“I don’t want perfect. Perfect is boring. I like messy with lots of flaws. I like us, James. I like that we’re two damaged people who understand each other. I’ve learned so much from you, about fighting back, about trusting myself. Now it’s your turn to trust me. Tell me what happened at the airport. Let me help.”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
Tilly pulled into a lay-by and shut the engine. James glared at her, defiant.
“Isn’t that avoiding your fears?” she said. “Exactly what you’ve taught me not to do?”
“I’ve hit rock bottom. I listened to the OCD and now the cycle of anxiety begins again. How much worse can it get?”
A soft-sided lorry belted past and the car shook.
“You got me through the hospital, I’m getting you through this. Like it or not, James, we make a kick-ass team when it comes to fighting fear.”
“I will not relive what happened at the airport.” His voice was quiet but guttural, the warning clear. “Don’t make me.”
Tilly laughed silently. Did he think he could scare her off? She draped her arm over the steering wheel and leaned into his space. She owed him, and it was payback time. She breathed in the scent of him—cedar, honey and the mystery ingredient that was James—and felt her purpose take root. “What were you frightened of?”
“Stop, Tilly. Please, stop.”
“No. Not till you tell me what you were frightened of.”
He raised his hands as if to fend off approaching danger and curled his fingers into talons. But Tilly didn’t flinch.
She grabbed his thigh and squeezed hard. “Whatever foxhole you’re diving into better be big enough for two, because I’m coming in. You’re not shutting me out. Not this time.”
Fingers still rigid at the air, he began rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. “The plane, the plane crashing. Crashing and exploding. Fire, fire everywhere. Flames. I was burning. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was knowing that you couldn’t hear me calling your name, knowing that I would die without tasting you, knowing that I would die without hearing you cry out in pleasure that I had given you. Me, not David, not Sebastian. Me.” His voice cracked. “How could I face death terrified that you would never love me?”
Without warning, he thrust himself at her. His mouth—cold, hard, impenetrable—crushed her lips into her teeth and the force of his kiss jammed her head into the headrest. She squirmed, desperate for air, and he fell back. A thread of saliva joined them for a second, then disintegrated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Tilly touched her throbbing lips. No one had ever hurt her with a kiss before.
James grappled with his T-shirt and started rocking again. “People think OCD is a joke, Tilly. That we’re screwy because we line things up in the fridge. They have no idea. No idea what it’s like to be haunted by your own thoughts, always running but never escaping. Of being so exhausted by the effort of dragging yourself through the checking, the rituals, the fear, that some days you don’t think you can make it. I can’t get off the ride, Tilly, I can’t. As a child, nightmares filled my days. At eleven I couldn’t go to a movie…I was convinced the theater would burn down with me trapped inside. At fifteen I thought every man I met wanted to rape me. At sixteen I believed I was the rapist. By seventeen I was so stoned I no longer cared. Then I learned to hide my fears, learned that people wanted to glide by, their lives uninterrupted by my darkness. My darknesss, the horror of me.” James closed his eyes. “I’m frightened of life, Tilly, of death, of love. And failing. I’m a failure. The OCD is right. I’m a failure.”
He had knotted his hands together, but Tilly pried them apart and held one against her face. A long sigh leaked from his mouth and his fingers molded to her cheekbone. For a moment she forgot who was comforting whom.
“Why, my love?” she said. “Why are you a failure?”
“Because I can’t plant one fucking plant. The OCD is telling me that I’m a failure because I left before you showed me how to plant. See how it adapts, how it contorts and perverts? It used to tell me not to garden, that if I did I would die. Now it’s saying I’m a failure because I didn’t conquer my fear.”
“Okey-dokey.” Tilly returned his hand to his lap. She started the engine, and they shot across the road in a squealing U-turn.
“What are you doing?” James’s voice was weak.
“What are we doing. We started this together, James, and we’re ending it together. We’re going to the Hall and staying until you’ve buried your hands in dirt. This is my gift to you. And you’re not leaving without it.”
* * *
Tilly crouched behind James, swaddling his body. Her legs gaped around his thighs, and her right arm rested along his like a snake sunning itself. One hip was numb, the other had begun to cramp, but she couldn’t risk moving. Not yet. They inhaled in unison and she wound her bare fingers over his gloved ones, tightening her grip until his hand was clamped to the trowel. Before he could exhale, her hand sprang, shoving the trowel deep and then yanking it free with a scoop of soil. He breathed hard, each inhalation rattling through her body, and then he began to quiver. Small tremors in his hand at first, but as she forced him to dig a second and a third time, his entire body convulsed.
He mumbled an incantation, but Tilly didn’t listen. She filtered out the world around her—his voice, the birdsong, the peaty smell of earth, the dying sunlight heating her shoulders. She blocked it all and visualized her border up by the road, the garden that had given them both hope. The garden she had created out of grief, out of a need to find order in chaos.
She would not lose focus, she wouldn’t doubt they could do this. James had talked about being trapped in a burning building. Well, he wasn’t staying in there alone.
She reached for the nicotiana plant, shaking potting soil from its roots. Then she placed it in his gloved palm and cupping his fingers from underneath, fused their hands into one. Together, they eased the roots into the hole, brushed loose soil around them and waited. Only one task remained, a task she could complete in seconds, without thought. But those seconds could stretch into a lifetime of horror for James. Was this how a field surgeon felt operating without anesthesia?
Tilly held her breath. She had coached James, prepared him for what would follow, but could she inflict that much pain on another person? Could she force him to touch, to feel, to confront the one thing that terrified him beyond all reason? She could never pet a snake. Hell, she couldn’t even pick up a worm.
