The Unfinished Garden (9 page)

Her mother concentrated on positioning the cup on the bedside
table while Tilly stared open-mouthed. Her mother, who had avoided the
s
word for decades, who had refused to answer
thirteen-year-old Tilly’s questions about the facts of life—answers she would
later glean from Sebastian—had just described a man as sexy. Tilly tugged her
cardigan around her. Now she thought about it, her mother had started saying
damn,
too. Once, she had spanked Tilly for using
it. Was this an attempt to be more relevant, to buck values ingrained since
childhood? Or was it some sort of personality crisis? The beginning of
Alzheimer’s?

“I take it he’s interested in you, this James?”

“Why would you ask?”

“The way he spoke your name, as if he were handling a precious
object. Besides, the teacher in me knows when someone’s hiding something. A case
of unrequited love, is it?”

“No! He wants me to design a garden.” Love? Absolutely not. Her
mother was right about one thing, though. James was definitely hiding something.
Tilly gazed through the window to the lawn below. Isaac was playing soccer with
the ball she had bought on their last trip. In less than five minutes, he had
unearthed the stash of possessions she kept at Woodend, the part of their lives
she always left behind. Isaac positioned the ball and kicked, but Monty
intercepted. With a snap of his jaw, he chomped down.

“Garden design,” her mother mused. “You are rather good at
that.”

“Please, Mum. Stay out of this.” Tilly pulled a long-sleeved
T-shirt from the duffel, stuffed it into the mahogany chest of drawers and
closed the drawer with her bottom.

“A little more care, darling. That’s a valuable piece of
furniture.” Her mother peered over her reading glasses, their lapis frames
intensifying the blue of her eyes. “If you ask me—”
actually, I didn’t
“—you need to stop cowering on the edge of life,
afraid to jump in. Whatever your beliefs, you are not responsible for David’s
death.”

Tilly swallowed, forcing back bile. “As good as. I invoked his
living will, Mum.”

“You respected your husband’s final wishes, for which I commend
you.”

“But I believe in the sanctity of life. You know that. Well,
unless it’s slugs or Japanese beetles.” Tilly exhaled. “And before you say
anything else, yes, I agree it was his decision to make. I accepted that when he
drew up the living will. But I still have to figure out how to deal with the
consequences of
my
actions.” If only it were that
simple. “And when other people push—” Tilly looked her mother in the eye “—it
doesn’t help.”

“Darling, I know grief follows its own pace, but you can’t shut
out people who love you.”

“Not even if they force me to boogie on the dance floor when
all I want is to shuffle along with a Zimmer frame?”

“You’re too young for a Zimmer frame.”

Tilly hooked down the sleeves of her cardigan and curled up her
fists inside. She was exhausted from talking, from thinking, from being. “I
should have listened to my instincts, Mum. I should have said no. I always gave
in to David. Anything for a quiet life, you know?”
Stop,
Tilly, that’s close enough.

“Rubbish.” Her mother rustled the newspaper on her lap. “You
made compromises—that’s marriage. Besides, few women could have handled David.
You certainly could.”

Tilly’s eyes prickled from dryness. She wished she could cry,
but what would that achieve? Self-pity was not part of her agenda. Bad enough
that on sleepless nights she could still hear David’s breath gurgling through
the disconnected tube protruding from his throat like a weapon.

Mrs. Haddington removed her glasses and clicked the arms into
place. “Guilt surrounds death, darling. The secret is to accept that and not end
up in the tizz that I did.” How many euphemisms could her mother use for her
breakdown? “Your father wanted to die at home, but I was so silly. Convinced
myself that only professionals could nurse a cancer patient through his final
days, and that if he came home, I would make it worse.” She shook her head. “The
poor man was dying. How much worse could it have been? But I gnawed on that
guilt. Don’t do the same.”

Her mother was well-meaning but clueless. Some actions were too
heinous to be forgotten or forgiven. Tilly grabbed a balled-up denim shirt from
the floor, shook it out with a
thwack
and tossed it
toward the laundry basket. How had she managed to pack so many dirty
clothes?

“What about a good clear-out, starting with David’s studio?
It’s a car boot sale waiting to happen.” Her mother’s blue eyes sharpened. “Why
not donate the books to the university and turn the space into a shop that sells
gardening doodads?”

“I can’t just open a shop, Mum. There’re zoning laws about that
kind of thing. Besides, the studio breathes David’s DNA. It’s the reason we
bought the house—”

“Poppycock. You fell in love with the land and David caved
because he spoiled you worse than your father did. Bless him, I do miss your
father.” Mrs. Haddington appraised her engagement ring, a huge sapphire
surrounded by a burst of diamonds. “He believed you had found yourself in North
Carolina.”

