Meet Me in the Garden

by Rosa Sophia

  “Well, it is, it always is a friendly visit.” Amalie chuckled. “But I wanted to share something with you. I finally realized something about Ian that I’m not sure he knows.”

  “Oh?” Roseanne gestured to the couch and the two women sat, a small plate of brownies in front of them.

  Amalie took a bite out of one brownie and fluttered her eyelids. “Gods, you should open your own bake shop.”

  “Too much work. When would I have time to read?”

  When she finished chewing, Amalie tugged the folded paper out of her pocket and handed it to Roseanne. “Here’s what I found,” she added by way of explanation.

  “Eyebright?” Roseanne looked at what Amalie had printed out—a grainy photo of tiny flowers and an explanation of the flora that was abundant in the Irish countryside.

  “I had a dream.” Amalie leaned back against the soft cushion, as if exhausted by her memories. “I saw my own grave in my past life, the life I shared with Ian. This flower, eyebright, grew all over my gravesite. Do you see what that means?”

  Roseanne nodded, then handed the paper back. “It’s engrained in him. He remembered something from that life without even knowing it. He named his own company, Eyebright Designs, after the flower that grew on your grave.”

  “Anyone else would think I was nuts.” Amalie smirked.

  “You know me better than that. I feel it’s true.” She interlocked her fingers, nodding with certainty. “You and Ian, your souls are connected. He is your soul mate. I knew it the moment I saw you together the first time.”

  “If he’s my soul mate, why’ve we had so many problems?”

  “Just because you’re soul mates, doesn’t mean life will be easy. It’s very often that soul mates have this problem—past lives shared, things that need to come out into the open air. It takes time. Sometimes it can take more than one lifetime before it’s all sorted out. You’re very lucky to have each other, and it’s wonderful you’re working through your issues now.”

  “Otherwise we could be working through it in the next life, and the next, and the next.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded toward the plate on the coffee table. “How about another brownie?”

  Amalie shrugged. “I guess I can’t say no to that.”

  ***

  Weeks went by and Amalie had nearly forgotten about Artie. Every time she drove by Juno Pier or stood with her feet in the surf, he would pop into her mind, but he was just as quickly replaced by a memory of her first date with Ian, when she’d not-so-gracefully collapsed on the sand.

  That night with Ian when she was sure she’d almost lost him paved the way to even greater truths, and soon they were planning all sorts of things she’d never thought she’d be thinking about—like buying a house together.

  He was looking at a place out in Jupiter Farms, a little cottage that’d been foreclosed on. The negotiations were going well because it’d been on the market for a while and no one seemed to want it. He’d talked them down to an affordable price and was getting ready to sign the paperwork. He wanted to own it jointly with Amalie, but that was too much for her.

  “No, no,” she’d said, “If this is that important to you, put it in your name. If anything happens—”

  He’d eyed her curiously, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew she expected everything to break. Ever since childhood, she’d been fixing things, trying to repair other people’s problems. It was instinctual. Anything that involved security, peacefulness, comfort—it scared her.

  She lay back in the sand and thought about the recent weeks, how great they’d been. Ian. His devotion to her. The new place in the Farms. They hadn’t moved yet, but they would soon.

  And she’d long since finished editing Jackson Salvatore’s latest masterpiece, which was sure to hit the New York Times bestsellers list. Amalie was becoming a well sought-after editor.

  And she loved it. Every bit of it.

  Until the plane landed, her father clambered off, and he poured his first shot in her living room, reminding her that even the most wonderful of sensations could be shattered, and that the darkness of the past had never fully receded.

  Chapter 35

  Ian slammed the bedroom door behind him and faced Amalie, running his hands through his sweaty hair. The air conditioner had broken, it was August and ninety-three degrees outside, and the faint ocean breeze was doing nothing to cool him down. He was heating up more than ever, especially now that Amalie’s father was there.

