Marriage Matters (4 page)

Kevin gave her a sidelong look. “I threw her overboard.”

From then on, they were inseparable. They sneaked out onto the deck every night and talked until dawn. They shared their first kiss at the edge of the Grand Canal in Venice. Then, one perfect night when the moon was silver and the motion of the boat slow and steady, Kevin took her into his room and shut the door. He removed her clothing piece by piece, before gently guiding her to the bed.

Years later, when celebrating their anniversary with a picnic by the water, Kevin said, “I knew I was going to marry you that first night we talked.”

Kristine was surprised. “Why?” Even though she’d liked the cowardly football player, she’d had no idea she’d marry him.

“You offered me motion sickness medicine.” He shook his head. “I fell in love.”

Kristine laughed. “I had a whole medical kit in my room. It wasn’t nearly as romantic as you think.”

“Yes, it was.” Kevin took her hand, his gaze earnest. “You were the first person I’d ever met who was prepared to face something bigger than what was right in front of us. I loved that about you.”

“Well—” Kristine started to say but as usual, Kevin cut her off.

“I also knew that if you fell into the water, I would have jumped in to save you. Life jacket or not.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling. “You were so scared.”

“Doesn’t matter. I would have.”

Kevin kissed her then; a deep, drowning kiss that left her as breathless as falling into the sea.

* * *

Kristine ordered a glass of wine and a roasted hen from the waiter with the horn-rimmed glasses. Then, she pulled out a magazine she’d swiped from the plane. The cover shot was of New Caledonia and she stared at it for a moment, admiring the aquamarine water and vegetation-covered rocks. She’d just started to read the article when a warm hand touched her shoulder.

“Kristine?” a low voice murmured. “May I join you?”

It was Ethan, a part-time employee at her store. In the past, he’d worked as a travel photographer, shooting everything from
National Geographic
to
Redbook
;
now he did photography as a hobby.

Since Ethan was still standing by the table, she nodded at the chair across from her. “Have a seat.” Hopefully, he was just planning to stay for a moment.

“It’s good to see you.” Ethan rubbed his eyes, stretching. “I’ve been in the darkroom all day. It’s good to get back to civilization.”

“Oh?” Kristine took a sip of sparkling water, deliberately letting her eyes wander the restaurant. She did not want him to invite himself to dinner. “That sounds fun.”

“Not fun, exactly,” he mused, “but interesting. I lose all sense of time when I work. I’m sure you know how that is.”

Yes, she did know. The travel bookstore was an all-encompassing project. Kristine was often surprised to look up from her work, only to discover it was hours later than she’d expected.

“Pouilly-Fume.” The waiter set a glass of wine in front of Kristine. Hints of grapefruit and apple drifted up like perfume. “Monsieur, what can I bring you?”

“Ah . . .” Ethan hesitated. “Kristine, do you mind?”

Yes, of course she did. What would Kevin say if she had a drink with another man on their anniversary? Especially a man like Ethan? Unfortunately, she couldn’t find a tactful way to say no.

“The same.” Ethan nodded at her glass.

Leaning back, Ethan drummed his tanned fingers on the table. Kristine wondered if he was really a travel photographer. Maybe he was actually with the CIA. With his gray stubble and sharp eyes, he certainly fit the profile.

“I love this restaurant.” Ethan’s gaze swept the room. “It’s like stepping into Paris, even for a moment.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kristine admitted. Her voice was wistful, as it always was when discussing travel. “I’ve never been.”

Ethan’s dark eyebrows shot up. A scar cut through the left one, reinforcing her belief that he was a spy or, at the very least, someone dangerous. “You’ve never been to Paris? You, of all people, should go. It’s the perfect time of year. The summer is winding down, the shops are reopening—”

“What do you mean,
you of all people
?” Kristine laughed and pointed at her hair. “Most people assume I’m Irish.”

He smiled. “I meant someone with your flair for adventure. For romance.”

