Garden of Stars

by Rose Alexander

  Scott grimaced. “I understand.”

  He indicated right and turned off the motorway. “When you told me about it, I knew you would want to see it. So I thought we’d stop for lunch there.”

  Sarah looked at him, forehead furrowed quizzically. “Really? OK, great.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say to the fact that he had planned something that meant so much to her, had known exactly what she would want to do.

  “There won’t be any of São Gonçalo’s cakes around, though,” Scott continued, teasingly, attempting to lighten the mood. “I’m pretty sure that they only sell them in June.”

  Sarah shrugged and smiled, sadly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how I feel about them anyway.”

  Was it better that Inês had had a child and lost her than that she had never fallen pregnant at all? How could she, Sarah, who had been so lucky, who was so lucky, with her two beautiful girls, possibly answer such a question?

  They picnicked by the river. Up and down both banks were wide, flat rocks, worn smooth by the centuries of water coursing over them. Scott and Sarah jumped from one to the other, the picnic basket lurching between them, until they found a quiet spot underneath a spreading willow tree. All around them were families, children splashing in the shallows, boys with makeshift rods pretending to fish, teenage girls sunbathing on brightly coloured towels. But Sarah was aware only of herself, and Scott, together.

  Taking off her sandals, Sarah dangled her toes in the river, watching as their shape undulated and morphed beneath the rippling surface, relishing the velvety feel of the soft water against her skin. Tiny fish darted between the rocks and clumps of reed and river grass. Scott popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and under the blazing sun they drank and ate bread, cheese, cold meats and a fresh, ripe mango dripping with syrupy orange juice.

  “I would so love to swim,” sighed Sarah wistfully. “I wonder if Inês did, when she was here? She adored the water.”

  “Do it, if you want to.” Scott lent back, supported by his hands, his arms sinewy and strong, his fingers splayed against the rock’s grey surface.

  “I think I will.” Sarah pursed her lips, her decision made, and then frowned. “But then again – I guess I can’t as all my stuff’s in the car, isn’t it?”

  “Would that have stopped Inês?” Scott’s eyes glinted in challenge.

  “In the 1930s, in broad daylight on a busy afternoon, probably!”

  They both laughed and then Sarah gave a slight shiver, remembering their last swim together, Scott’s unfaltering rescue of her, their semi-naked embrace. “Anyway,” she went on, “this is in danger of becoming a habit, you and naked dips!”

  “I’m teasing you.” Scott reached into the bottom of the picnic basket, underneath the remains of the baguette and greaseproof-paper packages of leftover salami and ham. He pulled out a bag, opened it and handed to her its tissue-wrapped contents. “I got this for you. A present. For exactly this eventuality.”

  Sarah unwrapped the parcel slowly and pulled out the garment inside, shaking it out and holding it up in front of her eyes.

  “I saw it in a shop near the office,” said Scott. He hesitated, studying her face, gauging her reaction as she looked at the shimmery black swimsuit in her hands. “I thought…well, it looked like something that would suit you, so I bought it. No nudity and hopefully no near-drownings today!”

  Sarah had still not spoken.

  Scott shrugged. “But I can take it back if you don’t like it.”

  She could sense that he was embarrassed, mistaking her silence for dislike of his gift. Whereas the truth was that she was stunned by the time and trouble he had taken but at the same time was thinking, was it a cliché? Was swimwear like lingerie, bought by lovers, never by partners? Was it cheesy and trite of him to have done such a thing?

  She leapt to her feet, banishing her silly doubts. Why did she always have to over-analyse everything?

  “No! It’s beautiful. I’m going to put it on right now.”

  With a bit of wriggling and folding herself into strange shapes, she managed to get into the costume without revealing too much to the rest of the world. She pulled off her dress and waited for Scott’s judgement. She knew already that it was by far the most glamorous swimsuit she had ever owned, with a buttoned front and a back that was a lattice work of thin straps. She could feel the way that they fanned out across her slender frame, could imagine how the black lines complemented her pale gold skin.

