Roses in Autumn (6 page)

She
was
sure though, that she didn’t want to rouse any conflict. It was so awful—this fear of talking freely to Tom. All because of the specter he had raised between them.

And the specter she raised between them. She had to admit it. Could she ever break down those barriers or find a way around them? Somehow she must. She must find her way to Tom. Back to Tom as it had been in the beginning. She closed her eyes and savored their early days together: laughing, touching, kissing; getting to know each other, love each other, trust each other …

Our first kiss, strolling through the park at twilight in early spring. The sky was pink, the air heavy-sweet from flowering locust trees, and we were the only people in the world. Certainly the only two who had ever been so much in love. Metallic clangs and children’s laughter from the playground rang a carillon in the background. We stopped by a screen of tall junipers, his arm tightened on my shoulder. He bent his head to me. It was the most completely right moment in my life.

She lay there, reliving the moment again and again. In that supreme moment, Tom had gone beyond words to find a way to say,
I care.
It was a celebration of their attraction for each other, of their love, of their future together. From that time his kisses became events of complete communication, of sensitivity, of sharing something from deep within themselves. It was a few months after the wedding that it dawned on her; in marriage hugging and kissing always led to something else.

Without realizing it, her breathing constricted and she pulled the sheet tight under her chin.

Even with all the problems and all the failures, though, they had managed to build something together that had lasted seven years. Hardly a lifetime, but it was something—a good start. And in spite of everything, they had been seven good years—lots of sharing and companionship, lots of laughter, lots of success in their careers and community service. Too much to give up, to consign to the ash heap, to allow to become just another statistic of separation—or worse. She wouldn’t even allow herself to think the
D
word.

She slid out of bed, buoyed with a fresh determination for the new day. Clicking on the TV as she passed it, she went on into the bathroom. She had just finished brushing her teeth when Tom called to her. “Want to eat in the Garden Court again this morning, or shall I ring for room service?”

“How about tea and toast here, then a real breakfast at the gardens?” Laura finished rinsing, then started to say something more through the half-open door.

“Sh-sh-sh.” Tom shushed her and turned his attention to the local news report. Laura came into the room as it ended. “Can you imagine that? An old man mugged yesterday right in downtown Victoria. In broad daylight, no less.”

Laura shuddered. “It doesn’t seem possible in such a beautiful place, but I guess no place is safe these days.”

“Or any days. There was a serpent in the Garden of Eden, remember.”

“And that’s where we’re going today—the ultimate garden!” She flung out her arms.

Tom’s grin let her know he was making a fresh effort today too. “Great. But watch out for serpents.”

Tom was holding the door for her when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello … hello?” She shrugged at the silent line and replaced the receiver.

They were soon heading back up Route 17, the way they had traveled to town from the airport. Laura smiled, thinking that only someone who had recently been airsick could appreciate how good it felt to have both feet on the ground—or at least all four tires. Then she glanced over at the instrument panel. “Eighty! You’re not driving
eighty?”

“Kilometers.”

“Oh, a metric speedometer. Cute.”

“Well, you wanted a foreign setting, didn’t you?”

“Exotic at least. Canada isn’t really foreign—except their system of weights and measures.”

“But then, admit it—you never coped too well with miles and pounds.”

Laura giggled. “Too right-brained, I know.”

“Yeah, you hear of people with two left feet. Sometimes I think you’ve got two right brains.”

“Of course. That’s why I’m so intuitive and creative and such an all-around wonderful person.”

“And such a math whiz.”

“Well, you can’t have everything.”

Tom’s gentle smile transformed the sharpness of his features. “So will you please explain to my left-brained self why the big deal about flowers in your book?”

“Not flowers—roses.”

“I thought roses were flowers.”

“Shakespeare was a playwright. Not all playwrights are Shakespeare.”

“A metaphor even I can understand.”

She thought for a moment. “You know, that’s about the only way you can express it. Who really knows why roses are so special? Why for centuries has the rose so inspired poets, lovers, and artists? Somehow it’s always been the symbol of the superlative, of pure character, of rich meaning.

