James had certainly been an eager pupil that morning, sparking with energy. “Elaborate,” he kept saying, his fingers jiggling as if he were speed learning. When she explained that gardening was plagued by the unexpected but offered so many comeback lines that defeat was never an option, he wrote it down and underlined it twice. The trick, she told him, was to adapt to every curveball that nature threw at you. If a plant had outgrown its space, you cut it back. If a plant wasn’t thriving, you moved it.
Tilly glanced at the notebook again. How long had James been gone? Five minutes? She had explained elevenses—English snack—during their first day in the walled garden, and every morning, when the clock on the stable block chimed eleven, James disappeared and returned with treats. She never put in a request; she didn’t need to. He kept a Tupperware of her favorite chocolate in the Hall fridge. Tilly’s stash, Rowena called it. What would James bring her this morning? Easy-peasy, a Cadbury flake. Perfect for a sunny, sixty-degree day. He had studied her well. By the time he flew home, James would have learned more about her than about gardening. And what would she have learned about him?
She set the pen aside and pried open the nappa-covered notebook. For a moment Tilly stared at James’s writing without seeing words. Then she stroked the small, compact letters, so different from her large, loopy style. He took notes in complete sentences, each line of text a grammatically correct, self-contained thought with no abbreviations. She flipped through, stopping when she reached an angry doodle that spread like a bloodstain over an entire page. Every line was sharpened to a point, the pen strokes carved with such force that they had broken through the paper in several places. James hadn’t drawn a single curve.
“Find anything interesting?” he said.
Tilly shrieked and dropped the notebook. How could she not have heard him approach?
He positioned one of the two mugs he was carrying on the armrest next to Tilly and then fished out a Cadbury flake from his jean pocket.
Tilly thanked him and tried not to think about the reason for the flake’s slight warmth.
She retrieved the notebook from the ground, dusted it off on her T-shirt and flicked through to find the right page to mark with his pen. “Why’re you taking notes today?” she said.
He pushed up his sunglasses, scraping his hair back to expose his high, pale forehead. At some point in his life he must have worn his hair short. Is this how he would have looked? His thick, dark eyebrows were now his most prominent feature, and his cheekbones were more pronounced. Only the eyes remained the same.
“I don’t want to forget anything you’ve taught me—” he watched her “—after I leave on Friday.”
“What!” She shot forward and spat out a mouthful of coffee. “But I thought you were staying until I have my results?”
“I am.” He sat next to her. “Which is why I booked a Friday flight.”
“But what if it’s malignant?”
“Then a stranger won’t be much help.”
“Crap.” She thumped her cup down on the ground, spilling coffee over her Wellington boot. “This is crap, and you know it. Been there, done that, had the conversation. You’re not a stranger. And if this is some lame excuse to get me to confess….”
He pulled his sunglasses off his head and shook his hair free. “Confess to what?” He sounded so indifferent she expected him to yawn.
Tilly gave a snort and stared at the puddle of coffee glistening on her boot. She wasn’t claiming feelings she didn’t own, or suspected she didn’t own. “The garden—” She pointed at the rose bed with its pruned canes, excavated edge and compost-rich soil. “We’re not done with the garden.”
“I think we are, Tilly.”
“But the tree house.”
“I’ll finish on Thursday, while we wait for the surgeon’s call.”
“Why, James? Why are you leaving?” She swallowed the word me, worried it would sound petulant.
“I butted into your world, forced you to take me on.” James gave a rueful smile. “We both know it’s time I reconnected with my own life. I need to check on the house, and then I’ll drive to Chicago to visit friends, leave the Alfa there and fly to Seattle for an extended trip.” He raised his mug, with both hands, to his lips. “I haven’t seen Daniel in twelve months.”
“Who’s Daniel?”
“My son. He lives in Seattle.”
The breeze brought the faint, but discernible, scent of wild honeysuckle from The Chase, and the echo of a pheasant’s cough. Tilly could almost hear the morning ticking away as she sat in Rowena’s walled garden exchanging words with a stranger.
She prodded a stray rose petal with her foot. “If you’re leaving at the end of the week, it’s time I showed you how to plant.”
* * *
“Promise one last time that I can’t catch cancer from the soil.” His words spilled out as he crouched on the thyme-covered walk.
“I’ve promised five times already,” Tilly said. “That’s enough.”
But she hadn’t made it to six. “Please?”
“No. That’s your OCD asking, not you.”
A mob of starlings flew over the walled garden cackling and James imagined shooting them. He hadn’t fired his dad’s rifle in three decades, but today he felt primal, like a Neanderthal hunter waiting to kill. And it disgusted him. Vile images hijacked his mind. He saw himself with his fingers clasped around a bird’s neck, wringing the life out of it, which was bogus. He knew in his soul he could never kill a bird. He’d felt bad enough about flattening that moth in his bedroom the other night, and moths creeped him out.
