope. And her legs were tingly and heavy. Wow, this was freaky, like being fall-down-drunk without the alcohol. Except that her hands were trembling. And her chest was tightening, as if an imaginary vise were squeezing her into nothing. Terror swamped her.
“No—air,” she gasped. “Can’t—breathe.” Oh God, she was having a heart attack.
James clamped his hands on either side of her head. “Watch my lips, breathe with me. In and out. Good. Use my lips as a focal point and keep breathing. In and out. Think of this as a yoga exercise.”
She was dying, and he wanted to teach her yoga? “N-no!” Her heart thumped against her ribs, struggling to break free. So not a good idea to watch those lips: Could lust kill? “Get. A. Doctor.”
“Listen to me.” He increased the pressure of his hands. Such elegant hands for a man; such long, thin fingers; such clean, neatly trimmed nails.
“You’re experiencing a panic attack,” James said. “Something doctors call the fight-or-flight response. Your body is merely reacting to information from your brain, preparing to fend off a perceived threat, trying to decide whether to fight or flee.”
“Make it—stop.” Talking was as painful as breathing.
“Okay, okay. Concentrate on my words. Do you like the ocean?”
She nodded.
“Are you frightened of waves?” he said.
She felt the roughness of his palms, calloused from the shears. “No— You?”
“Now there’s a short question with a long answer.” He grinned and her body began to slow. “I’m terrified of being dragged out to sea by tsunamis or the undertow. Of being stung by a Portuguese man-of-war or dismembered by a great white shark. See how much better it is to have a common fear of hospitals?”
She smiled and discovered it hurt less than breathing.
“But this is your dream,” James said. “Which means that we’re on a deserted beach with a sparkling sea, clear to the sandy floor.” He tilted toward her. “Close those beautiful eyes and listen to the water lap the shore. Now walk toward the ocean. Can you smell it?”
She nodded, but all she could smell was the cool scent of wintergreen on James’s breath.
“Good. Now head for the wooden rowboat drifting offshore, the one with scented purple and pink flowers trailing over the side, those sweet peas that you love. But pause to enjoy the sensations—the sea caressing your ankles, your toes sinking into waterlogged sand, the sun stroking your back.”
She loved James’s voice, his soft middle-America burr with the slight lilt that she assumed was a legacy from his Irish father. Tilly was conscious of the solid warmth of his hands holding her still, his touch as soothing as his cadence.
Don’t let go, please. “Will you come into the water with me?” she whispered.
“No, because I’m not as brave as you. I’m cowering on a beach towel doing a ritual that makes me look like an escaped mental patient.”
She managed a smile.
“But you glide through the water, feeling it swirl around your knees, your thighs….” James fell silent for a moment. “You reach the boat and tip in your thoughts, then push it toward the horizon. The boat floats away, taking your thoughts with it.”
“All my thoughts?”
“Only the ones you want to dump. The rest you can keep.”
She opened her eyes to find James watching her. Often his gaze unsettled her, stripped her bare, and other times she drew strength from it. But today it overwhelmed her. Her mouth was dry and her voice silent.
He tweaked her nose and then stood. “Ready to go inside?”
She dragged herself out of the car. “You’re wrong about one thing. I’m not braver than you. You’re the bravest person I know.”
James didn’t reply.
* * *
Plastic chairs in a hospital waiting room were the pits. Unyielding, uncomfortable, un— Her mind failed her, just as it had done half an hour earlier, when James insisted they play Geography to keep her preoccupied. She was crap at Geography, so Tilly had taught him The Minister’s Cat, her mother’s favorite word game. They had reached d and it was Tilly’s turn, but the only adjective her brain spat out was dead. The minister’s cat is a dead cat.
Her stomach flipped through another loop-the-loop.
“Mrs. Silverberg?” A blonde nurse strode into the room with the air of a buxom prison guard. She crossed her arms over her clipboard, and her diamond tennis bracelet chinked against it. Was she trying to hide her boobs from a roomful of women clutching mastectomy pamphlets? In fact, should a woman with a Dolly Parton shelf be working in a breast clinic? Come on, that was perverse.
The nurse zeroed in on her, and Tilly’s mind pitched into chaos. Another angel of death was searching a hospital lounge for Mrs. Silverberg. Time to bolt. Tilly shot up, but James grabbed her hand and moored her to his side. She swung around, looking down on him for once. Since when did he start holding hands? Although this felt more like a death grip. His eyelids flickered, and then he shook his head slowly.
“Your husband can join you,” the nurse said. “If you’d like him to.”
James seeing her half-naked, splayed on an examination table while members of the medical profession prodded her boobs. Wouldn’t that just top off the day.
“Honey?” James glanced up through his eyelashes. “Should I join you?”
Tilly burst into giggles. She could kiss him; she really could. “No.” She stopped laughing, aware of a roomful of cold stares. “Just promise to wait for me.”
“Always,” he said, but
he didn’t release her hand.
She’d never seen him sit so still. He looked almost tranquil. And whatever he was about to say, she didn’t want to hear.
She yanked her hand free and left the room ahead of the nurse. OCD she could out-rationalize, but his real thoughts terrified her as much as that one word: always.
* * *
James watched a pair of swans glide along the River Nene. They hadn’t spoken since she told him she would get the results in six days. Six, that was a good sign. The best. So why was the car filled with silence? Was she mad at him because he’d hinted at his feelings? Although he hadn’t actually hinted. Hadn’t said anything aloud. But the static in his head repeated over and over, You scared her off. You blew it, you troll.
A rumble of thunder tumbled toward them, and the sky crackled with anticipation.
“Want to get drunk tonight?” Tilly said. “I think I’ve earned the right after having my breasts pummeled, flattened between two icy sheets of metal and stuck with a needle.”
He scratched at his thighs six times, six so Tilly wouldn’t get cancer and die.
Tilly sighed. “I need to apologize.”
James stopped moving. Apologize for what? He was the one who’d been a jerk.
“I’ve been selfish,” Tilly said.
Tilly, selfish? She wasn’t wired for selfish.
“Dragging you to a breast clinic, forcing you to think about your mother and—”
“My mother wasn’t occupying my thoughts.” James stared at his watch, his lucky watch. “You were.”
“Okay.” She hesitated, which proved how smart she was. “Do I want to ask why?”
No, you don’t. “My OCD was telling me, was telling me….”
“That I’m going to die, right?”
“Yes.” James slammed back into his headrest.
“Hey, I have no plans to die. So you can tell that bastard OCD to bog off.”
“Bog off? I like that.” He tried to find his breath. “But if anything happened to you—”
The Unfinished Garden Page 22