Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  The garden had a raw, unfinished look to it. Yet its welcome and future appeal was obvious to him. He glanced at Lanie, wondering if she saw it.

  Her gaze scanned from the entertaining area with its barbeque grill, sink and bench seats to the west, across the flower garden with its central crystal light feature to the far corner where a trio of potted bay trees were a nod to the Edwardians’ enjoyment of topiary. The three bay trees were clipped into simple spherical lollypops.

  The raised platform against the street front wall remained to be built, but over the last three days they’d planted the flowers he’d chosen for color through summer and into autumn: daisies, dianthus, linaria, cosmos, verbena, love-in-the-mist and stocks were mingled with summer herbs and planted to gradually rise in height towards the eastern corner of the street front.

  Lanie would be able to enjoy sweet basil, thyme, marjoram, dill, lavender and sage until the first frosts.

  She walked with him to the entertaining area. To their right, around the corner of the elevator and facing west, along the windowless side of her flat where he’d installed the swing in the narrow gazebo, the mock lawn planted with sedum stretched out to the west and the view of the rustling plane trees, elms and oaks in the square.

  On their other side, the gentle wind brought the burbling sound of the neighbor’s pigeons as they cooed and pecked for seeds. It prompted an unromantic, practical thought. “Do you think the pigeons’ owner would let us film them?” Gardens were about more than plants. Insects, animals and people were part of them.

  “Marshall?” Lanie sat down on the replica wooden bench, her back to the roof edge, so that she could see all of the garden. Most of the materials he’d used up here were plastic or highly manufactured. They might resemble wood or stone, but they were lighter and didn’t require maintenance. “Yes. Marshall’s proud of his birds. They’ve won pigeon racing competitions for fastest flight time home.”

  Nick sat beside her, sprang up and strode off to the control box, neatly fixed to the wall of the flat. An instant later, the crystal fountain in front of her lit. Shifting colors of emerald, turquoise, amethyst, ruby, and agate darted through the artful tumble of crystals before settling into shades of orange. “Not too bad. I prefer real water, but with the drainage and issues of adding weight to the roof, this isn’t a bad alternative.”

  “I like it.”

  So did he. The changing colors were hypnotic, like watching flames in a fireplace.

  “You look like your dad.”

  “Height and coloring.” Automatically, he downplayed the resemblance. There was a row of portraits in the gallery at Waterhill that attested to the dominance of Tawes genes in the men. All the heirs had been black haired, brown eyed and fierce-looking. Determination was a family trait. His mum would have called it stubbornness.

  He preferred to think of it—in himself—as independence. As for his relationship with his dad, he didn’t think of it at all.

  He and Richard got along by ignoring each other. In its own dysfunctional way, that worked for them. Chloe tried to bridge the gap, but while Nick never doubted her love, he knew that the tie between Richard and himself was one of duty and blood. They’d missed the years when fathers and sons built memories and love, and instead, crashed headlong into his adolescence, when boys defined themselves in opposition to their dad.

  Or in emulation.

  He shifted unhappily, looking away from the crystal fountain that was now green with golden highlights, and seemed to shine more brightly. Much more brightly. The day had darkened.

  Crap. Twilight was creeping in.

  For a man who swore he never thought of his dad, he’d spaced out a long time brooding on his family’s relationships. Worse, he’d ignored Lanie’s conversational gambit.

  He wondered that she hadn’t disturbed him, or at minimum, gotten up and walked off. They’d been talking, flirting really, and then, he’d just stopped. Chagrin and embarrassment heated his face. But when he looked at Lanie, she seemed content.

  She’d swiveled sideways on the bench, leaning her left shoulder against the wall and wrapping her arms loosely around her raised knee. She was staring into the distance, thinking her own thoughts. A faint frown creased her forehead, but her mouth was soft and gentle. Not cross, as he deserved.

  His embarrassment eased, but perhaps it was out of it that his question sprang. “Are you close to your family?”

