Dune Road (17 page)

“Wow,” Steve says.

“I know. Wow indeed.”

“Shall I open this bottle of wine? ”

Kit sighs. She was so ready for tonight, had the evening all planned, had been so looking forward to it, and now she can hardly think straight.

“Steve? I’m so sorry. I think maybe . . . I think maybe we should reschedule.”

“You do? ”

“I just . . . I just can’t concentrate. This is such a huge shock.”

“Let’s talk about it,” Steve says, kindly. “I totally get how you must be feeling. I’m here for you.”

“Thank you, Steve.” She smiles gratefully up at him. “But I think I’m better off on my own. I feel like there’s a ton of stuff I need to think about.”

“Are you sure? ”

“I am. Maybe we can do it again this week.”

“I’d like that,” Steve says, not hiding his disappointment, but doing his best. Then, bending down to kiss her softly on the lips, he lets himself out of the house.

Kit opens the wine herself, pours a hefty glass, and goes to sit by the fire, the letter still in her hand. She rereads it, over and over, then stares into the fire, remembering.

There is a part of her that wants to believe this woman is a liar. But John Plowman. It is a name she remembers. A man she remembers. Well. Oh yes, Kit remembers, for he was one of the many who took pity on her when she went to stay with her mother, only to be largely ignored.

He was the head gardener at the estate in Bedford. A trained horticulturalist, with large, gentle hands, and a winning smile. He was sweet and kind, and spent hours with Kit every day, giving her small jobs to do, weeding, pruning, showing her how to pinch off the vegetables to encourage the fruit to grow.

It was the best summer she had ever had.

 

John Plowman. Kit remembers him well. She remembers him softening the hurt when her mother was yet again disinterested.

For that was the insanity. Each time Kit was flown out from her father’s house in Concord, where she lived full-time, to visit her mother, she thought that this time it would be different, this would be the time that Ginny would pay attention to her, want to be with her, show her that she loved her.

Yet each time was the same. Not that she didn’t have fun, but it wasn’t with her mother. Never with her mother. The temporary nannies, employed only for when Kit was staying, took her to shows, circuses, fairs. And John taught her about gardening, how to handle plants, telling her, in his singsong voice, stories of when he was a boy in Dorset.

She peers at the photo in her hand, and instantly remembers John Plowman’s face. And then she picks up the phone.

“Mother? Hello? Can you hear me? ” Kit is shouting over the crackle.

“What? Hello? Hello? I can’t hear you. Who is it? ”

“Mother? It’s me! Kit.”

“Kit? Is that you? ”

“Yes. Where are you? It’s a terrible line.”

“Darling, I’m on a boat. Whoops! ” She giggles. “I keep getting in trouble. Apparently, it’s a yacht, and we’re in the south of France having the most marvelous time. I’m falling in love again and this time I think it’s for keeps.”

Kit represses a sigh. How many times, exactly, has she heard almost the exact same words come from her mother’s mouth?

“Mother, I need to ask you something. It’s about a girl called Annabel Plowman.”

“What did you say? Darling, I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“Annabel Plowman. John Plowman’s daughter. Your . . .” She can barely say it. “She says she’s your daughter.”

There is a silence then, as Ginny allows herself to remember. To remember John Plowman. To remember how he changed the course of her life.

 

Ginny was on husband three, or possibly four, it was so hard to keep track, and she was living at Summerhill, in Bedford, New York.

A grand old estate on three hundred acres, off Pea Pond Road, it had electric gates that swung open to reveal a majestic drive lined with centuries-old linden trees, leading you up to the low-slung, 1930s mansion.

It had been falling down before Mrs. Virginia Clayton—as she had become—moved in, and Ginny had immediately phoned all her New York contacts—architects, designers, landscapers, to come and turn Summerhill into a house befitting the third wife of Jonathan Clayton IV.

Walls were ripped down, windows and roof replaced, plush fabrics recovering the formerly threadbare sofas and chairs.

The top landscape architects in the country produced blueprint after blueprint of gardens inspired by the classic English designers—Capability Brown, Humphry Repton, Gertrude Jekyll.

By the time the renovation was complete—two years later—Jonathan Clayton had tired of living amid the noise and chaos, and spent Monday to Friday at their Park Avenue apartment with his mistress, Clara.

Ginny stayed in the guest cottage—itself a rather spectacular five-bedroomed manse—to oversee the renovations.

The staff that had looked after Summerhill for years had to go. One creaky butler/houseman, a team of Guatemalan landscapers who, Ginny decided, didn’t know their oak from their apple tree, and Jonathan’s assistant, who was horribly indiscreet and loved nothing more than sitting down with anyone who would listen to gossip about the new and awful mistress of the house.

The team was replaced with staff from one of the New York domestic agencies. A butler fresh from butlering for an English CEO at his estate in Buckinghamshire, three Filipina maids who were so quiet as to be almost invisible, and two full-time gardeners, plus a head gardener to oversee them, a young man who had just graduated with a degree in horticulture and who was looking for work in America. John Plowman.

Ginny, left on her own all week, found there was nothing she loved more than walking around the gardens to see how they were coming along, chatting about the flowers and the plants with John Plowman.

It didn’t hurt that he was so handsome. And charming. That accent! His easy smile and unaffected ways. Being around him made Ginny feel young.

His family, back in England, teased him about not having a girlfriend. There had certainly been plenty of girls, but when he was out with those local girls from his village, they just seemed so, well, girlish.

So unlike Mrs. Clayton. Now there was a woman. Everything about her was perfect, from her perfectly painted-in eyebrows to the patent leather shoes on her feet. And the fact that she was American added a touch of glamour and excitement to everything she did.