  “Why’d he have to come now?” Ian hissed, keeping his voice low. “The house is a mess, half our shit is in boxes—”

  “I know, I know. He says he can help us move.”

  “During the day, sure, but he’s not any help in the evening.”

  That was true. Ian liked staying up late, but he couldn’t pack any boxes once Mr. Jarvis passed out on the couch in the living room after drinking too much liquor.

  A voice called out from the hallway. “Amalie?”

  “Coming, Dad.” Deep down, she was surprised by how timid he sounded—how sober. Maybe he was changing as he got older, but she couldn’t count on that. She leaned up and kissed Ian, tugging gently on his polo shirt with one hand. “Dad and I are going out to lunch. Will you be okay here?”

  “Yeah, it’ll give me some time to get more stuff packed. I don’t mind your dad, but he keeps me busy asking all kinds of questions about my career and how I got into graphic design—”

  “That’s nice.” Amalie beamed, glad they were getting along.

  “Nice, sure,” Ian agreed. “But tiresome.”

  “Aw, babe, you’re overreacting.”

  “Maybe. I’m exhausted and this heat is kicking my ass.”

  “Welcome to Florida summers.” She kissed him again. “I’ll be back soon.”

  ***

  Her father seemed different somehow; maybe it was the way he carried himself. He was more quiet than usual during the day, seemed worlds away, and kept his big, calloused hands resting on his lap as Amalie piloted her little car down the road. He wore dark brown slacks that had bleach stains on the cuffs, which were slightly torn and hung loosely over his scuffed, laced shoes.

  On the way to a sandwich shop in North Palm Beach, they got stuck at the Parker Bridge and Amalie put the car in first gear and turned the engine off while the drawbridge rose into the air. Turning slightly in her seat, she fingered her father’s button-up shirt, the sleeves of which he’d rolled up over his elbows.

  “Daddy, how old is this shirt? We should get you some new ones.”

  He rolled his eyes, and gave her a faintly annoyed look. “Am, I’m a grown man, I can pick out my own shirts.”

  “Just sayin’. This one looks like it’s been through hell.” She leaned forward, scrunching up her nose. “And it smells like fish.”

  “I’m a fisherman, Amalie.”

  “It doesn’t mean you have to smell like a fish.” She stuck out her tongue at him.

  He’d always been a handsome man, but she noticed he looked a lot older. He still had hair on his head, wispy patches he’d carefully combed, and there were bags under his striking blue eyes. He seemed more fragile somehow.

  They were silent for a few long minutes, watching as birds swooped over the bridge. The top of a sailboat moved by as puffy clouds floated over the golf course on the other side of the intracoastal. The bridge was lowered back into place, and Amalie turned the car back on, putting it into gear and inching along with the traffic.

  “I’m proud of you, Am.” Her father reached over and took her hand after she slid smoothly into fourth gear and headed past the country club. “I know I don’t say it enough. But I am proud, and I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad. You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just…I’ve been through hell, you know that. And I want to apologize for anything I might’ve done to hurt you.”

  Amalie didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t often he talked like that, and she began to wonder if he k
new—if he really knew—how much he’d hurt her. Shoving her when he got drunk. Blowing cigarette smoke in her face. Calling her names. Did he remember those things? Ian often forgot the horrible things he said to her when he was drinking. Was it the same with her father? Was his mind a blank slate, impressed with a slight sensation he’d been cruel to her?

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was lying. It was never okay. But it wasn’t as if they could fix it, so what was the point in dwelling on it? Deep inside, her heart ached, and she wondered if anything—or anyone—could ever help to heal it.

  Lunch was pleasant, and she began to think her father was changing. He seemed more reserved, quiet. But he admitted the business had been losing money, and he was behind on credit card payments.

  On the way home, when he asked her to stop at the store, she obliged without thinking. And when he returned to the car holding a bottle in a paper bag, she frowned, crinkling her nose at him.