“Really?” Tilly smiled at her mother; her mother smiled
back.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, accompanied by a salvo of
“Mom! Mom!”

Isaac poked his head around the door. “Monty barfed up soccer
ball all over the kitchen floor. Can we go to The Corner Stores and buy a new
one after you’ve cleaned up the mess?”

“Actually, no. I have a better idea.” Tilly opened the drawer
of her old dressing table and rummaged around until she found the medallion with
the inscription: 1st place, 200 meters breaststroke.

“Here.” Tilly handed it to Isaac. “The badge of your new status
as Monty helper.”

“Sweet. What do I have to do?”

Tilly draped an arm over his shoulder. “First, you learn how to
mop up dog sick.”

Isaac screamed and ducked away. Laughing, Tilly chased him
along the landing and down the stairs. She paused on the sixth step, the one
that creaked. The drawing room door was open, and she glimpsed a cardboard box
next to the carved wooden chest, a chest formerly covered in photographs of
family milestones. Was her mother, another memory hoarder, packing up their
past? And if so, why?

The question tasted bitter. Woodend was a time capsule of
Haddington family life. Nothing had changed here in decades, not even the paint
colors. And if Tilly had her way, nothing ever would.

Chapter 10

Bramwell Hall, isolated in a pocket of peace behind the
churchyard, breathed a different tune from any place Tilly had ever been. The
cavernous rooms were filled with the silent chill of history, but it was still a
home, albeit a crumbling one with pieces that regularly dropped off.

The clock on the old stable block chimed 3:00 p.m., sheep
bleated across the park and a home movie played in Tilly’s mind. She was chasing
Rowena around the north wing in a game of tag; she was organizing pony rides by
the south wing for the Queen’s silver jubilee; she was snuggling up to Sebastian
on the lawn as fireworks boomed and sparkled in honor of Prince Andrew’s
wedding. Tilly’s eyes panned up to the Hall’s mullioned second-floor windows and
lingered on Rowena’s bedroom. Bugger, there it was again—that animated image
from the Kama Sutra starring Rowena and Sebastian.

Avoiding Sebastian all week had been easy. She had chalked up
only one ex-boyfriend sighting and that had been of the taillights of the Jaguar
as she’d hustled Monty along the estate road for his pre-bedtime jaunt. Staying
below Rowena’s radar had presented the real challenge. Like the wild onion that
peppered Tilly’s gardens every May, Rowena could pop up anytime, anywhere. Only
a person on a kamikaze mission crossed Rowena without an exit strategy, and
Tilly needed to shake off her jet lag before she could line up her thoughts. But
really, it had been surprisingly easy to hide behind a few rushed conversations.
Easy, but heartbreaking.

In thirty-three years, Tilly and Rowena had feuded only once,
when they were fifteen and Tilly accidentally scratched Rowena’s “Nights in
White Satin” single. The great-falling-out had been hardest on Rowena. Without
the Haddingtons, she had no family life. But she was as stubborn as swamp
sunflower and equally impossible to tame. It was Tilly who negotiated the peace
and promised that nothing would nick their friendship again. As the sun pushed
through a cloud to illuminate the Hall’s sandstone facade with a warm, golden
hue, Tilly remembered Rowena coaxing the first postfuneral smile from Isaac and
silently renewed the promise, a promise that would not be broken.

She glanced down at Rowena, stretched out on the tartan blanket
with her two black Labradors, Tiddly and Winks. Another X-rated Rowena-Sebastian
image flashed, and Tilly shivered. What had she read on the OCD website about
picking up your thoughts and putting them elsewhere? A brain trick, it was
called. An appealing idea, that you could shove aside unwanted thoughts as if
you were moving furniture. And yet shifting your mind was bloody difficult. How
did James find the emotional strength? Not that she wanted to think about him,
and not that she had decided to take him on, but he had captured her interest
with his mention of OCD. After all, even she had an inner Doubting Thomas that
whispered at her to double-check the front door was locked. But second-guessing
yourself, she had discovered through her late-night excursions on the web, was
nothing compared to the relentless obsessions, ritualized compulsions and
furtive behavior of OCD. If James lived in perpetual anxiety, battling fears no
one else could see, how did he find peace? Or was that the reason he wanted a
garden? Maybe he was searching for some corner of the universe to control. If
so, he was looking in the wrong place. Gardening was never about control.

“For gawd’s sake, sit down,” Rowena said, without opening her
eyes. “You’re making me all twitchy, not to mention blocking out my sun.”

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Being lucky enough to have a healthy mind.”

“Fabulous.” Rowena yawned. “You can look after me when I get
Alzheimer’s. Now sit and tell me how you’re really doing.”

“Oh, you know.”

“No, I don’t know, since you’ve been dodging me all week.”