  “You look stunning,” said Scott, quietly. “As well as very, very sexy.”

  Sarah blushed.

  Scott got up, tore off his T-shirt and shorts, under which he already wore swimming trunks, and came to stand beside her on the rock. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She started to enjoy the gift, to relish the feeling of being attractive. It had been a long time. She shut her eyes and the feel of him flashed an image to her mind of his body, toned and muscular, fit, lying next to hers, on top of hers…

  “And now we jump!” Scott leapt off the rock, pulling her with him, and they landed in waist-deep water that made Sarah squeal in shock as the cold hit her.

  “You beast! I was so not ready for that. I’ll get you for it…” And then they were chasing each other, half-running, half-swimming, plumes of water flying up between them, Sarah’s reticence evaporated. They ended up on the opposite bank, underneath a low-hanging shrub, almost hidden from view. Scott pushed himself against her as he kissed her, hard and long. Her insides dissolved and she clasped him tightly back.

  “I want to make love to you, right here, right now. I can’t resist you.”

  The noises from all around, squealing and laughter, splashing and horseplay, seemed far in the distance, muted and insignificant. He moved one hand up to the back of her head and the other around her waist to pull her even closer in and kissed her even harder.

  Eventually, Sarah pulled away. “Later.”

  They packed up and walked back to the bridge.

  Sarah had a cup of tea in a café while Scott went to a phone shop to sort out a problem with his Portuguese mobile. She had a bought a postcard to send to Inês, depicting the bridge viewed from the river Tâmega, the Hotel Silva in the background, and got out her pen to write it.

  Dear Inês

  Do you recognise the photo on the front of this card?

  Yes, I’m here, in Amarante, on the way to the Douro where I’ll write my article.

  She suddenly became aware of the champagne coursing through her veins, of the fact that she was writing to Inês whilst waiting for Scott to reappear, as if that were not only normal, but legitimate.

  Inês, we have talked about love and here I am in the town that bears its name.

  She had not intended the card to be anything more than a token gesture to let Inês know that she had arrived safely in Portugal. But now she found herself desperately wanting to tell Inês that she was here with the man she adored, and that man was not Hugo. She hated that she had kept it from Inês for so long, especially now that Inês had divulged all her own secrets.

  And I’m wondering about love, what it is and what it means.

  Her pen seemed to be in league with the champagne, taking the decision of what to write from her.

  And how something that feels so right can be so wrong.

  I think perhaps you know.

  She was staring at the card, and the biro in her hand, not quite sure what she was trying to say, what exactly she required from Inês, when Scott reappeared by her side. His presence next to her sent a shiver down her spine.

  “All sorted,” he said. “So if you’re done, let’s get on our way. It’s still a good hour or so to the hotel.”

  “I’m ready.” Sarah added a quick last line.

  I’ll find Isabel for you. I won’t give up until I have.

  She put a couple of kisses at the bottom of the card, scrawled Inês’s address on it and stuck on the stamp that Scott gave her from his wallet. On the
way back to the car, Scott pointed out a post box and she thrust the card in.

  If anyone had the answer, it would be Inês.

  27

  The road leading to the hotel swept along beside the majestic river that darkly reflected the deep blue sky above. Sarah sat slightly sideways in her seat, watching Scott as he drove, trying to implant the image of him, right here and right now, indelibly in her mind so that it could never be deleted. As the afternoon shadows lengthened they began to climb, higher and higher through ever tighter hairpin bends. The trees cleared and Sarah could see the precipitous vineyards on the opposite bank of the river; rows of stone walls and vines snaking along the hillsides, following the natural contours of the valley, forming an elaborate and mesmerising pattern.

  “Welcome to the País do Vinho,” said Scott.

  He turned the car to the left and shortly after, pulled up on a gravel driveway in front of a whitewashed wall covered in luscious, fuchsia-pink bougainvillea flowers. Scott jumped out, opened Sarah’s door for her, and led her to an archway beyond which, across a stone-slabbed forecourt, lay a beautiful solar, a typical Portuguese manor house. A breeze caught the bougainvillea’s blooms and they fluttered as if waving Scott and Sarah in.