“The Victorians had a whole code of rose language: a red rose said I love you; a white rose said I am worthy of you; a yellow rose was for declining love; red and white roses together were for unity.” She paused. “I guess it’s like love itself—only the heart can define the beauty of a rose.”

Ever since Laura could remember she had had an indefinable desire to surround herself with beauty, especially with roses. She had never questioned it. Who wouldn’t want such exquisite loveliness around them? But now she wondered if it could have anything to do with her hurt over not being beautiful herself—as if she might somehow then bear a reflection of the beauty around her. She glanced in the visor mirror and sighed. If that was her goal, it hadn’t worked.

They left the main highway and followed the sign of a single red rose to a green, wooded country lane winding gently through rolling grasses and thickets. As soon as they entered that bowered world, Laura knew she would find something very special at the end of the road.

And, indeed, she did. Bordered walks, blossomed mounds, and overflowing baskets flowered everywhere. And they hadn’t even come to the gardens yet. Already Laura felt overwhelmed—how was she ever going to describe this in her book: the freshness of the air, the unique floral scent, the riotous banks of color? She couldn’t begin to take it all in herself. How could she possibly translate it? With a sense of helplessness she followed Tom to the Greenhouse Restaurant.

They sat on wrought iron chairs under hanging baskets heavy with blooms, surrounded by flower-entwined trellised walls. Tom brought their breakfast from the buffet: a thick slab of baked country ham with homemade bread, freshly squeezed orange juice, and richly brewed breakfast tea.

Laura nibbled a piece of dry toast. “I can’t cope with this—this sensory overload. How can I ever grasp it?”

“Try reducing it to lists.”

“That sounds terribly cold and inartistic, but I’ll try.” Her pen moved: begonias, fuchsias … She hesitated at the baskets filling the trellis arches. It was like meeting a longlost acquaintance and feeling one should recognize them.

Suddenly it clicked. “Tom, do you realize those are impatiens?”

“I know the feeling.”

“No, silly, the flowers. But look at their size. Each blossom must be six times as big as they grow at home.”

Tom nodded and glanced at his watch. “That’s great.

But what time do you meet this Glen fellow?” Laura had made an appointment to interview a horticulturist.

“One o’clock in the rose garden. That gives us plenty of time to do some of the other gardens first.”

Tom glanced at the map. “Right. What’ll it be?”

“The sunken garden is the one most often featured in pictures. But I’m not sure it matters. A riot is a riot—”

“—is a riot.” Tom finished. “Since a rose is a rose is a rose has already been said.”

“Yes, but Gertrude Stein didn’t see Butchart Gardens or she’d have known the flowers here are unlike any others in the world.”

Tom helped her with her chair and handed her her briefcase. “Good grief, woman, what do you have in here?”

She shrugged. “Just the necessities. Books, maps, paper …” Funny, he wouldn’t have thought the weight unnecessary if the papers had borne statistics instead of poetic descriptions.

They followed the path past a multigabled birdhouse, between hillsides of shamrocks, and beneath tall pines to the former rock quarry—its walls a solid English ivy green, its floor a maze of colored mounds of yellow and orchid chrysanthemums, red and pink, orange and blue …

Standing at the top of the quarry wall, Laura’s mind boggled. Well, if she couldn’t cope visually, she’d try approaching it aurally. She closed her eyes and heard the tumbling of a slender waterfall at the far end of the garden, a gentle click, click of cameras, the hushed whispers of people as overcome as herself, behaving as if they were entering a great cathedral.

She took Tom’s arm and they entered the enchanted world together, the sun warm on their heads like a benediction.
Let it be that,
Laura thought.
A blessing on our love
. As her amen she squeezed Tom’s arm.

His sudden jerking away was like a slap in the face. She recoiled to the other side of the walkway. Why were they never on an even footing? Just when she thought they’d found common ground it all fell away under her feet. Well, if that was how he wanted it, she needed to focus on the flowers anyway. She stopped beside a bed of begonias—tuberous and fibrous both—species that had defied all her horticultural attempts at home. But at least she could revel in their beauty here—a small hillside of vibrant yellow, coral, and pink.