  She hadn’t had a drink in a long time, in part because of Ian. She was overcome with guilt drinking around him after everything they’d been through. Alcohol repulsed her now, but at the same time it sort of intrigued her. She wanted to let go, forget. Sometimes she wanted to get drunk. The thought upset her, because she didn’t want to end up like her father.

  He glared at her when she questioned him.

  “Don’t treat me like a goddamn child,” he scolded, and she sensed the emergence of the man she feared, the one who harangued her, criticized everything she did, and called her names. In that moment, she wished she hadn’t let him come visit.

  Several days later, he stumbled into an end table in the living room and broke a lamp. He found every reason he could to insult Amalie, who sneered in return and stomped back to the bedrooms while her father sat on the couch in the dark pouring shots.

  Just before Amalie could reach her own room, a hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. Ian tugged her into his room and slammed the door shut behind her. He stood so close she could smell his minty breath.

  “When. Is. He. Leaving.” His gaze was sharp, edged with displeasure.

  “Next week sometime.” Amalie sniffed, holding back tears.

  “I’m sick of him, all he does is pick fights with you and criticize you.”

  “Ian, that’s not entirely—”

  “It is entirely,” he snapped. “What was that he said to you yesterday?”

  Amalie slumped on Ian’s bed, sighing. “That I should get a real job. He doesn’t think what I do is a real job. I work my ass off.”

  “He doesn’t appreciate you, Am.”

  “This is really upsetting you.” She said it as if she’d only just noticed.

  “Damn right it’s upsetting me. Know why?” He sat beside her, appearing defeated. “Because when he screams at you, I see myself. When his eyes are glassy, and he tells you that you’re fat, or that you’re not doing something right—” Ian put his arm around her, drawing her close. “He reminds me of me, Am.” His brow creased, and he seemed to be holding back tears. “I treated you like shit. You put up with it. Just like you put up with him for years.”

  Amalie hung her head. “That’s not the same.”

  “Yes it is. I was a fucking drunk. Just like your dad. I swear to God, Amalie, I’ll never drink again.”

  She felt beaten, exhausted. She’d run out of words, so she said nothing. She merely slipped her hand into his as they listened to her father pounding on the door:

  “Amalie, open this fucking door. Goddamn it, what’s wrong with you? You never listen to me. You’re such a fucking bitch. Open the fucking door, Amalie.” The knocking turned into slamming.

  “Wanna get out of here, baby?” Ian squeezed Amalie’s hand as she wept.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I do.”

  Chapter 36

  It was pitch black and they’d been driving around for hours. Ian didn’t know where to go; first he suggested they drive to the Keys, but Amalie didn’t have any of her work with her. If they went on a weekend trip, she needed her laptop so she could at least complete assignments for her clients.

  They’d just left Worth Avenue, driven past The Breakers, and now they were sitting at a traffic light on U.S. Highway 1 in Riviera Beach, heading north. Amalie had just finished chattering about something that’d happened at work, but Ian’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  Recalling the other night, when Amalie’s father had stumbled over to his room to have a man-to-man chat, Ian cringed. Amalie had been out to dinner with Joy, discussing some new clients for Island Time, when Mr. Jarvis had decided to disclose some information he felt would ‘save’ Ian from wasting his time. He’d leaned against the doorjamb, stinking of liquor.

  “I jus…think you oughta know,” her father had said. “Amalie will never commit to you. She’s just like her mother. Too headstrong.” He shook his head. “She’ll never love you. Not anybody like you.”

  Ian had wanted to punch him, tell him to get the fuck out of his house, do something, but instead all he’d been able to do was stare at this man who would so easily betray his own daughter, probably because he wanted her to be as miserable as he was.

  He didn’t dare tell Amalie what had happened; it would only upset her, make her angrier.

  One thing was for sure, Ian wasn’t going to let anything deter him. He reached over and took her hand, gently squeezing her fingers.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better.” She yawned. “But exhausted. It’s eleven-thirty. Think Dad’s asleep by now?”