  In their room, Sarah gave Scott the bottle of whisky she had bought for him, his favourite label. Scott opened his suitcase. “I’ve got another present for you, too.” He kissed her forehead as he handed it to her.

  Sarah took the silver gauze bag and pulled out the box it contained. Inside was a delicate silver chain on which hung an amber pendant, small, shiny and exquisite. She touched it, felt its smooth, soft hardness, saw the tiny specks of long-dead insects, dust and dirt encased within it.

  “It’s gorgeous. How did you know I love amber?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “I didn’t. It was a lucky guess.”

  “I don’t deserve so many presents.”

  “Probably not.” He took the chain, smiling teasingly, put it round her neck and did up the clasp. “But you might as well have it anyway, seeing as the place I got it doesn’t do returns.”

  His kiss, which began as he released his hands from the necklace and put his arms around her, was purposeful, powerful. After many minutes, Sarah broke off, inhaled deeply and lowered her lips to the curve of his neck and his collar bone, her hands pulling open his shirt so that she could press her face into the dip of his shoulder blade, filling her nostrils with the smell of him, rubbing the feel of his skin into her lips and fingertips. She sensed his body tensing as he felt for her breasts through her thin summer dress. There was no going back now. She was about to have sex with someone who wasn’t her husband.

  I haven’t slept with anyone else in over a dozen years. I’m twenty years older than I was when I last had sex with him, I’ve had two children… Do men notice those things, does it make a difference?

  She realised that she had no idea, and then, almost immediately, that she didn’t care.

  The view from the poolside was expansive, the valley stretching away on all sides, acres of vineyard interspersed with pockets of wild scrub, olive and almond trees. Here and there the lights of villages and quintas glowed faintly in the darkness. Sarah and Scott sat together on one of the aubergine-coloured sun loungers, and he held her hand as they sipped more champagne.

  No one knows that we’re not a couple, that we shouldn’t be here together.

  Scott lay back on the lounger and looked up at the stars. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

  “Maybe some dreams do come true.”

  Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. Then the waiter was next to them, telling them their table for dinner was ready, and the moment was lost.

  From then on, she tried so hard to commit every moment to memory. She wanted to remember everything but in the early mornings, when she woke beside him and tried to replay the events of the day before, she felt that parts were escaping, that she couldn’t quite recall what had started a conversation or what had made them laugh so loud. To capture the perfection seemed impossible. Maybe it was all just a dream.

  Thoughts of anything and everything beyond her and Scott receded into the distance the more they sank into complete immersion in each other. But the article had to be written and one of its most important elements was the grape-picking excursion. So after breakfast one morning, hats and water bottles in hand, lizards slithering across the path in front of them, they made their way to where the hotel car was waiting to take them to the vines.

  “I’m not sure how long we’re going to last at this,” admitted Sarah. “I think that picking grapes is pretty hard work. Backbreaking. Boring. Hot.”

  “You sure are doing a good job of selling it to me,” laughed Scott.

  “We don’t have to stay all day,” she added, hastily. “At least you don’t, anyway. I have to get enough material for the article but you can go back to the hotel when you’ve had enough, you mustn’t feel you have to stay just because I do. I’ll be perfectly fine on my own.”

  “Feisty Sarah, who doesn’t need anyone, who can do it all alone.” He eyes crinkled up as he looked down at her and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. I could really do with some slave labour today. It was absolutely the first thing I wished for when I woke up this morning, the only thing I could think about.”

  Sarah screwed her face up in contemplation for a moment. She ran her hand along his fingers, so strong, so deft. “No it wasn’t.” She looked at him sideways, challengingly. “No, that definitely wasn’t your first thought at all,” she said, as the car jerked to a halt beside a couple of aged and battered pick-up trucks.

  Scott caught her eyes with his, raising his eyebrows as his mouth curved into a slow, one-sided smile. “Don’t make me blush.”

