by Laura Briggs
"Make a birthday wish, Geoff," said Gemma. "Just like in the movies. Maybe it'll come true." She lit the candle on a tempting-looking cake — a scrumptious recipe from Dinah's kitchen which Lady Amanda had arranged to have brought to the table after lunch.
"Bet he wishes for a raise," said Pippa, with a wink in the direction of our employers.
"Bet he wishes for a million pounds," said Gemma.
"I think he'll wish that the lot of nosy young things at the manor would hold their tongues," snorted Dinah, as Geoff leaned over and gently blew out the flame.
"Tell us, Geoff," said Pippa.
"If you tell it won't come true," I protested. "Don't listen to them, Geoff."
"Oh, that's a superstition," said Lady Amanda. "Do tell so we'll know if it’s going to come true."
"I think I will hold to superstition, Lady Amanda," he answered. "I'm afraid I'm rather too old to believe that one million pounds will arrive by magic into my possession, since I never play the lotto." Despite his usual calm, grave tone, I detected a hint of humor in Geoff's voice as he glanced at me, accepting a slice of Dinah's cake.
Afterwards, we trickled away from the restaurant towards the cars parked along the street. I was arm in arm with Pippa, our best luncheon dresses — my semi-casual pink and white flowered chiffon and her electric-blue polka dot minidress — clashing a little as we picked our way in high heels past the pavement cracks in need of repair.
Even being careful, I felt the jolt of a stiletto trapped between a pavement gap. "Stuck," I announced, as I pulled free of Pippa's arm. She had practically pulled me off my feet before I spoke, not even aware that I had stopped.
"What?" she asked, glancing back a second later. "Something wrong?" I shook my head, motioning for her to go on. Remembering plenty of times when I was every bit as lost in my own daydreams as she was on an afternoon this beautiful.
"Ah, the young," said Dinah, who was passing by now. "Do you want a hand?"
"I'm fine," I said. I wiggled the shoe a bit, being careful not to scrape the leather. I winced, thinking of the scrape that would undoubtedly show once it was free — shoe polish doesn't cover everything. While this was a knockoff pair, I was fond of them anyway.
I stood up, feeling the breeze on my face, carrying the heavy smell of sea air that has a distinctive flavor, an acquired taste that you get only from living on and loving the coast. The buildings looked white in the bright sunlight, except for the striped awnings, the green buds peeking from window boxes, and the black and white cross of a Saint Piran's flag.
I heard the security honk of a horn as Gemma bumped against Geoff's car before he had unlocked its door. I smelled the scent of pasties cooking in a nearby shop, and I saw a man emerging from the chemist's, a backpack slung on his shoulder, dark hair contrasting with his blue shirt.
Matthew.
The figure had turned the other way, walking the opposite direction from me. I know I shouted his name, because I felt my lips move and heard the words in my ear. I knew that everybody was looking at me — Dinah and Geoff and the girls, Lord William and Lady Amanda who were catching up behind me — but I didn't even notice their expressions. I had taken off in that direction, pausing only to pull off my heels and carry them in one hand as I ran like a crazy person down the streets of Ceffylgwyn.
I knew it was him. I knew it. The unmistakable profile, the color of his hair, the expression on his face — all unmistakable. Matthew Rose was here in Cornwall.
"Matthew, wait!"
I shouted again, trying in vain to close the distance. The figure never turned to acknowledge me. Was it a mistake? Was I chasing a stranger? I brushed past a boy walking a dog, a girl busy watering a tub full of spring daffodils, all without slowing down. Ahead of me, the figure turned the corner and disappeared.
When I reached the next street, he was nowhere in sight. Frustrated, I stopped running, biting my lip as I gazed at my surroundings. The usual shops and houses, only without a soul in sight. A motorbike beeped at me as it passed by, but the driver was a stranger. There was no sign of anybody I knew. Not even a glimpse of a stranger who looked remotely like Matthew.