  Her face lit up and he had his answer before she spoke.

  “Yes. They’re not in London, so we don’t see each other every day anymore.” She released her knee and sat straight. Her hands moved in enthusiastic, happy gestures. “We talk a lot online. Selwyn, he’s my brother, five years older than me. He’s in Poland at the moment. He’s never seen a mountain he hasn’t wanted to climb, so I’m sure he’s found some. Mum always says he’s a changeling. She’s a hothouse flower—her words. Her idea of wild adventure is reading romance novels while eating chocolate.”

  He was hooked, as much by her obvious love for her family, as by her quick sketch of them. “And your dad? Is he adventurous?”

  She laughed. “Only in his cooking disasters. After a visit to Thailand, Dad tried to make a green coconut curry.”

  He felt himself growing distant as she lost herself in the story and her memories. One story led to the next, and to another family member in an extended network. Her happiness showed in her voice and face: she loved talking about them, was happy to think of them.

  The crystal light fountain in front of them twinkled into its blue phase. It no longer reminded him of flames or green spring leaves, but of the cold and inhuman glacier tunnels he’d explored in Chile.

  He went still internally, in the way he’d learned years ago. It was as if he pulled bits of himself in, locked himself down and stayed safe, whole. It was how he controlled grief and envy, anger and fear. The feeling of being outside a charmed circle wasn’t new. Since his mum’s death, he hadn’t belonged anywhere in the unthinking, totally confident of being loved way that Lanie belonged to her family.

  She spoke of her dad with such obvious affection. “It was the worst birthday cake ever. Never ever mix chocolate and plums, especially if you’re going to spice it with nutmeg. You might think it would work, but yuk.” She wrinkled her nose, then laughed. “Speaking of food, would you like to stay for dinner? I have—”

  “Sorry. I have to go.”

  She stiffened.

  He recognized his abruptness, but couldn’t find it in him to soften it. He was out of sorts, and the kindest thing he could do was take himself off. He stood, staring down at Lanie, who seemed small. Fragile. It was only a trick of his mood. She was a quietly controlled person, stable and with a loving family. Settled. Everything he wasn’t.

  She stared back at him.

  He ought to cancel her invitation to Waterhill, but he thought of Chloe and knew his dad was right. Chloe would like Lanie.

  And how ill was Chloe for his dad to track him down?

  “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  Lanie watched Nick depart.

  He vanished around the side of her flat and she heard the rattle and clang of, and his fading steps down, the outside staircase.

  Empty, the roof had never felt lonely. Ironic, then, that with the new roof garden in place, she felt abandoned. She hadn’t minded sitting silent beside Nick. Evidently his relationship with his father was strained. She’d accepted his preoccupation and thought her own thoughts.

  She’d been thinking how much she missed her family; so when he’d asked if she was close to them… “Not as much as I wish I was,” she whispered.

  And then, belatedly, light dawned.

  “Oh no.” She ran to the front of the roof and peered over, searching the street, but she couldn’t see Nick.

  With his long legs and the emotion riding him, he’d probably reached the corner already, and vanished from her sight.

  She could call him. But even as she thought of it, what wou
ld she say?

  “Sorry, Nick, for going on and on about my happy family, while you were stewing on who-knows-what sort of painful situation?” Yeah, that would work—not.

  She collapsed back on to a bench. The night air was cool, but she was warm with embarrassment. Her insensitivity appalled her. Soon after she’d escaped Purvis, when she’d been visiting a counsellor for help coping with what had happened and to talk about how she could re-create her life, she’d been so determined not to become a victim, trapped into seeing only her own needs and fears.

  “And here I am, completely self-absorbed.”

  Except that wasn’t the whole truth, either.

  Nick had asked about her family, and she’d been overwhelmed by how much she missed them. Seeing his distance from Richard, she’d wanted her family’s closeness. Talking about them had brought them nearer.

  Only, it seemed to have scared Nick off.