Kristine hesitated. She had spoken to him what, fifteen times in her life? He had no way of knowing what she had a flair for.

“An interest in travel means you have an interest in adventure,” Ethan said, as though reading her mind. “Take it from me.”

“Do you have a favorite country?”

It was a rote question, one she asked a hundred times a day in the store.

Ethan’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “I don’t know. That would be like choosing a favorite child.”

“You have children?” For some reason, she didn’t picture him cradling a baby with a leaky diaper.

“Ah, no.” There was a note of pain behind his dark eyes. “I was smart enough to stay away from the marriage and family thing.”

“You stayed away altogether?” she asked. “You’ve never been married?”

Ethan fiddled with the flower petal that had drifted down to the table. “I think love is the greatest thing in the world.” Raising his dark gaze, his eyes met hers. “It can rip your soul apart and change your life in ways you don’t want or expect. But everyone makes choices.” He reached for his drink as the waiter set it on the table. “I used to be on the road all the time. Travel doesn’t exactly lend itself to a solid relationship.”

Kristine fidgeted. That was the truth. What would Ethan say, if he knew it was her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? That her husband was five hundred miles away?

They were silent for a moment. Then his eyes fell on the magazine. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Look at that.”

“New Caledonia.” Kristine turned the picture toward him. “Have you been?”

Sheepishly, he pointed at the photo credit. “Actually, yes. I shot that.”

“What?” Amazed, Kristine studied the pictures. Aquamarine water, billowing white sails, comical fish . . .
Wow
. It was hard to imagine the man sitting across from her capturing all of this with just the lens of a camera. It showed a depth that she hadn’t given him credit for.

“Ethan, these are great.” She regarded him with a new respect. “Why on earth are you working in my store?”

“It’s time to put down some roots. I’m getting old. You know what I mean?”

Kristine shook her head. “Nope. I just turned thirty.”

The laugh lines around his mouth twitched. “I would have guessed twenty-one.”

“Ah.” Kristine touched her glass to his. “Touché.”

Ethan ran his hands through his thick black hair. There were a few silver strands around his temples, which she liked. It gave a little imperfection to his perfection. “Getting older is a funny thing. It’s made me feel this need to settle somewhere, to become part of a community. And I love the store. You’ve done a great job, Kristine. It’s really given the neighborhood some badly needed texture.”

“Thank you,” she practically whispered. It was a nice thing to hear. Owning the store was a lot of effort, and sometimes Kristine wondered if it mattered to anyone at all. “You know, I envy you,” she said slowly, touching the sleek magazine cover. “When I was younger, I wanted to join the Peace Corps. See the world.”

“You didn’t do it?”

“No, I got married instead.” Immediately, she felt guilty. “I don’t mean it like that. I just . . . If I really wanted to join the Peace Corps, I would have done it.”

“There’s still time.” Ethan lifted his glass. “There’s always time.”

The waiter arrived then with a perfectly browned, roasted hen. Garlic, rosemary and delicious goodness wafted up from the plate. Waving her knife and fork at Ethan, Kristine surprised herself by saying, “You should order something. Otherwise, I’ll feel bad for taking down this whole thing in front of you.”

“I’ll have the mussels and truffle fries,” Ethan told the waiter, without looking at a menu. “You have to try a fry,” he said, giving her a quick wink. “It might make up for the fact that you’ve never been to Paris.”

“I’ve had them.” Kristine surveyed the familiar restaurant. “This is my favorite place.”

“Mine, too,” he said.

They smiled at each other.

Just then, a jazz band took the stage. The snare drum set the rhythm and a woman sang a song in French, her voice low and earthy. Kristine and Ethan turned their attention to the stage.

As a sultry breeze blew through the windows, Kristine felt happy for the first time all day. Life was so funny. She’d started out the evening upset about her anniversary and in the process, surprised herself by finding a friend.

Four

G
lancing at the Enfield clock on the mantel, June was pleased to see that it was only nine o’clock in the morning. She’d slept later than usual, because she’d stayed up reading a mystery story. She’d solved the mystery by page thirty-six but had to keep reading to see if she was right.