Disappointed, I turned around. The woman rearranging the window display to my left was staring at me, undoubtedly wondering who I'd been chasing. I turned the corner onto the street where Geoff and Lord William were parked, and ran directly into a man in a blue shirt as he exited the side door of a shop, his cologne so familiar that I lost my breath at the scent of it.
I looked up into Matthew's eyes. He was looking at me as if he'd seen a ghost. I was looking at him as if he was a mirage. At last, his lips moved.
"Julianne," he said.
"Hi," I answered. I wanted to bite my tongue. Hi? How about, 'what are you doing here?'
We both stared at each other. "I ... I didn't know you were back," I said. Because nothing else came to mind at this moment. "I mean — I thought you were in Boston."
"I was." His voice sounded hoarse, almost far away. "That is ... I've only been back for a day or two. Since the end of the semester."
"Right. The semester." My lips tried to smile, but couldn't. It didn't feel right...not like meeting an old friend on the street. This was awkward, painful, and hurt in the pit of my heart.
"I didn't think I would see you this soon —" he began. "That is —"
"Are you here for long?" I made my tone extremely polite and casual, only I wished my voice wasn't trembling, because it ruined the effect.
"I don't know," he said. "Not if ... I may have to go to London for awhile." He glanced away, studying the flag rippling in the wind above a pot of half-open daffodils.
"Oh." I paused. "Well ... I suppose I'll see you around," I replied. "You can tell me about your class." I didn't mention South America, or the poor plant Matt had been trying to save.
"Yes," said Matt. But it was as if the word had been dragged out of him. He didn't want to look me in the eye, I could see. That sudden sheepishness — avoidance — on his part made me feel angry.
The politeness would kill me if I stood here much longer.
"I...um, I'm renting the cottage," I continued. Your cottage, I almost said, before I sternly corrected myself. "There are some things there that you forgot."
"I'll pick them up," he said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
"It's good to see you," he said. But he didn't look as if it was good. He looked as if he was miserable — as miserable as I felt standing here. "I'm sorry it's been so long." He looked at me for a moment, his dark eyes flickering to my own.
"Me, too." If it hadn't been for how mortified I felt, that gaze might have melted me. But Matt's pain was accompanied by body language that said clearly that he wanted distance, more than simply an arm's length apart.
He hesitated. "I should — I should go," he began.
"Of course." Right now, I didn't care if that was reluctance or desperation in his voice. "I have to as well. Goodbye." I touched his arm, briefly, then moved past him, walking towards the rest of the manor staff. Trying to seem as calm and normal as if my chasing down someone while barefoot was a perfectly ordinary experience, as if nothing in meeting Matt and finding that he'd dreaded this moment could actually hurt me like a red-hot poker shoved into my chest.
I wanted to feel as over it as he seemed. I wasn't going to cry, I wasn't going to let it show that our breakup hurt. I was going to cling to my dignity, and be perfectly adult about the fact that relationships end.
I was not going to picture myself in Matthew's arms, no matter how badly I ached to be there.
***
"So why didn't you tell us he was coming home?" demanded Pippa. She was tying ribbons on the little complementary gifts for the wine tasting tomorrow, while Gemma and I were working on cutting cheese cubes for the appetizer platters. "I can't believe he hasn't come to see us at all!"
"You know, I had a dream about Ross just a few nights ago," said Gemma. "Now, I think maybe that was
a sign." She blushed a little a second later, since, after all, I was supposed to be Matt's girlfriend.
"Well, he's not sure he's staying long," I said. "He might be going to London." I repeated this part of Matt's answer, hoping they wouldn’t press me for details.
"You must've been surprised," said Gemma. "Did he mean to surprise you? Was he planning to show up at your place without warning — let me guess, you spoiled it by chasing him down?"
"I was surprised, yes," I said. It wasn't a blush of pleasure that was suffusing my cheeks with these words, whatever they might think. "He definitely intended something else." Like sneaking into Cornwall and avoiding seeing me as long as possible.
