The Art of Inheriting Secrets
Page 28
“Hey,” I said, slamming the door behind me. “Thanks for the asparagus. They were amazing.”
“You’re welcome.” She drove toward the estate, dodging puddles in the road. “I cannot remember a spring with so much rain! It’s insane!”
“I’m worried about the picnic. Even the tarps won’t be enough.”
“I know. So am I.” As if to underscore the concern, it started to patter down again, just enough to obscure the countryside. “What would you think about moving the tables inside?”
“Inside where? The house?”
“Yes, the kitchen is empty enough. And nothing is dangerous in there, is it? Ceilings and floors all sound?”
“I think so.” As we bounced up the rutted back road, I hung on to the dashboard. “I have to rope this road off, however. It’s not sound enough for a lot of traffic, especially if it keeps raining. Everyone will have to come down the main approach.”
“That’s good. Let’s make sure.”
We were silent for a while. Pavi finally said, “I’m sorry my mother was so rude to you.”
I shrugged.
“I know it will probably not make it easier, but she does suffer from arthritis terribly. That’s why she goes to India during the cold months. This weather is not easy for her.”
“I’m sure.”
The silence deepened. Pavi looked at me.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Pavi. It’s understandable that you defend her, and I would have lived with her disdain for me—”
“She isn’t disdainful of you. She’s just—”
“Let’s not.” I held up a hand. “She implied terrible things about my mother.”
“Oh. That.” She bumped up the driveway to the house. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. That’s a bit of . . . not jealousy, but possessiveness . . . there. My dad always had kind of a thing about your mom—they were good friends, I think—and he always defends her against any negative comments.”
“You didn’t say it, Pavi. I’m not upset with you.”
She parked and turned off the van. Looked at me. “Good. Because I really like you, Olivia Shaw. I haven’t made a new friend in a long time, and I will hate it if my family gets in the way of that. My mother or my brother.”
I reached for her hand. “Me, too, Pavi. I mean it. Who else would get it when I flip out over a strawberry?”
She laughed. “You did flip out a bit.” She slapped the steering wheel. “Enough. Let’s go see what we can make happen here.”
We organized the vendor schedule and the timetables and mapped out the indoor plan, which actually seemed quite doable. If the day was fine on Saturday, we’d set up on the grass. If not, we’d set up inside. When we were done, it was still only ten, and I asked her to come with me to the carriage house, where I took measurements and paced out what I thought I might do with the space. I’d need everything from pots and pans to furniture to linens, and it was fun to imagine.
“Are you moving soon?” Pavi asked.
“As soon as I can get some furniture, actually. Why not?” I turned in a circle, narrowing my eyes to add the pale celery of my imagination to the walls. “It will be a lot better than the place over the chip shop.”
“I can see that.” She ran her fingers over the counter. “I’m jealous. My father doesn’t want to live alone, but I’d love a place like this, where I could come and go without any bother.”
“Why doesn’t he go to India with your mother?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. They seem to still have a good marriage, but they’re both intractable on this point of location. He’s never lived in India, and he isn’t sure he would feel at home there. But he’s lonely without her all winter.” Bending to open the doors of the AGA, she added, “That’s why I’m staying single. Marriage is too much trouble.”
I realized I’d never heard her say anything about lovers. “Or not,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t. I cannot possibly listen to a woman who is in the new throes of—” She brushed her hands, avoided choosing a word. “You know.”
“Yes.” My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. “It’s Jocasta.” I picked up. “Hey, Jocasta. What’s new?”
“Where are you, love? Can you meet me at the gardens in a bit?”
“Sure. I’m at the carriage house, actually. I think I’m going to make over the caretaker’s flat, and I was getting some ideas. What time?”
“We’re on our way.” She sounded oddly buoyant. “I have a surprise for you!”
“Really? I’ll walk over there. Meet by the rose garden?”
“How about the pool?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“See you in ten.”
“Great.” Hanging up, I looked at Pavi. “She has a surprise. Which she will no doubt film. Am I a big mess?”
“Not really.” Pavi brushed at my shoulder. “You just need to comb your hair. Put some lipstick on.”
“I don’t wear much lipstick.”
Her gaze was level. “Put some lipstick on. The camera washes out your face.”
I scrambled through my bag and came up with a berryish color. “How do you know something like that?”
“At one time, I was desperate to be on Master Chef.” Hands on her hips, she looked around the room. “I love this place, but how did they afford the upgrades?”
“They couldn’t afford it. The estate afforded it.”
“Ah.” Her phone buzzed, and without answering, she said, “I’d better get back to Coriander. If you decide to go shopping, I’d love to go with you. I can only get away Mondays, but we could make a day of it, go to London. Escape.”
“That would be fun.”
On the way out, she said, “Everything is good for the picnic, I think, but if you think of anything, let me know.”
I saluted her.
“Comb your hair.”
“Right.” I dug out my comb, ran it through the tangles, and spread my hands. “Good?”
She gave me a thumbs-up and headed out.