Sunshine peeked through her heavy curtains. It brightened the Oriental throw rugs and antique furniture, beckoning her outside. June planned to spend the day in her garden because, after a wonderful weekend with her family, the house would feel much too big.

Crossing through the parlor and into the kitchen, June pushed open the heavy screen and stepped outside. Her first thought was whether or not she should see if the tomatoes were overripe on the vine. Her second thought was,
“Aaack!”

A piercing light was shining in her eyes like a laser beam from outer space. June blinked, covering her eyes and splaying her fingers. Just over the stone fence separating her yard from Charley Montgomery’s sat a gazebo with a bright copper roof. It shimmered like a newly minted penny.

“I cannot believe that man,” June said.

Turning on one heel, she stomped back inside and dug out the thick wraparound sunglasses she’d worn at the wedding. Then, with as much of a bang as she could muster, June slammed the screen door shut. She strode past the trickle of her fountain, the busy buzz of bees and the hanging blossoms of the Peking lilac tree and stood at the edge of her neighbor’s fence.

“Charley Montgomery,” she bellowed. “You get over here right this instant!”

Like a silver-haired jack-in-the-box, Charley’s head popped up over the fence. “Why, hello there, June.” He wiped dirt on the front of his shorts and gave her an infuriating smile. “Did you want to borrow a cup of sugar?”

June pressed her lips together and frowned. Charley looked back, his light blue eyes twinkling. June found it absolutely outrageous that the women in her gardening group found this man attractive. The first time she heard this remark, June said, “Only if you like weasels.” Because that’s exactly what Charley Montgomery was. A weasel.

When he and his wife moved into the brownstone ten years ago, June had been fooled into thinking he was a nice man. It was not uncommon to see him and his wife bundled up in cardigan sweaters, walking around the neighborhood and holding hands. Charley rarely wasted his time with yard work. He’d rake the leaves or prune the trees, offering the occasional compliment about June’s rhododendrons but he pretty much kept to himself. After his wife died, however . . .

Well.

Roughly a year after her death, June had been tugging away at some ivy when she heard a shovel striking the dirt. Turning, June saw Charley digging as though en route to China. June stopped what she was doing and stared, impressed at how quickly he worked. Especially for someone in her age category.

When he turned and caught her looking, June flushed. She certainly didn’t want him to think she was one of those nosy neighbors, so she gave a quick wave and headed inside. There, she drank an ice-cold glass of tea and wondered what on earth he was up to.

Only when June was sure he had forgotten all about her, she spied on him from the kitchen window with a pair of binoculars. Charley Montgomery worked that barren piece of land until the mosquitoes came out. June went to bed chuckling over the idea that the poor man had worn himself out.

The next day, Charley was back in his garden before she’d even made her morning coffee. He was sweating and grunting, laying mulch like a hired hand. June didn’t know what to make of it. She kept an eye on his progress and narrated the adventures of Charley Montgomery on her evening phone calls with Kristine.

“He bought a crazy mixture of flowers,” June reported, peering through her binoculars to get a good look. “He must have picked them up at the local hardware store. Imagine.”

“Leave him alone, Mother,” Kristine warned. “He’s trying to deal with his grief. Just like you did.”

“Fine, fine. But this is not going to end well.” Not only were the flowers Charley bought completely unorganized, they were incompatible. The roots on those flowers would fight and eventually kill one another, trying to share the space.

June managed to hold her tongue about his lack of skill until that moment Charley watered his plants in the middle of the day.
Of all things!
June could practically hear the water sizzle and burn on the leaves. At that point, she decided to perform an intervention. Smoothing her wavy hair, June walked over to the fence and rapped on it with her knuckles.

“I have something I would like to say.” This was more than June had ever said to Charley at one time. Normally, her greetings were, “Good morning,” or, “It’s hot today,” or, on rare occasions, “Hello, Charley.” Building relationships with neighbors could be tricky, and June erred on the side of caution.