  “Maybe. He might be waiting up for us. He didn’t exactly want us to leave.”

  “No, he just wanted us to sink into misery with him. I don’t think so. I’ve gone down that road enough. I’m sick of being miserable.” Her voice sounded cold and distant. “I’m happy now, Ian.” She ran her other hand over his knuckles, then lifted his hand to gently kiss the back of it. “I won’t let Dad ruin that for me.”

  “I doubt very much he came down here just to ruin your happiness.”

  “I know that. But—”

  “You don’t have to say anymore, pumpkin,” Ian intoned, using one of the many pet names he’d come up with. “Just rest. We’ll be home in twenty minutes or so.”

  “I hope he’s sleeping,” she whispered, her voice distant as her eyes fluttered shut.

  “Me too,” Ian mumbled. “Me too.”

  ***

  He hadn’t had a drink since he’d made his promise. Once, he let slip that he’d gone to a bar with a few friends, and the look on Amalie’s face was one of pure devastation. But he hadn’t touched a beer, not a single one, even when his friends had offered to buy it for him.

  She was hurt she’d been left out, and worried he was lying. But the incident passed, and Amalie seemed to ignore it. She was too preoccupied with her father.

  When he left, a great relief sank over them; her father returned to Maine, back to his fishing business. Amalie seemed constantly anxious, and Ian knew it was because she’d been trained all her life to be watching over her father’s shoulder, taking care of him, making sure he was okay.

  “Am.” He approached her in the kitchen, where she stood stirring a pot of soup and staring into it, mesmerized, as if she were elsewhere.

  “Yeah.” Her voice was a soft mumble, the constant turning, turning, turning of the ladle a hypnotizing undertone.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” Ian’s chest ached with regret, the kind of repentance that was the result of a huge mistake—an error so great it could’ve cost him something precious. Someone precious.

  She glanced up at him. “For what?”

  “For being an obnoxious drunk.” His voice was heavy with sorrow, and he didn’t bother to hide it. He nuzzled his head against her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her shampoo. “For hurting you, for saying the things I did. I don’t even remember half of them. And that’s what upsets me more than anything.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “Knowi
ng I said those things, and I don’t even remember it. God, Amalie. I fucking hurt you, and I don’t even remember doing it.”

  “Shh.” She stopped stirring the soup and turned in his arms, cupping his face in her hands. “I love you, Ian. I screwed up too, big-time.” Her eyes moistened with tears. “I went out with…him…because he paid attention to me. That makes me sound so cheap.” She hung her head, pressing it against his chest, shame lacing every word she spoke.

  “You’re not cheap.”

  “I feel that way. You were so distant, you were never around, never there when I needed you. And he was.”

  The words lanced through Ian’s heart, making him weep.

  She looked up into his tear-filled eyes and gasped, “Oh, Ian, I never wanted him, I only wanted you. Please, please forgive me.” She sobbed, her shoulders trembling; he tugged her as close as he could, pressing her body against his.

  “Of course I forgive you. We can get through this. I love you, Amalie.”

  “Ian, I love you.” Her voice sounded hoarse, strained. She was exhausted. “I have to finish dinner.”

  “Let me do it. You sit down and relax.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. What kind of tea would you like?”

  “Ian, I don’t need any—”

  “I said, what kind of tea would you like?” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. They needed this monotonous tradition, they needed something predictable. If it was something as simple as making her a hot cup of tea every evening before bed, he’d do that. He’d do anything.

  “Oh, okay,” she relented, a soft titter escaping her full lips. “Chamomile, please.”

  “Chamomile it is, my dear.”

  When he kissed her, her lips tasted salty from her tears—or maybe they were his. They’d both done so much crying lately, it was hard to tell the difference.

  But they were still holding on. And that was all that mattered. As long as they could do that, he knew they could do anything—together.