The Unfinished Garden

by Barbara Claypole White

  “Tils? You’re scaring me. You’re still coming home, right? Because I’m a sneeze away from going postal. I need a hot stone massage and serious shoe retail therapy. Hey, want the kids to box up the books, move them to the house?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll deal with them. It can be my exposure.” She was using her James language, words that made sense.

  “Sorry, hon. No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve made a decision.” Tilly chewed the end of the Biro. “I’ve studied your five-year business plan and I agree about turning Piedmont Perennials into a retail nursery with the studio as an office. But the plan needs revising before I talk with the bank. You can start by contacting the county planning department. Find out if we need to upgrade the site plan review. Oh, and ask about parking.”

  Sari gasped; Tilly continued. “I see mail order as a stage two expansion. Mail order nurseries have a life expectancy of fifteen years, so I want everything on solid ground before we throw in a catalog. Packing and shipping plants? Dicey at best.” Tilly paused. “You can jump in at any time.”

  “I c-can’t. I’m in shock.” Sari sniveled. “What changed your mind?”

  Tilly slipped off her clog and fondled a clump of clover with her toes. “I want this. And I can’t remember the last time I wanted anything just for me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m selling David’s MG, too. Investing the money in the business.”

  “Now that’s a fucking smart move.”

  Wo-oo-oh a pigeon called from the paddock, and Tilly’s mind drifted to James. She pictured him leaning against the doorjamb at Manor Farm, watching as she walked backward to the car. He flicked his mess of hair from his face, threw out a smile meant only for her and held up his hand in a solitary wave. And after she pulled onto the estate road, she turned for one final glimpse and realized he was watching the space where she had been.

  “And this has nothing to do with the cute James.” Sari’s voice was heavy with irony, but quiet, as if she were thinking aloud.

  Cute. What an inadequate word to describe James. Tilly turned the page on the pad, wrote quote for studio, and then dropped it to the grass. Suddenly, she was cold. Freezing, in fact.

  “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?” Sari said.

  Tilly hugged herself. She was still reeling from the feel of James, remembering his tongue gently exploring her mouth, then his lips, greedy for more, moving down to her neck and her chest and back to claim her mouth. And afterward, he closed his eyes and mapped her body like a blind man reading Braille.

  “Yes. He’s in love with me.” She was surprised at how comfortable the admission sounded. He’s in love with me. Tilly arched against the lilac tree. The bark grazed her right shoulder blade, and she winced. Her back was wrecked from all the planting with James, but the pain had purpose. It had led to the kiss of a lifetime, a kiss she was glad she had waited for because in that one moment, she and James had wanted the same thing—each other. “I’ve never met anyone like him, Sari. He’s smart, quirky, compassionate, and he gets me.”

  “Sounds like Aaron. Maybe we should make up a foursome one night.”

  Tilly stood and brushed off her jeans. “James isn’t going to be around for a while. Right emotion, wrong time and place. But dinner…you and me…might be nice?”

  “I’d like that,” Sari said quietly.

  “Sari, can I ask you a really embarrassing question? I ran the washing machine yesterday without any clothes in. Have you ever done anything as loopy as that?”

  Sari guffawed. “Oh, hon. Wait till perimenopause. I don’t lose the car keys, I lose the goddamn car. I reported the Passat as stolen from the mall the other day. Turns out I’d parked by one entrance, exited from another. Jesus.”

  Tilly laughed. “Any chance you could pick us up from the airport next Thursday?”

  “You mean flight AA173, arriving at 4:10 p.m.? Already on the calendar, hon.”

  * * *

  Tilly waited until the thrush began its dawn chorus and then crept downstairs, avoiding the stair that creaked. In one hour she had to wake Isaac, say goodbye to her mother and leave. But first, she needed to force herself to do something alone.

  Monty eyed her with suspicion when she entered the kitchen, but rose and padded to the back door. She let him out and followed. Damp grass tickled her feet, a pigeon cooed in the cherry tree and the air smelled of lavender.

  She would never return to Woodend. She knew that now. Sebastian would move into the Hall and Woodend would pass to a stranger. And maybe that was easier. A clean break with no backward glance.

  Tilly ambled around the garden she had loved since she was a little girl, committing every flower, every shrub to memory. She stopped to bury her nose in the sweet peas, to stroke the Lucifer red crocosmia flowers, to admire the spiky leaves of a huge acanthus, a plant famous for inspiring Corinthian columns in Ancient Greece. She came to a small bed, half-hidden in the shade of the summerhouse, and stopped. Matilda’s Rose Garden, her father had called it, despite the lack of roses. Her mother had encouraged her to find a sunnier spot, explaining it would be easier for a first garden. But Tilly had refused to listen. She had set her heart on shade. Even as a child, she knew what she wanted.

  She practiced a few of James’s yoga breaths and then began reciting words she memorized ten years earlier from Ecclesiastes. Words she had last spoken at her father’s funeral:

  “‘To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted.’”

  And a time to go off script.

  “A time to move on—” she turned around to face her childhood home “—and a time to say goodbye.”