Bugger, she’d noticed. Underestimating Rowena was a trap Tilly
fell into repeatedly. The only consolation was that others made the mistake more
frequently. Take the teenage vandal Rowena had caught spray-painting a stone
balustrade. Rather than prosecute, Rowena had co-opted him into six months of
free labor on the estate. Three years later, he still called her ma’am.

Tilly flopped to the blanket, lulled by the crack of Isaac
swatting a cricket ball. Sebastian and the children were playing cricket down by
the horse pond, and the snores coming from the deck chairs under the
two-hundred-year-old cedar tree signaled that her mother and the vicar would not
be eavesdropping. Tilly and Rowena were alone.

“Found a man yet?” Rowena said.

“Have you?”

Rowena smiled, an open smile that hinted at years of intimacy
yet told Tilly nothing. “How about setting up an alternative family unit?”
Rowena stretched. “You, me and Isaac at the Hall. Ever consider coming home and
making me deliriously happy?”

“In my dreams. Not sure Isaac would approve, though.” Tilly
laid back and the short skirt of her dress puddled around her. She tugged on her
waistband. What a meal! Three courses and four choices of desserts, none of
which Tilly had been able to resist since they had all included chocolate. Grass
pricked through the scratchy blanket and Tilly shifted, but, between the hard
ground and her bloated stomach, failed to find comfort.

A loud snort, definitely male, came from under the cedar
tree.

“Think the vicar’s got the hots for your mother?” Rowena asked.
She was tracing shapes in the clouds as they had done a lifetime ago. “They
looked pretty cozy, heads locked together over dessert.”

“He was asking if she had indigestion pills in her
handbag.”

“Bummer. I so want your mother to fall in love.”

“Me, too, but it’s not going to happen. She told me once that
she could never love anyone but my father.” Tilly rolled onto her side and
propped herself up with her elbow. She slid the other arm between her thighs,
clasped her calves, and curled up. “Maybe after a certain point you don’t need
romantic love. I mean, my mother’s happy. She has a full life with Marigold and
her cronies. Why does she need a man?”

“Amen, sister. Give me a vibrator any day, far less messy.
Besides, spunky old spinsters rock. I just wish my mother were more like yours.
If anything happened to Daddy she would disintegrate.”

Tilly wanted to disagree, but despite her beauty, Lady Roxton
blended into her husband’s shadow. Which, Tilly had always supposed, was why
Lord Roxton married her. He liked an audience, not competition. He doted on his
daughter but in a distracted way that placed Rowena below his gun dogs in the
hierarchy of his affection. He treated her as a valuable painting—prized and
largely ignored. When she messed up? It showed spirit. He admired that in dogs
and in his daughter. Unfortunately, his wife did not. She glided through life,
showing passion only for Lord Roxton and his heritage. The spectacular splashes
Rowena created to earn her parents’ attention may have garnered laughter from
her father, but they earned scorn from her mother.

“Your mother’s spunky,” Tilly said. “Sort of.”

“Fibber. Mother looks like a jewel but she’s an inadequate
human being. Remember how we used to pretend that Woodend was my real home, that
Mother and Daddy were wicked godparents who’d kidnapped me at birth?”

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

“No. We shouldn’t have. But your house was filled with pets,
baking smells, you practicing the trombone, your sisters arguing…. My house was
filled with the bawdiness of adults who were so besotted with each other they
didn’t even notice when I hit puberty. Did you know, your mother gave me my
first sanitary napkin?” Rowena grabbed the last bottle of champagne and refilled
her glass. Sebastian had donated two bottles to the day and Rowena had drunk
most of them. Tilly would have been gaga by now, but Rowena was stone-cold
sober. “Ever wonder what kind of a parent I would’ve made?”

“An amazing one.” Tilly’s pulse quickened. Rowena had provided
an opening.

Tilly reached over, her hand steepled, and waited for Rowena to
complete their childhood gesture of solidarity. But the tips of Rowena’s fingers
were cold and slippery. The steeple wobbled and collapsed, and Tilly found
herself touching nothing but air.

“Archie and Sophie like you. But please, Ro, tread carefully.
Getting involved with a family man, even one who’s separated, could end in
heartbreak. Yours.” There, she’d said it.

“Bloody hell.” Rowena shot up, her alabaster chest flushed with
red pinpricks. The dogs stood to attention. “Where did that come from?”

“Mabel Dillington. She saw the Discovery outside Manor Farm at
6:00 a.m.”

The wind shifted and brought a whiff of freshly spread slurry
down from the fields, a smell rank with rot and decay.

“Bah. Let the old biddies gossip. I couldn’t care less.”

“If you guys are worried about telling me, you needn’t be. I’m
a big girl.” Tilly pinged her bra strap. “Well, not as big as I always wanted to
be.”

