He dragged his arm forward to grip the champagne glass with both hands. “Christ. You’ve become philosophical, too?”
“I would give the world for one last conversation with David. To ask him—” But why follow that thought? The dead couldn’t forgive. “His last day—I didn’t say goodbye. Trust me, closure matters.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “How Americans love their therapy jargon.”
“That was uncalled for and you know it. You’re wallowing.” And she wasn’t? She used to be good at this—finding words to comfort. Even in middle school she was an emotional fixer, an average student who never made an awards shortlist or the naughty roll, but who had one talent: listening. She could sit next to a stranger on a bus and know her life story within fifteen minutes. When had that stopped? Maybe she should take on James Nealy, teach him the joy only a garden could give. Maybe it would be therapy for both of them.
“Wallowing gets you nowhere,” she said. “I should know.”
“Tilly, I’m done. I’ve agreed to talk with a solicitor. All I’m asking for is a guarantee that I can see my children whenever I want.”
“You mean you won’t put them through the tug-of-war your father inflicted on you?” Bugger, she’d said too much. It still upset her, though, the fact of a parent choosing one of his children over the others as if he were placing a take-out order from a restaurant. But that’s exactly what Sebastian’s father had done by fighting for custody of his son and not his daughters.
Sebastian’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, and the bones of his knuckles gleamed through his skin. “I’d prefer you not mention my father. Especially not in front of the children.” His mouth twitched slightly, an involuntary tic she remembered from his adolescence, a hint of anger he would never release.
“Sebastian, you have to let go.”
“Why? Do you?”
“No, but I’m a widow, which means I can do whatever I please and someone, somewhere, will criticize. I grieve too much…I don’t grieve enough. I moved on too fast…I’m not moving on at all. I’ve stopped listening. Although my mother thinks I’ve tuned myself out completely. I like to think that Isaac and I stumble along in our own little fug.”
She laid her fingers on his forearm, just for a second, hoping to reach the old Sebastian with the carefree giggle. “I thought you and Rowena were having an affair.”
“Christ. Why would you think that?” He glared at the place where her hand had been as if expecting his skin to blister. Was that how he saw her—as a disease he could catch and never be cured of?
“Rowena’s car outside Manor Farm all night. Remember?”
“Oh.” He glanced up warily. “That.”
“That.”
“She turned up with some of her sloe gin as a housewarming present. It’s good, by the way, although I don’t recommend drinking an entire bottle in one night, as I did. Fiona had just called with her news when Rowena bounded in like a stray puppy.
“I don’t remember much after the third glass,” Sebastian continued. “I woke up the next morning, fully clothed, tucked up in my duvet. When the room stopped spinning, I saw Rowena asleep in an armchair next to me, wrapped up in the old dog blanket from her car. Christ, that thing stinks. One whiff and I was puking for England. I’m not sure which was more impressive: that she’d hauled me upstairs by herself—although, given the bruises I think she dragged me—or that she held me over the lavatory for so long.” He shivered. So, he was still frightened of throwing up, still remembered nearly choking on vomit as a child with whooping cough.
“She called in sick for me, which wasn’t a lie since I had the mother of all hangovers, and then insisted I take the following day off and come to the airport. It was like being put under a suicide watch.” He paused. “She thought seeing you might help.”
“It didn’t, did it?”
“No.” He handed Tilly his glass then fished a squashed packet of cigarettes from his back pocket and shook one loose.
“You never quit?” Tilly nodded at the cigarette.
“Actually, I did. But extreme circumstances demand extreme measures. It was either take up smoking again or get my ear pierced.” He flipped open his lighter, lit his cigarette and then reclaimed his glass.
“That would be a good look for you. Dead sexy.”
He almost smiled, and for a few seconds she continued to believe that he would. “My clients don’t want sexy. Besides, an earring at my age smacks of something.”
How did he get so old at thirty-nine? “Come on, Sebastian.” She jostled him with her elbow, but he eased himself away from her and picked a fragment of ash from his lips. “Everyone’s entitled to go wild on the eve of forty.”
“You remembered?”
“Why so surprised?” Tilly said. “Sebastian Hugh Whitterton. Turns forty on September 12. I don’t forget things about people who are important to me.”
“Were important. You don’t know me anymore. People change.”
“I don’t believe that they do.”
He stared at his cigarette, caught between two fingers of his splayed hand, then raised it to his mouth and took a long, slow drag. “Tilly—” He blew smoke away from her. “We’ve become irrelevant to each other.”
“That’s a pretty cynical view.”
“My world’s become a cynical place.”
“Hey, when it comes to woes, mine’s bigger than yours.” She gave him a nudge. C’mon, Sebastian, lighten up. “You’re still in woe-kindergarten.”
He reached for a rosebud that lay discarded between them. Its petals, never opened, had begun to shrivel. He tugged them off, one by one, tossing them to the ground.
“That’s a Peace rose,” Tilly said. “Or rather, it was.”