But the minute she was gone, I felt the weight of the picnic’s expense fall on my shoulders. It was going to be wildly expensive, and while there was enough in the accounts to cover it, I would be virtually broke until the next influx of rent payments, which meant if I wanted to move soon, I’d be in a sleeping bag on the floor.
A team of gardeners, herded about by one of the garden club officers, had been hard at work the past few weeks, or at least whenever the weather had allowed. Not that English gardeners seemed to mind the rain—I’d often seen groups of two or three in their macks and wellies working in the drizzle.
They had accomplished a lot, I noticed as I wound down the path toward the pool. I’d not seen as much progress on the roses because evidently Jocasta had recruited a pair of rose experts from Kent to come in the following week to assess and formulate a plan, but here, weeds had been cleared and some of the shrubbery trimmed, enough that I could get a feeling for what it would be like when it was finished—willows trailing fingers in the winding stream, rhododendrons blooming purple above tufts of primrose. This was the wilder section, quieter, meant for contemplation.
And peacocks, evidently. One strolled ahead of me, stopping now and again to poke at the earth. It didn’t seem to care about me in the slightest. Its long feathers swept the ground like a train. Another bird, as plain as the other was showy—a female—bobbed ahead of it.
The path bottomed out at the pool, which had been swampy and green with neglect the last time I’d seen it. Now the little bridge and balustrades around the rectangle were scrubbed clean, showing the pale stone, and the concrete pool held clean water that reflected the sky and tree branches. A few pots had been planted with ferns and geraniums, and those reflections shimmered across the surface. It was extraordinarily peaceful. I walked onto the bridge and leaned on the ledge, peering down. Around me, the trees rustled, and birds twittered and sang out.
Magical.
“I love it.” At the far end of the pool, a white peacock emerged from the greenery beyond and strutted toward the pool, where he bent his head to drink. His reflection shimmered across the surface, ghostly. “They aren’t afraid of humans at all, are they?”
“Don’t seem to be.” She took my shoulders and turned me to walk the path upward. “Time for your surprise.”
“I’m so excited. But I hope it isn’t going to be something that costs another fortune.”
“It is not, and anyway, this is my treat.” The three of us puffed up the little bricked steps, emerging by the conservatory. “Ta-da!”
A large truck loaded with supplies I couldn’t quite figure out was parked near the conservatory. “What’s happening?”
“That is a load of glass, my dear. Your heart was so set on doing the conservatory that we decided to give you a little present for showing up for the estate so diligently.”
“Oh, wow.” I covered my cheeks with the palms of my hands. “This is absolutely wonderful.”
She touched my shoulder. “I thought you’d be pleased. Helen and I are friends, you know. She showed me the picture book your mother painted. I was enchanted.”
Impulsively, I hugged her tight, and she chuckled, patting my shoulder in a gesture of calm. “You’re welcome.” She gestured to Ian to film the greenhouse, and when he was engaged, she said, “Everything all set for the picnic Saturday?”
“Yes. I was just with Pavi in the kitchen, figuring out where to put the tables if it rains.”
“Wonderful. We’ll be here. Might be nice to give the locals a little national coverage. Which trucks will be here?”
I listed the three that were coming. “And of course, Coriander is providing many dishes too. Have you been there, Jocasta?”
“No. I take it I should go.”
“Yes, you should. Pavi is one of the most talented cooks I’ve ever met.”
“Mmm. I’ll take a look.” She waved as she took off, busy as ever, on to her next project. I’d been very lucky to connect with her. It was hard to imagine how I would have been able to do it without her insights. And the earl’s, of course.
I watched as materials were unloaded, seeing the conservatory whole in my mind, filled with exotic plants and seedlings for the gardens. Using the greenhouse system, we could propagate plenty of plants to beautify the front of the house, as well. If I used bright-colored flowers in mass plantings, the colors would be visible from the village, a sign of beauty and prosperity. A tiny, tiny sense of pride took root in my heart. Maybe it was going to work out.
In my pocket, my phone vibrated. Expecting the contractor, I answered without looking.
“Olivia,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Claudia Barber. I’m afraid there’s bad news. The earl has had another heart attack. It’s quite dire. I thought you’d want to know.”
“How dire?”
“Very, but he was still alive last I heard. He’s been taken to Watford Hospital. Shall I send the car for you?”
I’d been afraid to ask if I could come, given that we were only friends, and not a very long acquaintance. But somehow, in our limited time, we’d become very close. “Please.”
Three of us waited for news together—Claudia; her brother, Alexander; and me. I felt a little awkward, but Claudia sat next to me and held my hand, clearly beside herself. Alexander, who looked as if he’d just come in from a great hike, in battered boots and rip-proof pants, fetched paper cups of tea for all of us.
“How long have you been caring for him?” I asked Claudia.
“Nearly fourteen years now. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Not at all.”
“He was so kind to me as a girl. Our parents were killed when we were in grammar school, and while Alex is made of stern stuff, I was a wreck over it for months and months. He just let me be. Brought me dolls and games and finally”—she smiled, sniffing—“a horse. That did the trick.”