  Chapter 31

  “Dad!” Daniel shouted up the stairs. “C’mon! We’ll be late.”

  James glanced at his watch. No, they had three minutes. Daniel definitely had a touch of OCD, but they’d had a good conversation about that—one of many centered on anxiety, depression, the whole genetic shebang. James had even shared his recent journey through the world of exposures, although, if he were being honest, that was a poorly disguised excuse to talk about Tilly. Thankfully, Daniel had suspected nothing. James was torn between his desperation to keep Tilly present in his daily life and a dread of answering questions about their non-relationship. If he had to explain his feelings for her out loud, he would crack. Five weeks and six days since he’d heard her voice, but every time he spoke her name, he kick-started his heart.

  “Give me two minutes,” James called back. He sat on the bed in his son’s guest room, phone pressed to his ear, resisting the urge to twist his hair. Was Saturday night a bad time to call?

  “Virginia!” He shot up when she answered the phone. “James Nealy here.”

  “James! What a delightful surprise. How are you, my dear?”

  “I’m well, thank you.” As he should be—running every day, pushing his body until the exhaustion in his limbs melted away and his need for Tilly dulled to match the ache in his lungs. September in Seattle had surprised him with endless warm, sunny days, but he’d hoped for gray skies and rain. Weather that spoke to him of Tilly.

  James cleared his throat. “I’m afraid this is a quick call, since my son and I are going to the movies.”

  “How lovely.”

  James smiled. He missed Virginia, although maybe not her psycho dog. And he missed Woodend. He
had never been as happy, or as desolate, as he’d been in that house—thanks to the torture of love, or rather his love for Tilly, which was unique and exquisite, and killing him cell by cell. His only link to her these days was the twice-weekly phone call with Rowena that had become his means of watching over Tilly and Isaac, of reassuring himself that they were safe and happy. That knowledge was invaluable.

  James cleared his throat. “Rowena tells me Sebastian has decided not to buy Woodend.”

  “Indeed. Heaven only knows what took him so long. I gather she proposed?”

  “And he accepted.” So, Virginia wasn’t surprised that he and Rowena had stayed in contact. But then again, Virginia was all-knowing. “Do you have a new buyer?”

  “James.” Virigina sounded like his tenth grade Spanish teacher, the one who spent an entire school year turning his name into a reprimand. “I won’t sell Woodend to you.”

  “Not even if I begged?” Or doubled her asking price, which he could do if he sold his never-lived-in mansion.

  “You don’t need Woodend to win my daughter’s heart. Have a little faith.”

  Yesterday Rowena had told him the same thing, but he was almost out of faith. He was almost out of everything. Tilly had given him back his life, but without her, what was the point? Without her he was empty.

  * * *

  A ragtag tropical storm had answered Tilly’s gardening prayers with three inches of rain and seventy-degree warmth. Scarlet salvias spilled into coleus the colors of stained glass windows, and the giant leonitis and castor bean plants had stepped, surely, from the pages of The Lorax. Had her main bed ever looked this good?

  Tilly tried to relax into her Sunday afternoon and enjoy the music of her forest: the melody of the thrush, the hammer of the scarlet-headed woodpecker, the cry of the hawk seeking its mate. The sunshine was soft and the air flavored with wood smoke, yet the pinched feeling in her stomach tightened, stealing her joy piecemeal.

  She concentrated on the memorial dogwood, its leaves of copper and crimson marking the end of another year without David. But this year’s end was different. She was different. Images of the breathing tube protruding from David’s mouth—a stake through both their lives—still haunted her, but she no longer struggled to recall David’s voice nor fought to convince herself that he was merely waiting for her out of sight. And thanks to James, she anchored memories of David with laughter, not remorse.

  Tilly grinned, conjuring up the day her mother had visited David in hospital. Groggy from jet lag, Mrs. Haddington had pulled the wrong cord in the bathroom and a battalion of nurses had barged in to rescue her mid-flush. Tilly and Isaac had laughed until they’d ached. David would have been laughing, too. Their last family joke.

  A pair of hummingbirds chittered over her candy corn cuphea, and the memory evaporated, replaced by the ache of words unspoken, but not to her husband.

  Twenty-three hours earlier she had called James’s iPhone, the phone he kept with him always, and had reached his voice mail. Sick with nerves, she had been unable to leave more than a brief message. How could she have been so sure of him, of them, and been so wrong? But yesterday was over, and she didn’t have to accept his silence. Tonight, she would explain to Isaac that Sari was coming to stay, and then detail the school carpooling schedule she had jury-rigged while he slept. Her brain spun with the favors she’d owe when she returned.

  Would Isaac cheer or cry at the news that she was running after James? How would James react? And what would his son think? Okay, so she might make a fool of herself, but living with regret was far worse. She should know.

  A mob of cyclists whooshed by on Creeping Cedars Road, and an acorn clonked down the roof through the web of a fat, russet spider. Cyclists, acorns and spiders—the next month belonged to them. And, if she could convince him, James and Tilly.

  “Mom….” Isaac kicked over a large stone and scoured underneath for skinks. She smiled at his stained T-shirt, his untied sneakers, his bangs falling into his eyes now that he had decided to grow his hair as long as James’s. “When can we put up the Halloween decorations?”

