Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (3 page)

Zero to sixty in five seconds—that’s what her life felt like. Plans, lists, study, reading, and writing filled every imaginable moment of her time in London. Pru became a student again, diving into preliminary research at the British Library and visiting the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, arranging for copies from their archives to be sent to Edinburgh. Everywhere, she made copious notes on Archibald Menzies, who had become the second-most important man in her life.

Christopher understood. His days stretched ten and twelve hours long as he plunged into police work. One evening, he’d arrived back at his flat to find Pru dozing on the leather sofa, a half-finished glass of wine on the table nearby and one of his Horatio Hornblower books open on her chest.

“It’s giving me another glimpse into the times,” she said, sitting up after he had kissed her awake. “
The Happy Return
takes place not long after Mr. Menzies was on the
Discovery
. I can’t understand why the surgeon on Hornblower’s ship wasn’t also a botanist. It seems like it was a common practice—they had to be both doctor and apothecary—and he could’ve brought back plants from his travels around South America.”

“A glaring omission,” Christopher said, after he removed his jacket, sat with his own glass, and pulled her close. He’d been such a good sport about listening to details of eighteenth-century plant collecting. She had been about to explain the great failures many collectors had in transporting their treasures back without benefit of a Wardian case, which was a contraption much like a terrarium. It hadn’t been invented until long after Menzies was off the high seas. Pru’s head swam with such bits of history, and in hopes of getting it all straight so she could speak coherently about the subject when she got to Edinburgh, she tended to sift through what she’d studied and retell it all to Christopher. Getting ready for this job felt more than a little like studying for her orals at Texas A&M.

“Jo and I are having lunch tomorrow,” she said, shutting the door on Mr. Menzies for the evening. “She has some ideas for the wedding, something she didn’t want to tell me on the phone. She sounds excited.”

Being married—Pru was growing quite accustomed to the idea of committing to sharing her life with Christopher. Just the mention of spending their lives together sent her away on clouds of happy thoughts. Thoughts of planning a wedding, on the other hand, caused her stomach to tighten. The only special events she’d planned, apart from her mother’s funeral and the open garden at Primrose House—and she couldn’t claim credit for that beyond the plantings—were birthday parties. She didn’t think cone-shaped hats with elastic chin straps and pin the tail on the donkey would suit the occasion.

“We haven’t set a date,” he reminded her. “When is your project finished? What about the weekend after that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll just check with Lydia to find out when school ends for the girls.”

“Have you spoken with her again?”

“No. I didn’t even tell her I’m going to Edinburgh. I’ll wait until I’m there and settled,” she said. “I’ll have plenty of time in the evenings. All by myself. I’ll have to get used to that all over again.”

He raised his eyebrows in agreement. “As will I.”

Pru met Jo in a café near Jo’s flat in Belgravia. A steady rain fell, and the three small metal tables out on the pavement sat dripping and empty while indoors, the lunch crowd wedged into chairs at tables that fit together like puzzle pieces. Pru saw Jo through the window—eyes on her phone screen, probably conducting business. As a property manager, Jo matched clients with appropriate and elegant spaces, and was able to work from a restaurant or while minding her only grandchild, Oliver, while Cordelia taught piano.

Jo dressed for work no matter what, and today had on a well-cut black business suit, sky-blue silk blouse, and three-inch black heels, which brought her height even with Pru’s shoulders. Jo had worn her Burberry trench coat, probably against the weather. Pru shed her yellow waterproof jacket as soon as she walked in the door lest she be mistaken for someone from the road-works crew. She had donned her best pair of woodsy-brown wool trousers and a rose-colored cardigan.

“The soup is cream of winter veg with crème fraîche,” Jo said. Pru could live off soup, as Jo well knew; there was no point in looking at the menu. “I ordered wine—just glasses— we must keep our heads about us.” She reached across the table and squeezed Pru’s hand. “How is everything going? What have you accomplished?”

Pru had been reading a transcription of letters that morning. “Oh, Jo, Mr. Menzies seems like such a lovely man.” She scrambled in her bag and brought out a scrap of paper. “Listen, this is what he wrote to his mother in 1791, just before he sailed away on the
Discovery
. ‘May the guardian hand of Divine Providence long, long continue its protection toward you.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

“Oh, Pru,” Jo said, laughing. “You’re about to be married. What about those plans?”