"How romantic," sighed Pippa. "I wish a bloke would try to surprise me with something special. Last thing Gregory did for me? Brought me a bunch of half-dead flowers picked out of his mum's window boxes. And some poor excuse for missing my birthday for a wrestling match."
"Wrestling? Ick! And I thought he was the rugby type." Gemma tsked with sympathy after this. "Know what Andy did to me this past week?"
"No! What sort of cad has he been?"
I was glad for this change of subject. No one knew yet about my falling out with Matt — or that I hadn't the slightest idea what he'd been doing for almost two months now. I wanted to gradually slide into the truth, which would be easier when Matt was in London. And even easier when I finally wasn't still in love with him.
As for the possibility that Matt would be sticking around...I couldn't think about that yet.
I had to face facts and talk to him soon, to get it over with. First, to berate him for not having the decency to email me back those last few times. Then I intended to point out that he could have simply called me when he got back from South America and told me it was over, rather than leave me hanging on for — what? Two weeks now? Three? How long had he been back from the wilderness, and avoiding communication with me?
Yes, that was definitely what I was going to do. Then, when I had time to lick my own wounded pride after wounding his, maybe I would stop being in love with Matthew Rose.
Today, I had an appointment at Willows Floral, where I had recently explained Lady Amanda's wish to purchase a rare, domesticated version of the Alabama canebrake pitcher plant. Constance had painted a grove of the endangered plant back in the 1950's, only ten years after its discovery in a handful of U.S. counties. Lady Amanda had shown me the postcards of the unusual plant, with its tulip-like maroonish-brown blossoms, and the late season 'pitchers' of yellow, threaded with spidery orange veins here and there, rising like trumpets from the plant's base.
I had shown those same postcards to Harvey Willow, along with a complete printout on the Sarracenia alabamensis and its limited availability as a preservation-oriented propagated species. Now I hoped that he had word on how soon the plant would arrive from the U.S.
"Ah, well...let me see." Harvey scratched his head, almost dislodging his glasses. "A — a what did you say? An Alabama lily?"
"A pitcher plant," I explained, patiently. "Remember — I showed you a printed picture?"
"Mm-hmm. I have a stack of those around here — pictures for orders, I mean." He shuffled through some papers next to a computer. An outdated, boxy monitor that was shut off and covered by a cloth, I noticed. "What did you say your name was?"
"Julianne Morgen," I said. "You've met me before, remember? I work at the estate." I tried not to feel exasperated, although this was the second time I'd explained to him who I was.
"Yes, of course — Miss Morgen. The one Lord William hired from America," said Harvey, snapping his fingers. "I certainly hope you've taken a liking to Cornwall, Miss Morgen."
"Yes," I said, weakly. "It's lovely. But if you could just check on the status of the plant I ordered for Lady Amanda, that would be really great."
"Ah. The plant. Yes. What was that again?"
"The Alabama canebrake pitcher plant," I said. "That's it in that pile of papers — no, not that pile, the other one — no, to your left, Mr. Willow. The other left —"
"This one? No. Well ... good heavens, this one's a month old." He frowned with puzzlement as he stared at the latest sheet of paper from his stack. "Hmm...I wonder if Lorene still needs it..."
"About the pitcher plant?" I suggested again.
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Terrible mess around here," said Harvey Willow. "My boy's doing, I'm afraid. I'm supposed to be retired, you know. Just helping with the arrangements and the hothouses and what not. He's running things now — had to go and break his leg up at St Austell a few weeks ago. Hasn't mastered crutches at all yet."
So Harvey's son David must be entirely in charge of the business side of Willow Florists, something I hadn't realized until now. But with him gone, there was nothing else I could do, unless I wanted to deal with a London florist, who might be twice as busy — the only other florist local to Ceffylgwyn was on vacation in Spain for a month.