  “This afternoon?” Great, Tilly, bribe him.

  “Awesome!” He plunked the stone back in place and moved on to the next one. “Don’t we need a new crashing witch this year?”

  “Already bought one.” Damn, that was meant to be a surprise.

  “You have? Wow-zee. You’re the best, Super Mom.”

  “That would be me.” Super Mom had always been enough, but not today. Tilly flopped back and splayed her arms, crucifixion style, over the steps.

  The phone in her hand shrilled and she leaped up, her spine tingling. Let it be James. Let it be— She clicked the talk button. “Piedmont Perennials.”

  “Hello, Tilly.” Was this the voice Sebastian used to coax clients through tough financial decisions? Or had he created a special tone for the ex-lover best friend to the love of his life? That had to be worth a session or two on the psychiatrist’s couch. Not that Sebastian would ever consider visiting a shrink.

  “Hey. This is…a pleasant surprise,” Tilly said. Why couldn’t it have been James? Was it so hard to answer one phone call? Was he avoiding her?

  “How’s the business?” Ice chinked on the other end of the phone line, even though it was way past English cocktail time.

  “Expanding. Sari, my partner, pelts ahead with a vodka tonic in hand. I prance along behind with the gin.” The humor worked; the maelstrom in her head dissipated.

  “Jolly good, then.”

  What, no reprimand for mixing business and alcohol? “Want to tell me what this is about?”

  Sebastian made a sucking noise, as if he’d tasted something sour. “That obvious?”

  “You? Spitting out what you want to say on the first attempt?”

  “I’m a changed man. All touchy-feely.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” Although she preferred not to. “How’s Ro?”

  “Christ, she’s amazing.” Sebastian’s voice filled with the awe of a child watching fireworks. Yukety, yuk. Tilly pointed a finger into her mouth. Isaac gave her a quizzical look, and she shooed him away.

  “And the kids?” Tilly pushed her hands into the small of her back. She was stiff from a day of standing in the greenhouse, and there was so much left to do, especially now she’d added Halloween decorating to the afternoon’s activities. “How’re Archie and Sophie adapting?”

  “You mean to their father becoming a love-struck teenager?”

  Not exactly what she meant, but close enough. Tilly bent down and rubbed her fingers over the leaves of her scented agastache, then sniffed. Hmm. Anise, delicious.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You probably didn’t want to hear that.”

  “Nonsense. It was nauseating, but sweet. I’m happy for you both, really.”

  More ice chinked and Sebastian took a gulp of something. All summer she had tried to figure out what his favorite tipple was, but Sebastian had become a man without a cocktail preference, a social chameleon who drank what everyone else did. The realization was oddly irritating.

  “The children are fine, better than fine. They adore Rowena. It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  Aha, so that was his problem. “If Ro’s still beating herself up, tell her not to.”

  “I have, I do, but it’s not enough. I want to give her a present for our third-month anniversary. A special gift.” Tilly rolled her eyes as Sebastian spoke. “You.”r />
  “Me? I may be short but I’m impossible to gift-wrap. And shipping’s prohibitive. Jewelry would be cheaper.”

  “Very funny.”

  Except he wasn’t laughing. God, how did Rowena have the patience?

  “I have to fly to Washington at the end of October,” Sebastian said. “I thought I might bring Rowena and then fly down to North Carolina for a weekend. Or would that be too awkward? Lousy idea, huh?”

  “Are you kidding? That would be fab. Hey, Isaac! What d’you think about Ro and Sebastian trick-or-treating with us?”

  Isaac gyrated his limbs in opposing directions—part crazed soccer fan, part disco diva. Was it too much to hope that he would accept her news as happily?

  “Isaac concurs. Come whenever.”

  “Brilliant, bloody brilliant.” Sebastian blew into the phone. “There is one other thing.” He sipped his drink. “You won’t give us separate bedrooms, will you? It’s just that we can’t bear to sleep apart.”

  “Oh puhleeeease.” Did he really have to say that?

  She shivered. Sebastian and Rowena were sharing bedrooms, bodies, probably even a sodding toothbrush. They were creating a future together, doing everything that she wanted to do with James. A yellow oak leaf spiraled to Tilly’s feet and she stared at it. Her admiration for Rowena doubled, tripled, quadrupled. Ro had lived with this yearning for twenty years; Tilly wasn’t sure she could make it through twenty-four hours.

  “How’s James?” If Sebastian were aiming for casual, he failed. Clearly he hadn’t forgiven James for bunking with Rowena.

  “On walkabout.” Tilly worried at a rose thorn in her finger. Finally it had risen to the surface; one tug and it would be out.

  “Rowena thought he might be back by now.”

  Terrific. Rowena and Sebastian had been discussing her love life. “Me too, which pokes a big fat hole in the sanctity of female intuition. His house is done, though. You should see it.” Tilly snapped open the butterfly clip that scraped back her hair. “Well, you wouldn’t be able to, since you’d never clamber over the gates and hike up the drive.”