He cracked a smile and suddenly looked so boyish and vulnerable that Tilly felt a flush of anger at Fiona, a woman she had never met.
“How do you survive?” he said.
“I spend too much time with memories. And as a strategy, it’s deeply flawed.”
The air swirled with dust motes and smells she associated with the cemetery—dead flowers and rotting rose blooms.
“What do you remember most about me?” His question was so unexpected that Tilly’s mind became clogged with answers: the devilish look that said, I’m horny? Or the lingering stare that meant, Don’t leave me? Or the angry birthmark hidden by hair at the nape of his neck?
“Everything,” she said, because it was the truth. “What do you remember about me?”
“You’re a screamer.” He grinned, and she saw the scrawny sixteen-year-old in stained cricket whites. “When you come.”
Tilly shook away the image of Sebastian’s smooth, hairless chest. “Why didn’t you get in touch after David died?” Ugh, she didn’t mean to ask that. Not yet.
“Christ, Tilly.” Sebastian swiveled around; his knees jabbed hers. “Are you going to ease up for one minute?” He hesitated, clearly making a decision between the cigarette and alcohol. He settled on the cigarette.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That slipped out, but I would like to know.”
“Does it matter? Does it really fucking matter?”
Across the parkland, children squealed with laughter.
“I’m afraid it does. You and I are back in the same orbit, Sebastian.” How could he have moved to the village and not thought this through? “Our children seem to have bonded…you’ve become bosom pals with my best friend. It’s only a matter
of time before my mother reels you in. Trust me, this matters. Because I need to forgive you and part of me can’t.”
“Fine.” He stood and squared his shoulders. “I had no choice, Tilly.”
“Bollocks. There’s always a choice.”
“No, there wasn’t. Because I had made a pact with myself.” He blew a smoke ring, then tipped his head back and watched it disintegrate. “To forget you.”
She rose slowly, to hug him, but he stepped, equally slowly, away from her.
“I put my life on hold for you after your father died, even took a leave of absence from work.” For a moment Tilly thought he might cry. But how would she know? She had never seen him cry. Wasn’t that what she remembered most about life with Sebastian—the struggle to interpret his feelings without the guidance of words?
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know. But you sucked up the family grief and no one was there for you. Not even your husband.” He spat out the last word.
How dare he criticize David? “The decision for David to stay home was mine, not his. Do you have any idea how much a last-minute transatlantic ticket costs? We certainly couldn’t afford two.” Surely, the banker in him understood.
“I was there for you, Tilly, up until the time you flew back to America. And before you say anything, I know you gave me no reason to hope…but still, I had this idiotic notion that you would come back to me. Once you’d gone, I told Rowena that I was done, that I would forget you. And know what?” He tossed the half-smoked cigarette onto the gravel and ground it out with his foot. “I did. I fell in love with Fiona, accepted the position in Hong Kong and Archie was born. Christ, I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Unfortunately, my wife was not. When David died I couldn’t contact you. I couldn’t risk that you would reel me back in. Fiona never shook off the doubt that I had loved you more, and I could never convince her otherwise. She wanted absolutes, and I failed to deliver. It destroyed my marriage.”
“She destroyed your marriage. When she left you for another man.”
He raised the champagne to his lips, then hesitated and dumped it out. “I have nothing left to give you, Tilly. Nothing.”
“Suppose I don’t want anything?”
“That terrifies me just as much.” He sounded beaten, as if they had sparred physically as well as verbally, and he had lost. “Because then I have less than nothing.”
“You could’ve said no.” She gestured to the empty glass hanging from Sebastian’s hand. “If you didn’t want the champagne.”
“I can’t, Tilly. That’s just it. I’ve never been able to say no to you.”
God, she understood how that felt. “Funny.” She drained her glass. “Normally champagne goes straight to my head. But I don’t even feel woozy. Why is that?”
“There are some things one should do sober.” Sebastian brushed his lips over hers. “And don’t ask me why I did that.” He headed for the rear gate. “Because I don’t know.”
They left the walled garden in silence, emerging on the edge of a thicket, a forgotten place with dark smells of peat and decomposing timber. Tentacles of dark green ivy carpeted the ground and slithered up the druid oaks at the edge of The Chase. There was no scratching, no twittering, no snapping of undergrowth, no hum of crickets. Even the wildlife had abandoned this corner of the estate. But hanging from a huge oak bough, its rope gray with age, was a marker from her past. Tilly brushed her hand over the smooth wooden seat. How could she have forgotten about this swing?
“Hop on.” Sebastian took her glass and placed it on the ground next to his.
She sat, almost tipping off when Sebastian grabbed the swing from behind. The hairs of the rope bit into her palms as she clung on.
“How high do you want to go?” he asked.
She leaned her head back until it rested on his shoulder and remembered the feel of his caress, the feel of him moving gently inside her. He was always gentle, always concerned that he might hurt her. A surge of pleasure long forgotten stirred in her groin.
“I want to go as high as I can,” she said.