At the sound of her voice, Charley looked up from his pruning. Surprise flashed in his faded blue eyes. “Yes?”

June took a deep breath. “I noticed you’ve been gardening. And . . .” She proceeded to instruct him on what type of mulch he
should
have bought, what time of day he
should
be watering his plants and the difference between natural and chemical pesticides. She suggested he read some books, visit a nursery and get an education before trying to take on such a serious task.

Charley listened, wiping sweat out of his eyes, but he didn’t say all that much. In fact, the poor man seemed so impressed with her knowledge that he avoided eye contact altogether.

It didn’t happen overnight but eventually, Charley’s plants grew bigger and stronger. He started to say, “Good morning, June
,
” and look her in the eye. Then one day, when a particular type of violets that were very difficult to grow came in perfectly, Charley walked over to the edge of the fence. As the sun shone down and the birds sang their summer song, he said, “You know, June, you might want to consider clipping back your roses. You’re not making room for the new buds.”

June almost dropped her spade. “I beg your pardon?” She sneaked a peek at her roses. To her absolute and utter horror, Charley was right.

“I just thought I’d let you know.” He gave her a slight wink.

June was stunned. Pressing her lips together, she went back to digging in the dirt. She did not clip her roses back until it was pitch black outside and she was certain that Charley had gone to bed. With every snip, she thought,
Tell me how to garden, indeed.

Infuriated, June shared the confrontation with Kristine over the phone.

“Mother,” Kristine groaned, “he was just trying to reciprocate. I think it’s sweet.” Then she laughed in that way she had when she thought she’d gotten to the bottom of something. “Don’t worry. He’ll never have a better garden than yours.”

“What? Of course not!” June peered out the kitchen window. Even though the motion lights were the only thing keeping the area lit, Charley was still working away. He was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, black socks with sneakers and a flannel shirt almost exactly like June’s. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were strong and tanned from the sun. “But mark my words,” June said, letting the curtain drop, “he’s certainly trying.”

June’s suspicions were confirmed when she held her annual party for the garden club. She had spent weeks making sure everything was impeccable and even hired a caterer to put out covered tables and serve a high tea. The garden looked radiant and so did June, in a bold-patterned sundress.

Well.

When the members of the garden society arrived, they dared to look right past June, her garden and the high tea. Their eyes went straight over the fence, to Charley and the Japanese blossoms he had planted just the day before. “Lovely,” the women said loudly, tossing their blue hair.

It instantly became clear that it wasn’t the flowers that were the attraction, but Charley Montgomery himself. He sat in his garden like a prized plant, wearing a crisp white shirt and reading the paper.

June’s mouth dropped open. She swept over to the fence and said, “Excuse me. This is a private party.”

Charley looked at her, surprised. “Yes?”

“Well.” June fidgeted with her dress. Whispering, so that the other women in the garden club couldn’t hear, she said, “I wish you would go inside.”

“I won’t bother your party.” Charley lifted the paper back up. “I’ll just sit out here and enjoy the beautiful day.” June could swear he was hiding a tiny smile.

June had been so infuriated by this that, after giving it some thought, she decided to get revenge. The next weekend, she marched into the local pet shop and marched right back out with a cage full of white long-eared rabbits. Sneaking them into the house had been a task, but she’d accomplished it with the assistance of Chloe and a heavy horsehair blanket. Together, they waited at the front window for Charley to leave.

“This is going to be one of those things I can’t tell Mom about, isn’t it?” Chloe petted the soft ear of a rabbit through the cage.

June nodded. “One hundred percent.”

Just as Chloe decided the sickly smell of rabbit pee was too much to bear and got tired of it all and went home, Charley headed out his front door and down the block. He wore his trusty cap and carried a newspaper, a sure sign that he was off to the local coffee shop to grab a bite to eat. June darted outside with a rabbit tucked under her arm like a weapon.