  For the three days of the roof garden installation, Lanie had worn practical clothes, jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. But after offending Nick with her talk of families, she returned to the 1950s, wearing an apricot sweater and a flared pale gray skirt with a white pattern and white patch pockets. Her heels were moderately high and, all day, clicked with annoying bossiness on the museum’s tiles and wooden floors. By close of business, the hairpins that held her chignon in place felt as if they were stabbing into her brain.

  She shut the museum door behind the last of the visitors, saw that it was ten minutes to closing, and locked it. She sighed and pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into a pocket.

  In her other pocket was her phone.

  After Nick’s abrupt exit the previous night, she’d waited for him to cancel tomorrow’s invitation to his family home. A couple of times she tapped out a text, breaking the appointment herself, but each time she deleted it rather than send the message. She was ruefully aware that some part of her still believed in magic. Their flirtation had been fun, their connection real.

  Despite all her doubts and fears, she wanted to explore it.

  It made her restless.

  She walked down the hall, past the framed prints on the walls and the mahogany paneling that needed polishing, and kicked off her shoes at the foot of the staircase. She padded back into the dining room and drawing room, assessing the cleaning that needed doing and that had been skimped the last few days. To add to the air of neglect, their casual cleaner had called in sick. Lanie needed to empty bins and run the vacuum cleaner, mop the hall and polish the smudged dining table.

  She returned to the hall and dropped onto the stairs. She wanted her mum’s hugs and her dad’s lame jokes. She wanted to fight with her cousins and giggle with her Great-Aunt Zee. She wanted her brother to tease her and make things right, as Selwyn had always done—and right there was why she could have none of it.

  In person, in the give and take of daily life, she’d slip up and tell them about the serial killer’s voyeur. On her good days—and this wasn’t one of them—she could tell herself that he had no interest in her, but that couldn’t be guaranteed. Worst of all was his lack of identity. He could be anyone. If her family learned of his existence and stirred up a fuss (and they would) he might feel threatened, and then, all bets were off.

  Lanie leaned her head back against the wall.

  Political power was hedged in by laws and conventions, but all of those could be circumvented. It was what made her so afraid. The serial killer, Purvis, had said his “friend” was an important man at Westminster. If the man was, if he’d had years to accumulate influence and favors owed, then when he felt threatened, almost any attack was possible.

  No matter who he was, he wasn’t untouchable, but he could make things very difficult. That truth was why Detective-Inspector Ann Khan trod so warily. And it was the reason Lanie balanced so precariously in her quest. She wanted to find him, but she couldn’t risk triggering his vengeance. If he had forgotten her…

  Oh, God. She wanted a normal life where she could introduce Nick to her family and show him why she’d spoken of them with such love and enthusiasm.

  Instead, she didn’t even know if he’d still collect her for their visit to Waterhill, tomorrow. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t. But her heart hurt at the thought of him shutting her out of his life.

  From beyond the closed front door of the museum came the sound of traffic and happy voices. Friday night. Other people were celebrating, socializing. Lanie didn’t even want to go up to the roof and see its garden.

  She pushed up from her seat on the stairs. If she was going to mope, she might as well turn herself into a useful Cinderella. Tomorrow, she’d see whether her handsome prince had decided to turn into a frog—and no, that wasn’t fair to Nick, but Lanie allowed herself the grumpiness.

  Chapter 8

  By morning the rain had cleared and so had Lanie’s mood. She’d worked it off cleaning the museum the previous night, knowing that she wouldn’t sleep till she was exhausted and deciding to put her nervous energy to good use. She’d switched on the old gramophone and played the sentimental and silly songs of the early 1900s, the ones that had been sung in music halls. Now the ground floor rooms sparkled, ready to welcome museum visitors, but she was playing hooky.

  She sat beside Nick in his rental car with its expensive leather seats and new car smell, and thought that he, too, had thrown off his mood.