Pru had started making mental lists. Wedding: date, time, place, would Simon give her away? Every day she added another few items. She had a separate list for Mr. Menzies: layout of an eighteenth-century ship, surgeon’s duties, how did they keep the rats away from the seeds? Her head began to spin.

“You are helping me with the wedding, so I don’t have to worry,” Pru said. She could see a light in Jo’s eyes. “What have you accomplished?”

Jo practically levitated off her chair. “I’ve had an amazing idea.” She stopped long enough for the waiter to serve the wine. “Cheers!”

Pru took a sip, kept her eyes on Jo, and sighed with relief. Jo had been Pru’s first acquaintance in London, now more than two years ago. At the beginning, it was all business—Jo managed the town house in Chelsea that Pru had sublet. But soon it went beyond business: Jo showed her around the neighborhood, invited her for Christmas, and became her best friend.

“I’m ready—what’s your idea?”

“Have you thought about having the wedding in Scotland?”

“Where” and “when” were unanswered questions for Pru; it was only “who” that Pru was sure about. “It’s awfully far away, isn’t it?”

“You know that we would all go up for it. I’m sure that Simon and Polly would love a little holiday up north. Harry and Vernona would certainly be there. And”—Jo blushed as she continued— “if you got married in Edinburgh, Alan could perform the ceremony.”

“Alan? Your Alan?” Jo and her husband, Alan, were still married, but lived apart—she in London, he in Edinburgh. Pru knew only that much and had yet to muster the nerve to ask about the particulars.

“He would love to do this for you.”

“Your Alan is a minister?”

“Yes,” Jo said, nodding and smiling and nodding some more. This was followed by a tiny shrug. “Well, he doesn’t have his own church, you know, but he is ordained—everything is in order.”

Ordained? Pru thought. By what power…the Internet? An image of her wedding day flashed in Pru’s mind: Alan, whom she’d never met, with long, stringy hair, dressed in a tie-dyed kilt. She tried blinking away the picture. “Jo,” she said, looking down at her soup, reaching for a piece of bread, and busying herself with the butter, “If Alan doesn’t have a church, what does he do?”

“He runs a shelter in Old Town near St. Mary’s.”

The wedding image changed, and this time she was being walked up the aisle by men carrying large black plastic bin bags and pushing abandoned shopping trolleys. “Well,” Pru said, but couldn’t think of anything to follow.

“It’ll be a proper ceremony, Pru—really it will—and it would be so good for him.” Jo picked up her fork and toyed with a cube of roasted beetroot at the edge of her wilted rocket salad. “It would be good for us.”

Pru glanced up. “Are you and Alan…getting back together?”

Jo tried brushing away the statement with a small wave of her hand, at the same time smiling. “Well, we might be a step closer.”

And Pru and Christopher’s wedding could be the reason? Pru could see it now—Alan and Jo standing on the steps of the church, arms around each other, waving as Christopher watched Pru throw the bouquet over her shoulder…God, was she going to have to throw a bouquet?

“Jo, that’s wonderful.”

Jo blushed, not a common sight. “Oh,” she said, giving a small laugh, as if to cast a casual nonchalance over the topic; but then she grew still. “It’s been eleven years—almost twelve. After what happened, it’s been a long road to get to where we are now.”

Pru still had no clue as to what caused the break, but she couldn’t help liking the idea of being part of such a reconciliation. “It sounds lovely,” she said. “I’ll talk with Christopher.” She couldn’t imagine that he would say no when Jo and Alan’s marriage could be at stake.

“Yes, you talk with him about it, and you can meet Alan when you get to Edinburgh. There’s no need to make a decision now,” Jo said.

Dear Jo—she would not steer Pru wrong. “I look forward to meeting him. I’m sure that we’ll work something out.”

Jo seemed ready to leap over the table and drag the white linen cloth with her to hug Pru, but had to be satisfied with patting her hand. “You’ll love Edinburgh,” Jo said, “I know you will. And it will be so easy for me to help with planning.” Jo reached into her handbag, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “And now, for my other news…I’ve found someone to design your dress.”

This was more like it. Jo’s excellent taste would shine here—not that Alan wasn’t in good taste, Pru reminded herself. But clothes, Jo understood clothes. The only dress Pru owned Jo had bought for her.

The card had no decoration, drawing, or detailing. It read simply:

Madame Fiona

Haute Couture

Stockbridge Edinburgh

An address and phone number ran along the bottom of the card.

“A client of mine has a friend who has used her. She’s very cutting-edge—sophisticated designs, excellent fabric, exquisite fit. This is my gift to you. She’ll take you through the whole process from measurements to the last-second fitting. You’ll be a proper bride.”