“Haddy, I’m not sleeping with Sebastian.” Rowena slumped back
to the blanket. So did Tiddly and Winks, although, unlike Rowena, they sat up,
their bodies alert. She emptied her champagne flute in one gulp, then tossed the
glass aside. “You really thought we were doing the dirty on you? Crikey, that
explains the cold treatment.”

“So why spend the night?” Tilly fingered the hem of her
dress.

“Talk with Sebastian, Tilly. This is his secret, not mine.”

Tilly? Rowena never called her Tilly—Haddy, Petal, you old cow,
but never Tilly.

Tilly shook her head. “We’ve never kept secrets.” Secrets, no,
but Rowena’s emotions were like a fallow field with no-trespassing signs posted
around the edges. A survival technique learned during childhood and fermented
through years of boarding school when Rowena was disciplined for rebellious
behavior and scorned for academic failings. She excelled only at art, which her
mother declared a useless subject. Twice, she ran away.

Rowena stared at Tilly, her green eyes clear and cold.
“Sharing’s not always good.”

“Ro—” Tilly grabbed Rowena’s clenched hand. “You’re so deep in
my past that I don’t know where your life ends and mine begins. Nothing could
change that.”

“Nothing? How could you ever,
ever
think that I would sleep with Sebastian? To betray you, Haddy, to risk losing
you—” Rowena snatched her hand free and swiped it under her nose.
“Unthinkable.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t get maudlin on me. I love you, too.”

Rowena sniffed loudly.

“How long have you been Sebastian’s confidante?” Tilly tried to
sound disinterested, but her body tightened. Unease tingled in her chest, in her
throat, in her fingertips.

“Since your wedding. Truthfully? We both felt dumped. Amazing
how love for the same person gives you common ground.” Rowena paused for another
sniff. “And then you broke Sebastian’s heart again.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“After your father died Sebastian stayed here, at the Hall, to
be near you. I was commuting into the city at that point so we sat up most
nights talking. Well, he talked. I listened.”

Tilly gazed up at the sky, more white than blue. What an
insipid color. But then again, when you’d experienced sky so blue that it made
your eyes ache and distorted your vision, nothing compared. A microlight floated
over; a small private plane bounced near the horizon; and a jet streaked
silently toward some distant location. The sky over Southern England was as
crowded as the roadways. Where did people run to when they needed to be
alone?

A bumblebee droned near Tilly’s bare feet. “I never realized.”
She sat up and hugged her knees. “He just materialized every day and dealt with
the bank, the lawyer, the funeral home, all that crap. And I never questioned
it. God, how selfish can one person be?”

“You weren’t being selfish, Haddy. You were grieving. And
telling everyone you were fine, when you weren’t. Sebastian wanted to help, so
offering him B & B seemed the least I could do. You mopped up after your
mother and sisters—Sebastian and I mopped up after you.”

Down by the horse pond Isaac whacked a cricket ball and
Sebastian cheered, his voice blending with the chorus of birds and sheep. Tilly
watched his arm arc through the air as he bowled and sensed Rowena watching him,
too.

“If you’re planning on rekindling love lost,” Rowena said, “I
recommend acting in haste. Half the choir ladies fancy him rotten. Rumor has it
he’s quite the talk of the vestry. Can’t see it myself, can you?”

“Nah. Don’t see it at all.” Tilly smirked. Sebastian was
wearing those tight white jeans again with a slim-fitting T-shirt that revealed
a perfectly toned torso. Biceps to die for, or, in a woman’s case, lust over. He
had filled out physically as well as emotionally. It was quite a
combination.

“Why
did
Sebastian give up
cricket?” Rowena said. “Were you responsible?”

“Me? Hardly. It was his passion. I tried to persuade him to
stick with it.”

“You were his passion.”

A sparrow hawk sailed overhead, then twisted effortlessly to
the right and swooped toward a finch, closing in on its prey.

“First love distorts reality, doesn’t it?” Tilly said. “We
thought we were planning for a future, but we were just kids playing in a Wendy
house. I counted imaginary babies while Sebastian prepared for his role as
provider, so he could be everything his philandering, scuzzy father wasn’t.”

“His father was in the papers the other day. Conservative MP
and wife number three. She looks eighteen.” Rowena plucked two daisies from the
grass. She sliced her fingernail through the stem of one daisy and then threaded
the other daisy through the wound. “Tell me. Do you ever regret ripping
Sebastian’s heart apart?”

“Whoa! That’s not fair. We outgrew each other. Sad, but true.”
Tilly’s life might be a quagmire of regret, but not when it came to her
relationship with Sebastian. Their past, well, up until the bit where he stopped
speaking to her, was bundled up and tucked away. Safe and sound. “When I ended
it he didn’t react at all, which proved he wanted the same thing. You know how
he hates confrontations. I made it easy for him.”