“Do you still ride?”
“When I can. The past five years, he’s needed my attention.”
“Sounds like you’re both very lucky.”
“He’s been so alive since you arrived, Olivia.”
Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I didn’t feel I had the right to let them show, and I lowered my lashes to hide the emotion. “He’s very dear.”
We waited in more silence for another hour until the doctor came out looking grim. I’d already known he would likely not survive, but that expression sealed it. I felt I was again back in that hospital in San Francisco, where my mother had not survived the pneumonia that she’d known, given her cancer, would kill her. “He’s conscious,” the doctor said. “But he hasn’t much time. You can see him, one at a time.”
“What bloody difference does it make if he’s dying?” Alex blustered, standing to his full six-foot-three.
“Hospital rules,” the doctor replied mildly. He gripped Alex’s arm just above the elbow, as if bracing him.
“You go,” Alex said to Claudia. She hurried away.
We sat down. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. Samir had texted. Is he all right?
I texted back: No. I will call in a bit.
I’ll fetch you when you’re ready, any time. Just ring.
Thank you.
“Boyfriend?” Alex said.
I never liked the word “boyfriend” for grown men, but it was too much trouble to come up with any other description. I nodded.
“The thatcher, is it?”
I raised my eyebrow, suddenly feeling like my grandmother. “None of your business.”
He half grinned. “You’re right. My uncle’s been on about it. ‘I like the lad well enough,’” he growled in a fair imitation of the earl, “‘but the girl has no idea what she needs in a marriage.’”
I laughed. “I’ve heard the same.”
“The match he wanted is between the two of us.” Alex scraped a thumbnail along the seam of his hiking pants. I could see the grizzled shine of unshaved beard along his jaw. “But I’m sure you’ve already realized that’s impossible.”
“I had never given it any thought. Are you married already?”
“No, no. Just quite thoroughly gay.”
“Ah!” I laughed. “That would be problematic.”
Claudia joined us. “He wants you, Olivia.”
“Go,” Alex said.
“Sure?” I stood, but uncertainly.
He nodded, gestured with one giant hand.
George was connected to nothing, and I realized that he would want it that way. His breath was shallow and uneven, his color quite gray. I took his hand. “Leaving so soon?”
A twitch of his lips, and he squeezed my fingers. “Thank . . . you . . . Olivia,” he managed. “Save . . . Rosemere.”
“I’ll try. I swear.”
His grip tightened infinitesimally. “No . . . try. Do.”
I grinned. “Okay, Yoda.”
“Kiss,” he whispered, pointing to his cheek.
With a deep breath against showing my sadness, I gladly kissed him. “Thank you. I’m so grateful you’ve looked out for me.”
His eyes closed. “Alex.”
I let go and went to find him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I left Claudia and Alex and headed out into the street to walk. I didn’t call Samir or anyone else. I only walked, up one street and down another, not caring when a light drizzle began to fall, soaking my hair. The rain hid my tears.
As I walked, my mother walked with me. She was in the sensible shoes of the women with their net bags, and in the window of the bookshop where I saw another of our book club selections, I spied her tan raincoat, a thousand years old and still in perfect condition, because she took care of things. The earl was gone, and I would miss him, grieve him, but it was my mother’s loss I felt in the co
ld rain of that English afternoon. I wanted to talk to her just one more time.
When the rain began to fall with more intent, I ducked into a Costa and ordered a latte for the first time since I’d arrived in England. The frothy milk and strong coffee braced me, and when I had finished, I found I could call Samir for a ride. “I don’t exactly know where I am,” I said apologetically. “Let me ask the barista.”
“Are you all right?”
“No,” I said and blinked back a new rush of tears. “I’m heartbroken.”
“As you should be. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Traffic will be heavy.”
From my purse, I took my sketchbook and flipped through it. Here was a small record of my time in England. The lemon chicken soup at the earl’s, the strawberries I had bought after tasting them at Helen’s, a page full of spices tumbling down in a diagonal line, star anise and cardamom pods, cumin seed and coriander.
When I got to a clean page, I started sketching from memory my mother’s kitchen. The windows overlooking her garden, the backsplash she’d always hated and never replaced, the curtains. I’d taught myself to cook in that kitchen because my mother was hopeless and had never learned to like it.
On the opposite page, I sketched her face. The pointed chin, the smooth swing of her hair, the big eyes, so full of secrets. Until a new tear splashed on the page, I didn’t realize I was weeping again, but I had no way to stop it, so I only turned my back to the room and faced the rainy day through the window and drew, feeling as if I might actually die myself from the weight of my sorrow.
When Samir arrived, I’d had a coffee and a tea and a pastry that was dry and nowhere close to Helen’s beauties, but I was calm again, the grief stuffed back into a safe place. I ached over the fresh new cut of losing the earl, but the rawness of my mother was hidden carefully away.
The rain had snarled the heavy commuter traffic, and he looked as if he’d been in traffic jams—his hair was wild from his fingers. He sank down beside me. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s ridiculous that I’m still not driving.”
“You’ve had a bit on your plate.”