“Be brave,” she said, holding it over the edge of Charley’s fence. The downy little body quivered, those powerful back legs dangling precariously over the edge. “You can do it.”

The rabbit dropped to the ground with barely a thud. He seemed a little shocked, which was understandable. After being cooped up in that cage, he was suddenly marooned in green grass and brightly colored flowers. The rabbit’s nose wiggled and he took two tiny hops. Then he spotted Charley’s rhododendron bush. The rabbit raced over and took its first bite.

“Yes,” June cheered, wishing Chloe had stuck around for the fun. “Eat!”

It didn’t take long for June to deposit all three rabbits into Charley’s yard. By the time the afternoon passed, his rhododendrons and trilliums were missing entirely. When Charley came home, June heard some surprised shouts but did not dare go out to see what all of the commotion was about.

Charley did not say a word about the incident, but he eventually got her back. In the fall, June planted an array of tulip bulbs in her garden. They were neatly laid out in an arrangement of red, purple and orange. Whenever anyone complimented her garden, she would say, “Just wait. When my tulips come up, it will be more beautiful than you can imagine.”

Well, when June’s tulips sprouted, they were not beautiful. They were black. As though an evil witch had waved a magic wand over her garden. June couldn’t figure out what on earth had happened, so she called over a horticulture specialist. Were the flowers sick?

“Ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “See the roots down here? These were cross-pollinated specifically to create black tulips. You bought some hybrids.”

“I most certainly did not,” June said. “I have been gardening for longer than you’ve been alive. I know exactly what kind of bulbs I picked.”

The horticulturist shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. These bulbs are exactly what you put into the ground.”

June heard the pages of a newspaper rattle and then a soft chuckle. Charley snapped his paper shut. “It’s a shame about your flowers, June,” he’d said, walking to the edge of the fence. “Tulips always look so good at Easter. Guess the Easter Bunny won’t be coming to visit you anytime soon.”

June flushed to her very core. “You didn’t.”

Charley smiled. A perfect white smile. She could swear the man already had a full set of dentures.

The garden war had officially begun. June sprayed dandelion seeds across his yard, dumped weed killer onto his rosebushes and even, during a particularly hot and dry summer, had stolen his hose. Charley had been up to his share of tricks as well, but a gazebo with a copper ceiling lighting up her backyard like a laser show . . . Well, this was something new. And it had most certainly crossed the line.

“This gazebo is unacceptable.” June rested a hand against the stone fence.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“The reflection is blinding. You need to have it removed. Right away.”

“Now, June,” Charley said. “Why would I do something like that? I just put it up.”

Charley seemed so pleased with himself, standing there in his light blue plaid shirt. The idea of competing with this man for another minute suddenly seemed exhausting. Gardening was where June found her peace. Her solitude. She couldn’t imagine what the rest of the summer would be like with a copper beacon shining sunlight into her yard. “If you do not take that thing down,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, “I will have it spray-painted black.”

“Then I’ll have you arrested for vandalism.” Charley shrugged. “I can’t imagine they’ll let you do a lot of gardening in jail.”

Frustrated beyond words, June glared at the roof of the gazebo. Even with the thick black sunglasses covering half of her face, it was impossible not to squint against the bright reflection. He would have to take it down. He would have to!

“I have lived here for my whole life.” June shook her finger at him. “I raised my daughter in this home. Then you came along and ruined everything.”

“Tell me, June.” Charley leaned forward and rested an arm on the fence. “What could I have possibly done to bother you so much?”

June shook her head, unable to find the words to explain exactly what it was about Charley that bothered her so much. “Please.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I have worked hard to make my garden special. Please . . .” Maybe because of the sun or maybe because the situation seemed so incredibly impossible, June felt her eyes smart. Afraid her voice would crack if she tried to say another word, she turned away.

Through her tears, June stumbled across the careful paths she had spent so much time arranging. The fragrant air filled her nostrils with sweet nectar as the bees darted about, buzzing away. Her garden had been her sanctuary and this horrible, horrible man had ruined it.