"Knew it would be trouble the moment that rich footballer bought the racetrack up there last year," Harvey muttered. "What's-his-name, married the model 'round here, didn't he?" Inwardly, I winced over this reference to Donald Price-Parker and Petal, Matt's ex. "Thought we got rid of that sort when the Trelawny Tigers folded, what had David moping about for weeks. Hoped it would stay closed after sane folk crushed St Eval's bid over noise, but money speaks to everyone sooner or later these days. Even so, it did put a stop to the boy's running off every weekend to race with that club in Launceston —"
"Are you sure we couldn't call David?" I interrupted, eagerly. "Maybe he could talk you through the computer program's steps?" Surely the information was trapped inside that hard drive, more so than Harvey's precariously-positioned stacks of paper.
"No need, no need. Now, what was the Latin name of this plant?" He lifted the sheet from the pile, squinting at it. "I can't make it out — must've left my glasses in my other pocket."
"Sarracenia alabamensis," I said, reading it for him. "Um, your glasses —"
"When the boy gets back, this will all be easier. He knows computers like a proper genius. Took a class in school." Harvey searched carefully for the monitor's 'on' switch, the screen sputtering from blue lines to an old command prompt that one only saw in nineties-era movies now.
One finger picked its way across the keys. "I've got two weddings this month, you know. Plus the regular order for the manor house that they can't fill on their own. Heard they lost their gardener. And that chap who used to look after the hothouse, one of Lord William's school chums."
I tried hard not to blush at this inadvertent reference to Matthew once again. "Um, Mr. Willow," I tried again, tapping the top of my head.
"Blasted little keys are so hard to see," the florist mumbled, not noticing my gesture. "Ah. Well. It seems there's not an order for Lady Amanda, miss," he said.
No order? But I had brought this printout in days ago. "Is something wrong?" I asked. "Is it out of stock — is there a ban on it in Customs?"
"Not if I've got the proper import forms, likely ... and the nursery's certified and inspected...I just haven't put in for it yet, it seems."
"You mean you forgot?"
"Exactly, Miss Morgen. Exactly." He shook his head. "It flew out of my mind, it seems."
My heart sank. "How long...exactly ... will it take for one to arrive?"
"Oh, with the Customs forms...the inspection ... a bit of wheedling here and there with the Ministry of Agriculture's special permits and so on ... a couple of weeks or so."
"If you send it today?" I said.
He looked away from the screen. "What? Oh, of course, Miss Morgen. I'll see to it directly." He laid the piece of paper atop the keyboard, and searched his pockets with both hands. "Now, if I could just find my —"
"Your glasses, Mr. Willow." I pointed to the top of my head. His eyes traveled up to his own, which were propped there.
"Ah. Well, I actually meant a pen. For the forms."
Ah. So those, too, had gone astray since the l
ast time I was here. With a sigh, I accepted a pen and the sheets of paper and began filling in the blanks once more.
***
I reheated a pasty in Rosemoor Cottage's tiny oven, and popped it quickly in my mouth in four bite-size pieces. I slung my jacket across the worn kitchen chair and pictured kicking my high heels off for a pair of sequined mules as I settled in with the sketches for Constance's bouquet.
A simple little one of ivory and lavender blooms, we decided. Lady Amanda had already coaxed Constance into at least purchasing a new dress for the wedding, and the two of them were off to London for the first half of this week. I suspected if Constance hadn't needed to meet with a gallery owner there to transfer some paintings for the exhibit that Lady Amanda never would have convinced her to agree.
I heard a knock on the front door. "Coming!" I shouted, swallowing the last of my tea before I hurried to answer it. There, on the doorstep, was Matt.
I was so shocked at the sight of him that I lost my words for a moment — and why must my heart give that crazy flutter at the same time? "Oh. Hello," I said. Still polite. And still using my polite-but-reserved smile. "It's you."
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said. "I wanted to get my things out of your way." He looked as if he planned to stay on the doorstep, as if I would simply close the door and leave him there while I fetched them. Well, if he thought I was going to be petty about this, he was completely wrong. Justifiably angry, but not petty.