James took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was drilling through his skull. His bangs, now long enough to tuck behind his ears, flopped forward. Pinpricks of anger jabbed at him. Why did he ever think he had the patience to grow his hair? He wanted to jerk it out by the roots.
“Come on, James. What are the chances of catching cancer from soil?”
He looked up. “Less than zero?”
“Exactly.” Tilly smiled, but he couldn’t imagine why. Quite possibly she was relieved this would be their last gardening lesson. “Ready to try again?” she asked.
No. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but his focus was broken. He needed to distance himself—from this garden, from Tilly. In his mind he had left already.
“No. I’m done,” he said, and used his wrist to force the web of hair from his face. He eyed the discarded gardening gloves, ripped off and abandoned after his abortive attempt to dig up a daylily. An excellent plant, Tilly had told him, for a first lesson on subdividing. Even Isaac couldn’t kill a daylily. No, but James could.
“Listen,” she said. “Hear that song? Tsee-tsee-tsu-hu-hu-hu. It’s a blue tit.”
And doubt about leaving returned. But doubt was part of his DNA, and he had to find the strength to ignore it. That had been his goal before he’d met Tilly, before he had allowed jealousy and desire to distract him.
The agony of leaving her had begun, but heartbreak, like anxiety, faded. And even if he couldn’t tackle the ultimate exposure, did it matter? Thanks to Tilly, he had made incredible progress. He would never forget the hope that she had given him by caring, by reminding him to laugh. But the fantasy was over. He knew it; so did she.
“I’m going to miss sharing my private hell.” James stared at a topiary of ivy that had long since broken free of its shape.
“Me, too,” Tilly sighed. “Me,
too.”
Chapter 24
She…was going…to die. How insane was it to strap toy-size wheels to your feet with the sole purpose of tearing along like a bullet train? She was a single parent desperate to survive to her next birthday, not a bachelor happily risking life for asinine thrills. Leg muscles Tilly had never been aware of ached, and her feet were as heavy as blocks of concrete.
“I’m done.” She plopped, bottom first, onto the verge and picked at the weld of knots James had tied on her right boot.
Ignoring her whinges of protest, he bent down and hoisted her back up.
He smelled of satsumas today, which was hardly surprising. Glass jars of satsuma soap sat by every washbasin in Bramwell Hall, as if Rowena were terrified that she could run out. Tilly loved the scent of satsumas, too, although maybe not today, when it distracted her with Christmas memories—the crackle of the drawing room fire, the aroma of mince pies baking, choral descants on the radio. The first time she and David toured the house at Creeping Cedars, Tilly bounded into the great room and announced, “That’s the spot for a Christmas tree.” But David overruled her. Once they had kids, he explained, a Christmas tree would overshadow Hanukkah. Why had she abandoned her cherished family traditions without a fight? And why had she conceded on the in-line skating? Was she, yet again, contorting herself to fit someone else’s expectations?
“You’ve mastered the basics,” James said. “Now it’s time for some speed.”
Great, just what she needed—a little speed to ensure she embraced death at full tilt.
“No, no and no.” Tilly tried to shrug him off, but wobbled like a marionette with broken strings. She grabbed at the solid warmth of his forearms.
Her stomach lurched and her pulse danced to some hot-blooded Latin beat. This was such a bad idea on so many levels.
“If I fall,” she said, “the tarmac will tear me to pieces.” And that would be the least of her problems. If she pulled him down on top of her they could end up entwined heart-to-heart, groin-to-groin. Oh, bugger.
His muscles tensed under her grip. “Do you think I could let you fall?” There was a sharp edge to his voice, but his face spoke only of hurt. Devastating hurt, as if she had betrayed him.
“James, I would trust you with my life.” Wasn’t she, in fact? “But you and I get our jollies differently. I’m a coward at heart, and this is way outside my comfort zone.”
A smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth. He was too close, but she couldn’t let go. Without him, she wouldn’t survive this ridiculous ordeal.
“We’re going to roll forward, just a little momentum, okay?”
“Not okay, far from okay.” Tilly scrabbled at him, her heart now pumping terror, not lust.
“Remember—ankles strong. Don’t let them sink inward. Left foot forward a little, then push. Right foot forward a little, then push. As if you’re marching. And brake gradually.”
“Ankles strong, got it. Left foot, push. Right foot…bugger.” She collapsed around her waist, twisting his skin as she clasped his arm. “I have so not got it.”
“Relax.” He was gliding backward, dragging her with him. “Let me do what I do best—worry enough for both of us.”
Okay, she would focus on his mouth, on that seductive smile unwrapping like a slow stretch at the end of a day. Of all the ways he could decompress, he chose this?
As he offered his face to the sky, the cleft in his chin became an inky hollow. She had called him handsome a few days earlier as a joke, but she wasn’t laughing now. David was flat-out stunning with his dark ringlets and uncanny resemblance to Botticelli’s Mars. And Sebastian’s refined features made his face close to perfection. But James? He was breath-stealingly gorgeous, and, quite possibly, the sexiest man she had ever met.
