The Unfinished Garden. Barbara White Claypole
math problem. And she hated all things math. Sebastian cracked open his window. Cellophane crinkled, a lighter flipped open and she heard him breathe.
Tilly rubbed at a crust of strawberry jam on her jeans. “Fiona left you?”
“Yes.” Sebastian dragged on his cigarette.
“I’m sorry.” So, she didn’t plan to forgive him, and she didn’t want to hate him. Could she settle on indifference with a soupçon of pity? She could feel that for a squished squirrel on Creeping Cedars, and squirrels were public enemy number one.
A counterpane of fields ripped past, retreating from the invasive ground cover of London. What a different view this was to the one from I-40, where wide banks disappeared into acres of forest. Her body tingled with something that felt strangely like longing. But before Tilly could muse further, a sense of unease prickled, and she turned from the window.
Sebastian had angled the rearview mirror toward himself and appeared to be rubbing his eye. But it was a ruse; he was watching her. His eyes delved deeper—with curiosity, lust, wistfulness? Or was it need? Did he need her the way she had needed him after David died? If she were closer, she could concentrate on Sebastian’s eyes. Were they gray, the color stated on his passport, or murky green, the color of ocean reflecting storm clouds? Before she could decide, he looked away.
Terrific, she’d have to forgive him after all.
* * *
She wanted to stay asleep, but hushed voices intruded, waking her before she was ready. Where was she? Oh, right, still ensnared in the Discovery. Rowena whispered, “Want me to tell her?” and Sebastian replied, “No, I’ll take care of it.” And Tilly decided to play possum.
“Doing all right?” Rowena asked. “Sorry. Bloody stupid question.”
“Yeah.” A lighter flicked. “Bloody stupid question, darlin’.”
Darlin’? Said in jest and the dropped g made all the difference, but a term of endearment passing between Ro and Sebastian? Tilly held her breath, hoping that for once Sebastian would spill his emotions, not conserve them. But he remained silent, curled in on his thoughts like a turtle marooned in the middle of the road. And Tilly had to move; her buttocks were numb.
“Aha,” Rowena said. “Sleeping Beauty and my little prince stir. Did we nap well, my darlings?”
“Not especially.” Tilly’s neck cricked and she tugged on it.
“We’re here, Mom! Look!” Isaac grabbed at her. “We’re here!”
The road dipped under an arc of overhanging beech trees. Ivy-covered banks rose on either side of the car, and they were thrown into a leafy tunnel of silvery shade. Tilly wanted to scream her happiness, to rush from the car and kiss the ground. Who gives a monkey’s about anything! She was home, back in the place where life waited for her, unchanged. She lowered her window and inhaled cool air and the smell of fresh-cut grass. No heat, no humidity, no cicada buzz, nothing but the bleating of sheep.
They emerged into brilliant sunshine as the bank slipped into a hedgerow of hawthorn, bindweed and elder knotted with blackberry brambles. A blue tit churred, and Tilly’s heart answered with a symphony of joy. Isaac’s first English summer! He was in for such a treat.
A woman clopped by on a piebald horse and touched her velvet helmet in greeting, but Rowena, ever the sun-slut, was oblivious. “The sun!” She pointed and bounced like a child tied up with excitement on Christmas morning. “Oh, the sun!”
Rowena continued to pay more attention to the sky than the road, but thankfully, drove below the speed limit. Not that she would ever speed through a village.
“Now, poppet. What shall we do for this trip’s outing?” Rowena said. “Isaac and I always have a day out,” she explained to Sebastian. “Of course, being here in the summer has so many more possibilities. Tilly and Isaac normally come back for Christmas. Well, not to celebrate Christmas, since they don’t.”
“You gave up on Christmas?” Sebastian held his cigarette to the window, but turned briefly.
“My husband was a practicing Jew.” Tilly watched a streak of smoke leak out through the open window. “And since we have a liberal rabbi, Isaac’s been raised in the Jewish faith. He thinks Jesus lives at the North Pole with twelve reindeer, don’t you, Angel Bug?”
Isaac rolled his eyes. “Mom! I haven’t believed that since I was young.”
“I converted after David died. It made sense for Isaac.” Which was true. A five-year-old could hardly go to synagogue alone. At the time she had told herself she was giving David a final gift, and maybe, back then, she’d believed it. But today she saw her conversion for what it was: an act of atonement. No. She shoved the thought aside, but there it was again, coiling in her gut: guilt, the universal motivator for every major decision she had made in the past three years.
They crawled around the curve of the church wall and passed the yew trees that marked the mass graves of medieval plague victims. Beyond, fields dotted with chestnut trees and grazing sheep tumbled over the horizon. Tilly held her breath and waited. Nothing must taint this happiness percolating in her heart, because any minute…yes! She exhaled as they emerged on a small rise. Waves of pink and red valerian poked out from the foundations of the ironstone cottages hugging the High Street, their thatched roofs spilling toward strips of garden stuffed with lupines, delphiniums, fading roses and gangly sweet peas. Tilly’s eyes scooted over every plant. How she had missed the gardens of Bramwell Chase, with untamed perennials rambling into each other and lawns dotted with daisies and clover. These were real gardens, not the landscaped yards of Creeping Cedars with squares of chemically enhanced grass, rows of shrubs lined up like marines awaiting inspection, and the gag-inducing smell of hardwood mulch.
“Now, dear heart,” Rowena said to Isaac. “Name your outing. But not Legoland again. That gift shop bankrupted me last time. What about the Tower of London? You can see where they chopped off heads. And the crown jewels are good for a quick look-see.”
“How about Woburn Safari Park?” Sebastian gave a shrug. “Archie and Sophie—” aha, that was his daughter’s name “—love it. Monkeys climb on your car, parrots take nectar from your hand.” Isaac sat still, mouth open. “And the gift shops are terrific.” Sebastian gave Rowena that smile, the one that was more of a twitch at the right corner of his mouth. Tilly twisted her legs around each other.
“Fab idea. I—” A mechanical rendition of “Rule Britannia” chimed from Rowena’s lap. “Bugger. Phone.” Rowena rootled around in the folds of her skirt. “Sebastian? Take the wheel.”
Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Sebastian shook his head in disapproval, but reached across and grabbed the steering wheel while Rowena chattered into her cell phone. Sebastian had grown up fawned over by women—his grandmother who had lived with the family, his mother, his two older sisters—and yet he’d always been oblivious to sexual cues, incredulous when confronted by lust. His effortless movements, however, suggested that he was finally comfortable with his sexuality. Which was good for Sebastian—Tilly gulped—bad for her. Life was so much easier when she had thought of him as dead. God, she needed out of this car.
“Cool,” Isaac said. “Rowena can drive without any hands.”
“Not cool.” Tilly raised her voice. “Dangerous and illegal.”
“That was Daddy. Thanks, Sebastian.” Rowena snapped her phone shut and reclaimed the steering wheel. “Sends oodles of love. He and Mother are scheming to open a rest home for aging ex-pats. Think we should invest, Haddy? You could wheel me around in my bath chair while I find us a couple of geriatric Adonises. So many men, so little time.”
Flashes of Rowena’s ex-lovers whizzed through Tilly’s mind. Poor Ro, she could never find enough love, whereas Tilly had had more than her share.
“But Isaac’s my main squeeze.” Rowena fired off a string of air-kissses. “Aren’t you, poppet?”
“Yes.