  They were both on their best behavior. She asked about his work and enjoyed his enthusiasm until he broke off, smiling ruefully.

  “You shouldn’t let me talk about gardening. I tend to go on. So, how did you become a museum curator? Is it the history or the objects that draws you in? Where did you work before?”

  Her muscles seized. Her breath strangled.

  He didn’t know! He didn’t know who she was.

  To her own critical ears, her voice sounded hoarse. “Didn’t you do an internet search on me?”

  His shoulders shifted, his hands flexed on the steering wheel. He was embarrassed. “That’s a bit naff, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I looked you up.”

  “Yes, but I scared you that first night. You’d want to know who I was.”

  A red car zoomed past them, weaving an erratic pattern through the traffic ahead. An accident waiting to happen.

  Lanie gripped her seatbelt, the edge of it cutting into her fingers. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t tell Nick her history, not here and now. Not in a fast-moving car on the way to his parents. She didn’t know what to tell him. She couldn’t confess that she hadn’t looked him up until she’d wanted reasons to prevent the roof garden television program being filmed at the museum. But that was the least of her worries.

  How could he not know who she was?

  She tended to think of her history as the unspoken extension of her name, the bit everybody silently added at the end of introductions. Lanie Briers, survived a serial killer.

  She’d simply assumed that Nick knew her history, and like everyone else, avoided mentioning it out of awkwardness. Her experience was so outside of normal life that people didn’t know how to handle it. Hell, she didn’t know!

  He glanced at her. “It’s okay, Lanie. You had every reason to investigate who I was, crawling about your roof.”

  Say something normal. “I thought everyone looked up potential dates.” She cringed. “That was not what I meant to say. Your dad invited me. This isn’t a date.”

  “What is it?”

  She risked a glance at him and saw him fighting the same smile that sounded in his voice. All her tension dropped from her, leaving her weak but recovering; able to smile. Today could be anything they wanted. She wouldn’t let the past destroy it. Some secrets could wait to be revealed.

  “Curiosity,” she said definitely. “I’m curious about Waterhill.” And teasing, as her spirits soared in the freedom of her decision to say nothing. “I looked it up on the net.”

  “Ah.” Her teasing fell flat as his smile vanished. “Stone Tudor mano
r house. Held by the Tawes family for over three centuries. Set in farming country. Private home. No tours.”

  But from the few photos online, beautiful. Whatever his issues with Richard, she’d assumed Nick would be proud of Waterhill. Wrong, again. She retreated to an impersonal topic. “There was some mention of craft studios in the converted stable block?”

  Nick danced his fingers against the steering wheel, a habit born of irritation with himself, as he noticed Lanie’s deflection. He’d asked her a question about her past and she’d flicked the conversation back to him. Maybe he should look her up on the net, but that wasn’t him. He was too conscious of his own privacy—and how he’d reconcile his need for privacy with the television program, he wasn’t sure. At the moment, he was counting on the roof gardens eclipsing him. He suspected there was a flaw in his thinking.

  One thing he wouldn’t do was nag Lanie to discuss personal matters when she evidently preferred not to. He owed her that much and more. After his abrupt departure Thursday night, he’d half-expected her to phone and say she wouldn’t be accompanying him to Waterhill. But here she was, glamorous in a zebra print dress that suggested the 1950s without looking like a costume. She was on guard, but willing to try again.

  He wanted this second chance.

  He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman since his teenage infatuation with his French teacher. He dreamed of her.

  So he stilled the impatient tempo of his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, and followed Lanie’s lead back to the safe ground of small talk. “The studios are for Chloe. She has bad days when it’s a struggle to get around. Dad converted the stables and offered them at nominal rent to people who would be congenial company for Chloe, so that she saw people, the craftspeople and their customers, without having to leave home.”

  “That’s a clever solution.”

  “Dad’s full of them.” And that slipped out without permission. He compressed his lips.

  Although he felt Lanie look at him, she didn’t question the comment.