Pru’s heart warmed. “What a wonderful gift, thank you so much. I’ll ring her next week.”

“You do that. I’ve already spoken to her—I just wanted a word to let her know the circumstances. She asked about your work and the kinds of things you love. She takes all this into consideration in her designs—that’s how attentive she is. I can’t wait to see what she creates for you.”

They sat quietly over coffee. Pru thought about Jo and Alan. She glanced at Jo’s left hand; she wore no ring. Had she kept it in a jewelry box for the last twelve years? Pru glanced at her own hand. Rings—another decision to make. She had no idea weddings took so much time and effort.

Pru took a quick breath. “Jo, why is it that all this time you and Alan have stayed married, but you don’t live together?”

Jo smiled and sighed. “Oh, Pru, it was so long ago, it isn’t worth going over. But who knows? Maybe it’s time to put all that behind us.”

Jo took the linen napkin out of her lap and carefully refolded it, her eyes far away. When she saw the longing in Jo’s face, Pru decided she would do anything to help bring them back together. When you’re in love, you want the whole world happy. Christopher would understand.

They kept to themselves on her last evening in London and had a quiet meal in an Indian restaurant near Christopher’s flat. Would it be “their” flat after they married? Put that on the list. At least she’d broached the topic of rings.

“Would you like to pick something out, or will you let me find one for you?” Christopher asked.

Her hand went up to the necklace he’d bought for her, and she ran her fingers around the fan shape of the pendant. “You find one.” She took his left hand. “Will you wear a ring?”

He held her gaze with a solemn look except for that smile that played about his lips. “Yes, I will wear a ring.”

She looked down at the table and back up at him. “Did you wear a ring when you and Phyl were married?”

He shook his head. “No. I was young and foolish.” They didn’t speak. He caressed the palm of her hand. She shivered.

“Would you care for…” The waiter had appeared.

“The bill,” Christopher said. “We’ll take the bill.”

They paid and left.

She lay in darkness—well, not real darkness. It was never completely dark in the city. She looked over to find Christopher watching her. He rested his hand on her hip, and she scooted closer and sighed. Stiff upper lip, she thought, it’s only three months. She already missed him.

“Would you like to come with me to Edinburgh?” she asked.

“Yes, I would,” he said and smiled. “Would you like to stay here with me in London?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, “I would.”

“You haven’t met Alan, have you?” Christopher asked as Pru took one last look in her bag for phone and train ticket. She shook her head.

“What church?” he asked. “Did Jo say? Church of Scotland? Presbyterian?”

Pru shrugged. “I know it sounds a bit dubious, but I couldn’t say no without a reason—it seemed to mean so much to her.” She touched his arm. “They could be getting back together.”

“And why…have they lived apart?” Christopher stumbled over the question and Pru smiled. He could be relentless when seeking out the truth in a police investigation, but when it came to someone’s personal story, he was reticent to push. It was sweet.

“I’m not quite sure, but it must’ve been quite a break for Alan to end up in Edinburgh—and for it to last this long. He left the ministry and runs a shelter.”

“So why would he want to go back to the church now?”

“For Jo? For us, because we’re friends with Jo?”

“You don’t have to agree just because Jo’s a friend,” he said. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. They were edging toward the topic of her gullibility—although that wasn’t the word he used. Where Christopher leaned toward caution, Pru took leaps based on the trust she had in those around her. True, he had had to pull her back from the brink occasionally, figuratively speaking. Except for that one time, when she’d been pushed out onto a window ledge three stories up. That was literal.

“I won’t make any decision until you’ve met Alan. I’ll get in touch with him and we’ll just…take it from there.”

She was packed. There was nothing else to do but leave. They stood in the flat, the air about them heavy with farewell.

“I’ll be up soon,” he said. She nodded. Hadn’t they been here before?

Her train left from King’s Cross. They allowed time for a visit to St. Pancras Station next door and coffee in the Booking Office Bar. While Christopher took a phone call—Sunday afternoon, back to his old work schedule—Pru stood looking up at a towering bronze statue. It was a larger-than-life yet intimate piece called The Meeting Place. A man and a woman stood close. The woman had her hands up to the face of the man, whose arms wrapped around her waist, their foreheads almost touching. Christopher came up behind Pru and wrapped his own arms around her waist. A tear leaked out the corner of her eye. “Do you think they’re saying ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’?”