Her humor, her ability to tease him, her thirst for knowledge of everything to do with gardens.

He would bring her books on gardening and then be amazed when, a few days later, she would want to discuss them with him, pointing out that Gertrude Jekyll had done a specific color planting in some garden or other, and she thought it would work here.

When he brought her a book on Triboli, a book filled with pictures of his masterpiece in Florence, the Boboli Gardens, she insisted they fly out to Italy, on a research trip.

He abandoned his hotel room on the first night, sweeping into her grand suite overlooking the Ponte Vecchio.

It was perhaps the most perfect four days of his life. They walked hand in hand through the cobbled streets, Ginny gasping at the beauty of his beloved Firenze, stopping every few steps to take more pictures while he laughed and teased her about being a typical American tourist, then gathered her in his arms and kissed her passionately, bystanders clapping and cheering them on.

“What are they saying? ” Ginny blushed.

“
Brava! Amore!
” He grinned. “I think—although Italian has never been my strongest suit—but I think they’re saying how wonderful it is to be in love.”

John Plowman knew his life was about to change for the better, and that Ginny would be the love of his life. Admittedly she wouldn’t have the life she had had before, but this was the real Ginny; she would be happy in a small house, just as long as they could be together.

Kit came to stay in the house for two weeks one summer. John felt sorry for her, this pale little girl with the sad eyes, who barely spoke, and he took her under his wing, showing her the garden and getting her to help with small jobs, showing her how to deadhead, how to weed and prune.

He taught her with gentleness and sweetness, sorry only that Ginny seemed so uninterested in her daughter. She was her biological daughter, but couldn’t have been less like her confident, outgoing mother.

Perhaps he could change Ginny, he thought. Perhaps when they were married Kit could come and live with them and they could be a big happy family.

“Oh darling,” Ginny said sadly, when he revealed his plans to her. “I will always love you, but I’m not leaving my life.”

She didn’t tell John she was pregnant for a few weeks. Didn’t tell anyone. When he finally noticed her growing bump—she had taken to spending most nights during the week with John, in his small gardener’s cottage—she cried.

“I don’t know how to tell my husband,” she sobbed. Still, she refused to leave Jonathan and be with John.

There was no point telling Jonathan the baby was his—they hadn’t slept together in almost a year—and an abortion was out of the question. It just wasn’t something Ginny could do.

But neither did she want this child. There wasn’t an ounce of maternal instinct in Ginny. Never had been, never would be. Her first marriage, which resulted in Kit, had been a mistake. It was Ginny trying to be the dutiful daughter, trying to lead the life her parents expected of her, rather than following her dreams. Life with a husband and baby proved impossible, hence her taking flight shortly after Kit was born. She had never wanted any more children and she had nothing but negative feelings for this baby from the moment she discovered she had conceived.

The pregnancy was more than an inconvenience, it was a disaster. She didn’t delight in her changing body, she hated it; she wished she wasn’t such a good Catholic girl, wished she could just go to see a doctor and have it taken care of, but there weren’t enough Hail Marys in the world to take care of the guilt she knew she would have.

John was fired, and it was decided the baby would be put up for adoption. It was Ginny who contacted John, who asked him to find a family. Jonathan took the news of Ginny’s affair in his stride, but it was one thing to find out your wife was having an affair and quite another to raise someone else’s child as your own.

Ginny went to London to have the child. In the Lindo Wing of St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. No one knew her. No one thought to make a secret phone call to the gossip columnists on the papers in America.

While she was gone, her husband started thinking that it was time to replace Ginny with a younger, newer model. Not Clara—she wasn’t wife material in the slightest—but he had been somewhat taken with a young socialite he had met at the ballet a handful of times, and there was definite chemistry between them.

And Ginny had already cost him more than his first and second wife combined. It was definitely time for a change.

The divorce was quick, and relatively painless, made more so by yet another substantial financial settlement. She didn’t see Jonathan again. And she didn’t speak to John Plowman again for many, many years.

 

Ginny’s voice is tense on the phone. “How do you know about her? ”

“She’s here. In Highfield. She wants to meet me. She wrote me a letter and she’s staying in a hotel here.” Kit takes a deep breath. “It’s true, then.”

“What’s true? ”

“She is my sister.” The words feel alien even as they leave her lips.

“Technically, yes. But honestly, darling, I don’t know what she wants. She keeps trying to get hold of me too, and I just don’t want to have anything to do with her.”

“Mother! How can you say that about your own flesh and blood? And how could you not have told me? ” The fury comes out in her words, the little-girl hurt that she can’t hide, even as an adult.

“You didn’t need to know,” Ginny attempts.

“What? ” Kit spits. “This is my sister. How could you? How could you deny me a sister? ” She is close to tears as she speaks, aware she is regressing, sounding like a nine-year-old, but the anger is such that she doesn’t care.

“Kit, stop,” Ginny demands sternly. “There’s too much you don’t know. I’ll have to explain when I see you, and I’m sorry for your hurt, but . . . there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“What do you mean? ”

How can Ginny explain, how can she tell Kit that she has never wanted anything to do with Annabel because she has had nothing but negative feelings for her since before she was even born?

“Oh Kit. I’ve tried. Do you think I don’t recognize that despite all, she is still my daughter? I was a terrible mother to you, but I hope I’m making up for it somewhat now. I wish I could do the same for Annabel, but it isn’t the same. Not just that I don’t trust her, but that I don’t have a bond with her. This is a baby I never even held, and a child who grew up to be a troubled and destructive woman.”