They whizzed past the crinkle-crankle yew hedge. Wait! How had they picked up speed so quickly? They were going too fast too soon. His hair whipped across his face, obscuring his mouth, and Tilly tried to speak but couldn’t force out stop, let alone add please. Drowning, she was drowning in air. But then James caressed the inside of her elbow, and the restriction in her throat vanished. She laughed; she actually laughed. He was leading her somewhere she could never have imagined she wanted to go. And it was kinda fun.
She threw back her head and shrieked into the cloud-covered sky. James answered with a rich, sultry laugh that was even more precious than one of his smiles. The terror, the sore muscles, the imminent heart failure, all were worthwhile for that laugh. Which was just as well, since it was, quite possibly, the last thing she would ever hear.
Time stretched to accommodate multiple sounds and thoughts: tires whooshing on the tarmac; the honk of a horn; panic racking her body—how do I brake; her breath escaping with an ouff as she flew into James; her heart crashing against her ribs—a wrecking ball smashing apart every preconception about how it would feel to hold James.
Many times—more than she wanted to admit but when death hurtled toward you in a muddy Discovery, self-honesty was the least of your problems—she had wondered how their bodies would fit together. Awkwardly was the adverb she’d settled on, given the disparity in their heights, her wonky torso and his lean frame of hard muscle. How wrong she had been. His body cushioned hers and his arms secured her like a custom-designed harness. A perfect fit.
She followed the tempo of his pulse, heard him breathe and imbibed the feeling of James. Gradually, she stopped shaking and screamed a silent yes.
“Having fun, are we?” Rowena leaned out of the driver’s window.
“Hi, Mom! Hi, James!” Isaac called from inside the car. “Can I join in?”
Tilly snapped back, her cheeks on fire. She pushed free of James, shimmied, and flopped over the hood of the Discovery.
“No,” she said to both questions and instantly regretted her answer.
Chapter 25
Monty barked, then stopped. Some poor sod had dared to walk past on the High Street, no doubt. Tilly turned back to admire the herbaceous border, where there was nothing left to deadhead, tie back or dig up. At her mother’s request, Tilly had stopped working in the garden so the gardener could feel useful. Interesting concept, feeling useful. Was that why James had hung around? Yesterday, she had spooked both of them with nothing more than a failed flicker of desire, and tomorrow he flew home. But what of today? She balled up her hands in the sleeves of her fleece and shivered. It was another cool, gray day—an appropriate end to her time with James, because really, today was an end. Whatever the outcome of her tests, James would leave and that would be that. But what if she wanted him to stay?
Monty trotted around the side of the house, tail wagging.
“Scare them off, did you, mutt?”
Too late she realized he was not alone. James appeared, his black leather backpack slung over one shoulder, the black cord from his iPod earbuds snaking down his chest into his jeans pocket.
She watched, anticipating each movement before he made it. The man had a method for everything, even unplugging his iPod. He would wrap the earbud cord around two fingers to create a neat bundle, secure it with a black twisty tie, then slip it into the small, aluminum container he kept in the outside pocket of his backpack.
Tilly smiled, but it was an empty gesture. She knew his every quirk and still she couldn’t slot him into her life, much less keep him there. What had been troubling her since dawn was not whether James would appear, since she knew he would, but how he would react if t
he surgeon gave her the all clear. Would James stay to celebrate, or would he dash off to pack, convinced that she no longer needed him?
Tilly repuffed the cushions on her mother’s lounger and tried not to remember the feel of the man who had scarred her husband, the man she didn’t dare love.
He strode onto the patio. “Any news?”
“No. And don’t stare.” Tilly nibbled a fingernail. “My mother already told me I look consumptive.”
“Consumptive, really? I was going to say you look like shit.”
“You were?” She gave a hollow laugh. “In that case you can stay.”
A pigeon flapped in the birdbath and a car backfired on the High Street. Neither of them moved.
“I should work on the tree house,” James said, his voice lacking conviction.
“No.” Tilly grabbed his hand. “Stay with me. But I can’t guarantee conversation. I didn’t sleep last night.”
He sighed. “Me neither.”
* * *
“Wired yet?” James handed her a fourth cup of coffee and smiled. He had the widest smile she had ever seen. It lit up his face and gave her the sensation of sinking into a deep bubble bath when outside the world was ice and snow.
“I’m completely out of whack.” She stared at her leg, jerking against the patio table. “I just want this day done with, but when it’s over…you leave.” And I can’t convince myself that’s a good thing.
James scraped his wrought-iron chair across the concrete and sat, as always, too close. He pried one hand from her mug, crushing her fingers into his. Were the two of them slipping into love while neither of them paid attention? And if so, why did it hurt so much? Was it because of David or because of Sebastian? Or was love irrelevant? Was this nothing more than need, the same quick fix as one of James’s compulsions?
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