Sebastian released her, and Tilly soared. She pumped her legs and swung higher and higher, until all she could feel was the air rushing at her. And below, Sebastian leaned against a beech tree, watching. He was still, like a mannequin, and like a mannequin, his posture and expression revealed nothing.
Chapter 11
With the afternoon sun blazing down on him, James killed the ignition. He climbed out of the Alfa and patted the door twice before easing it shut. Should he be concerned that his longest-standing relationship these days was with his car? Other than his friendship with Sam, of course. Man, they hadn’t seen each other in eighteen months. Time to prod Sam into negotiating with his wife for another guys’ weekend.
That was a good distraction to cling to. He needed the tonic of a well-worn friendship, even if Sam’s advice never varied: Get your shit together, buddy. Stop hustling the smart women and chase after the hot babes with big tits and no brains. Breast size James didn’t care about, IQ he did. Sam knew this, but now he was married with three kids, he liked to imagine the life of a bachelor was all firm breasts and lacy panties. But that had never been James’s fantasy, even when he had, briefly, endured the bar scene. No, the one thing James dreamed of was the one thing he’d proved himself incapable of sustaining—a family life. But with two kids, obviously, not three.
James stared at the garden that blurred his anxiety better than a tumbler of bourbon. He had come here to remind himself that his relationship with Tilly was about fighting fear. For that he needed absolute focus. But…he had driven down this very driveway and seen her for the first time. A tiny, barefoot woman with freckles and hacked hair who had looked him in the eye and said no. A woman whose love he wanted to earn, even though she deserved better, so much better.
Tilly’s garden, baking in the Carolina heat, was a riot of yellow, purple, red and orange. He couldn’t imagine Tilly doing anything in pastels. His mother had loved bright garden colors, too. Not that she had been a gardener of Tilly’s caliber, but she’d definitely had the gift.
He glanced down at his black watch, his black T-shirt, his black pants, his black sneakers. How would it feel to live a life splashed with color, with spontaneity and laissez-faire? Maybe he should go to University Mall on his way back to the apartment and find a new watch. Splurge and buy something with color. A red watch. Tilly liked red, didn’t she? Fuck. This was getting worse. He dragged his hands through his hair. Already, he was making assumptions about her taste. Already, he was acting as if he were her lover. James shivered at the possibility.
The day after tomorrow he could call her. He had lasted five days without talking to her, without hearing her beautiful English accent bastardized by the occasional American phrase. He missed her voice so much that he had developed a new habit—as if he, obsessive-compulsive James, needed one—of listening to the BBC World Service every morning. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
Not checking with her had been exhausting, but they had made a deal, and he had forced himself to stick with it. Fear of cheating could be convenient, even though the OCD twisted it, tried to con him into believing he had lied when he hadn’t. As it was doing right now, telling him Tilly wouldn’t speak with him tomorrow since he had lied to her. But he hadn’t, had he? When had he lied to her about anything?
Boss back the thought, James, boss it back.
He had used th
e last week wisely, creating a virtual tour of his property to share with her after she agreed to take him on. Unfortunately, that had placed him at his unfinished house more than usual. He was pushing the contractor to the edge, driving him too hard on every detail. Poor bastard was close to quitting, and who could blame him? Tomorrow James would give the guy a break and stay away.
A hawk screeched, and James spotted the huge bird with the rust-colored belly sitting guard in the ancient oak, the tree that made his insides itch with its lack of symmetry. Were hawks territorial? Was this the same bird he had seen the first time he came here? The hawk screeched again, and its cry resonated in his gut.
James yanked off his sunglasses. “I know, my friend. I miss her, too.”
Chapter 12
A strange westerly wind had picked up that morning, heralding the new workweek with a rumbling in the treetops. It had battered the garden since dawn, covering the lawn in rose petals and forcing the hollyhocks to the ground. The rusted weathervane creaked as another gust roared through, and Tilly tucked her hands into her armpits. At Creeping Cedars a summer wind this strong swept in with a red flag warning and the threat of forest fires.
The pony in the field behind whinnied its distress. Poor creature had been racing around all morning, trying to outrun itself. If only she could do the same. Why did she feel so jittery? Was it the recent phone conversation in which Sari had casually mentioned her five-year business plan? Or was it the omnipresent specter of Sebastian?
A burst of magpie cackle fired, and Tilly jumped. How ridiculous to let a stiff breeze and a bossy bird startle her. Monty whimpered as he shoved his snout through the bars of the garden gate, but Tilly ignored him. Isaac was down in the paddock, practicing his bowling—with a tennis ball—away from windows and away from the dog. Sebastian had promised more cricket at the weekend, and Isaac was thrilled. Tilly jammed her hands deeper into her armpits. Should she discourage this? Was Sebastian merely seeking a substitute for his childless weekends? Suppose he did reunite with Fiona? Unlikely, given the pregnancy, but then he had returned without question each time Tilly had invited him back into her life. If he reconciled with his wife, would he dump Isaac the way he’d dumped Tilly after David died?
The Unfinished Garden Page 11