  The driver was at her door and opening it. As Sarah climbed out of the car, a rush of blood to the head made her dizzy and disoriented. She stood for a moment, steadying herself, focusing on the distant horizon, that today looked so clear, so solid and real. She wondered how it could be so definite when the whole world felt as if it were upside down, inside out.

  A young woman wearing huge caramel-coloured sunglasses and bright red lipstick extracted herself from a group of men loudly remonstrating with each other and strode towards them. She introduced herself as Carmen, the hotel’s representative for the Grape Harvest Experience.

  “Come with me,” she said, shaking their hands vigorously, “and I’ll show you what we do.”

  An army of workers was moving slowly along the paths between the vines, men and women, mostly middle-aged, some wearing gloves, all carrying sharp secateurs. Most of the women were much shorter than Sarah, well-padded all over and with what Sarah thought would be described as ample bosoms. They wore faded and patched aprons and tough leather shoes, and their faces were lined and worn to match their clothes.

  Carmen took them to one of the women, bent double over a vine, stripping it with lightning speed, bunches of dusty purple grapes dropping into the bucket at her feet. As they got closer, the woman stood up, smiling and nodding but studying Scott and Sarah carefully with narrowed eyes, as if assessing their ability to do the job.

  “This is Barbara – she’s been picking with us here for over thirty years. She’ll show you the ropes,” explained Carmen. “The harvest is finely tuned to the weather and when the grapes are at their very best, so it’s very important that when we start picking, we do it as quickly as possible.”

  Sarah nodded, scribbling notes in her pad and thinking of the next question that she needed to ask. When she had enough information from Carmen, she walked over to where Barbara and Scott were hard at work, Scott stooping over the vines and releasing handfuls of grapes of perfect ripeness to the accompaniment of a constant volley of instruction and exhortation from Barbara. Sarah watched as she showed Scott where to clip, dismissing impatiently his attempts to remove stalks but going over his bucketload with an eagle eye and picking out any leaves, however small, with a flurry of admonition.<
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  Sarah joined in with them, observing and trying to copy the way Barbara’s secateurs seemed to glide along the vines in an uninterrupted symphony of snipping and clipping, up and down, right and left. The voices and chatter all around gradually died down as every worker became lost in their task, in the urgency of gathering in the precious harvest whilst it remained at peak perfection.

  Finishing a row at the same time as Scott, they both stood upright for a moment, stretching out their backs and flexing hands stiff from being clamped around the secateur handles. A slight breeze rippled up the hillside, blowing a strand of hair across Sarah’s face. Scott stepped towards her and brushed it away, so tenderly, with hands that were sticky and stained with juice and sap. He bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips, then turned away, back to work under Barbara’s solicitous guidance.

  Sarah snapped a stem of grapes off the vine and placed it carefully in her bucket, bending down so that the angle of her face and the brim of her hat hid her eyes. It was suddenly too much, too overwhelming; the strain of betrayal, heartache and uncertainty. The strain of loving the wrong man. She thought of Hugo who seemed to have no idea of the depth of her unhappiness, nor the tools to deal with it. She thought of her children, playing with grandma, welcoming daddy home from work, waiting patiently for her to return as they knew she would, and her heart ached and throbbed like a fingertip after a blow from a hammer. She filled her bucket and emptied it into the crate at the end of the row, stepping quickly backwards as a swarm of tiny fruit flies wafted upwards in a great grey cloud.

  Reaching a break in the row she was working, where a wall jutted out around a corner, Sarah perched on the edge of the rough, grass-strewn stone steps that led to the terrace above and took a long swig from her water bottle.

  When the man approached her, she jumped violently.

  “Desculpe! I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. He looked at least seventy, his face lined and leathery from a lifetime in these hills where the sun burnt so fiercely. He had a wine carrier in one hand, made of plastic but designed to look like wicker, stained red where the contents had leaked out as it bounced around the terraces with him. In his other hand he held a small dented tin cup. He put it down on the wall, pulled the battered, stained cork from the bottle, and filled the cup with wine.