“This cool, moist climate gives such intensity to the colors.” Yesterday when she had voiced her thoughts Tom hadn’t been there to hear them. This had to be progress, she assured herself, even if his hand at her elbow urging her on ahead of an approaching tour group was cold and impersonal.

The next bed was silvery dusty miller growing against spiky red salvia and fuzzy blue ageratum. “One of Jenny Butchart’s greatest gifts was her artist’s eye for the most spectacular color arrangements. I read that she won a scholarship to study art in Paris but chose to marry Mr. Butchart instead.” Laura paused.

“Isn’t life funny? She probably thought she was giving up her art when she made that decision, but I don’t suppose she could ever have achieved so much or left such a legacy of art to the world if she had pursued her career. I think Gwendolyn needs to see that.” She jotted a note. “You know, Kevin—” She choked as she saw the strange way her husband was regarding her. Had she done it again? Shut him out for her story line? But he was the one who had drawn away from her at the top of the path.

In the midst of all the light and beauty around her, Laura felt overcome with darkness and ugliness. Fears and remembered failings rose higher than the stone cliffs surrounding the garden. Why wasn’t loving and caring enough? Why wasn’t praying to do better enough? She wanted the rock quarry of their marriage to bloom like this garden, but how did one go about it?

“Tom—?”

“Well, at least you got my name right this time.” He strode on to the edge of the lagoon. Its still, black waters reflected craggy rocks, graceful willows, and the touches of red and gold foliage that the cool nights were adding to the color scheme.

Only that morning Laura had recalled a long-ago moment she and Tom spent in another park. In her mind she reached out to him, took his hand, and they strolled on through this garden in the perfect harmony they had known before the demands of marriage intruded. As if sensing her desire, Tom moved just beyond her reach, his hands clenched tightly together behind him.

Laura sighed and turned her back on the lagoon. The path wandered through more beds of begonias while above them autumn trees bordered the garden, all mingling their reds, yellows, and oranges, mixing and blending like the softly spoken languages of the many nations she heard around her.

“You know, I was afraid October would be too late in the year, but it’s even more beautiful with colored foliage.” If Tom turned from her touch, at least she could reach out with words.

“Yes. Very colorful. I had no idea it would be like this.” His reply was stiff, but Laura could have turned handsprings. He did like it. In his subdued way, Tom was appreciating the beauty around him. If only they could be experiencing it together—
really
together. If only they could experience marriage
really
together. Just walking through Butchart Gardens distanced from Tom but imagining what it would be like if they were really together like the characters in her head was a painful but important lesson. The trouble was, she knew how her story would end. Life was so uncertain. Still, there was nothing to do but keep going.

The path curved around another flowerbed, then offered them a bench fronted by banks of marigolds where they could sit and watch the fountain play in the lagoon before the limestone mountain wall. “Research size of fountain,” Laura wrote in the margin of her notes.

“This is the 70-foot Ross fountain installed in 1964 and named in honor of Ian Ross, Mrs. Butchart’s grandson who ran the gardens.” Laura gasped in astonishment as the tour guide behind her unwittingly supplied her needed information as he lectured his group. “Ross received these gardens for his 21st birthday after the provincial government refused to buy them for one dollar.”

Laura nudged Tom. “Talk about a real estate investment opportunity.” He acknowledged her comment with raised eyebrows.

Along the upper level of the quarry garden they walked past rows of maple trees. Laura raised her face to the autumn leaves glowing a hot orangy-red in the sun. “Now we know we’re really in Canada. I’ll bet maple leaves don’t turn that color anywhere else in the world.”

Tom nodded. “Exactly the color on the Canadian flag. You have to see it to believe it’s real.”

In appreciation at Tom’s response, Laura reached out to him—just long enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and the rough texture of his tweed jacket on her cheek. Then he pulled away. Laura stared at his back.
It’s almost as if he’s afraid to touch me or to be alone with me. As if he were the one who dreaded—um, er—intimacy.
Even in her thoughts she wasn’t going to use the three-letter word for marital passion. Her mother once had all but scrubbed the skin off her tongue washing her mouth out with soap. Once was enough.