Part of her wanted to reassure him, tell him he didn’t have to do this. But that would be a mistake. If she retreated now, she would skew his story to fit her point of view, to see his path through her eyes. And that was shortsighted and wrong. She knew what James wanted and the role he hoped she would play. He’d told her as much every day since they’d started work in the garden, just as David had done with the living will. All those years, she had understood what David expected of her if the unimaginable happened, and when it did, Tilly had known instinctively what to do. As she knew now.
You can do this, James. I know you can.
James released his fingers, like a coil snapping free. But she was quicker than he was. Throwing her weight against his back, she grabbed his right wrist, clamped down, and with her left hand, yanked off his glove.
He gave a strangled cry, more animal than human, but Tilly refused to stop. She shoved his palm into the soil and held it there
, pressing the plant into its new home, forcing James’s exposed skin into the soil until she was convinced he had left his mark.
“We’re done,” she said, and let go.
He collapsed into her, and her bottom smacked onto the gravel. A shockwave of pain ran up each vertebra, but she held on as he juddered into her—from relief or tears she didn’t know and didn’t care. His accomplishment was their accomplishment; she felt it in every muscle.
She tugged him closer, gripping him to her chest, and closed her eyes until she could see neither the past nor the future, just the present.
* * *
“This is better than sex,” James said. He and Tilly had shared something more intimate than making love, and when he was dying, this was the moment he would retreat to. This was the moment he would hold on to as his last spark of consciousness. This was the reward for three hours of planting.
“The orgasm of gardening?” Tilly smiled. “I like that.”
“You knew all along I could do it, didn’t you?”
“Failure wasn’t an option.” She chinked her beer bottle against his. “Besides. You overcame your fear of holding hands to help me at the hospital. You got on two planes—”
“Also for you,” he said.
“The cause doesn’t matter, only the result. You really are the bravest person I’ve ever met. I think you’re incredible.”
Her leg flopped against his, and James draped his wrist across her knee. Everything he did with this woman felt so right, even if it was just sitting side by side on a mossy path, legs pulled up as the two of them leaned back against an old stone wall. And tonight they were bathed in the nocturnal perfume of the nicotiana that he—he!—had planted.
James sipped from one of the bottles Sebastian had brought them, but even warm beer couldn’t poison his euphoria, the incandescent joy exploding inside. He had never experienced feelings this pure. Never. Is this how it felt to be happy, to live without fear? Had normal finally entered his repertoire? As if.
OCD would always shadow him; he wouldn’t delude himself about that, but today he was victorious. Today, he had learned that he could wrestle fear into a corner and keep it there. Today, he had learned that he could take control of his life; he could win. And if he’d done it once, he could do it again. This time, repetition really was the answer.
After thirty-five years, he’d also learned he didn’t have to do this alone. He took another sip of beer and forced himself to swallow. “I hate warm beer,” he said.
“I just hate beer.” Tilly took a long gulp.
“Sebastian didn’t know that?”
“I guess he did—once.” She picked at the label on her bottle. “How quickly men forget.”
“I won’t, Tilly.” James’s head lolled against the wall. God Almighty, he could never forget a single thing about Matilda Rose Haddington.
“No. I don’t suppose you will.” Tilly inhaled. “Mmm. Smell that? It’s the Gloire de Dijon, that buff-colored rose.” She pointed with her bottle. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
Tonight was fabulous. His whole life had been leading up to this scene of quiet celebration. There were no fireworks; there was no champagne. There was dirt, warm beer, the scent of roses and a man who was deeply in love. James had always worried that the best part of himself had died with his mother, but Tilly had proved him wrong. Just looking at her, he knew he could love as fiercely as his dad had done. He, too, was capable of sacrificing his own happiness for that one person who meant everything. And he would. Tilly had visited hell for him, and he wouldn’t ask for a repeat performance. He was going to let her off the hook. Set her free. But not without a proper thank-you.
James jumped up and used his wrist to brush the hair from his face. “You are, without doubt, the best. Up.” He tugged her to her feet. “Since we met you’ve asked me for only one thing, and I denied it.”
“A lift to the breast clinic?” Her smile flickered. Clearly she was unsure of where he was going. God Almighty, she was beautiful. No makeup, her hair a mess, a froth of beer on her upper lip.
“Other than that.” His arms slid around her waist, and he sighed. He had held her once and it had felt so good. Twice was even better. “You asked me to do something that I’ve fought against since I was ten years old, since fear hijacked my life.
“You asked me to willingly live in the moment.” He bent toward her. “To enjoy doing so.” Her body stiffened. She snatched back her head and stared up at him, but he continued. “You asked for a kiss that led nowhere. A kiss without expectations.”
Her chest was moving rapidly. “James,” her voice squeaked. God, she was adorable. “You’re on a roll. You need to keep going, get on that plane tomorrow. If you don’t, the OCD wins. A kiss will only complicate things, for both of us. I—”
He shushed her then stepped back. There would be no rationalizing, no listening to doubt. There would be nothing but instinct. “You talk too much, and I think too much,” he said. “Enough. I want to meet you at eye level. Jump.”
She did, and he caught her. She weighed so little. Not much more than air. Slowly, she raised her eyes.
“Why are you trembling?” he said.
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because…” He paused. “I’m at peace.”
She wrapped her legs around his hips, and he tightened his arms under her.
Would it be a first kiss or a last kiss? And did it matter? He knew only one thing: He wanted to live in the moment. Their moment. He didn’t know when he would see her again; he didn’t know if he would see her again. He would slip her a scrap of paper with his cell phone number and his son’s address and that would be his only concession. The rest was up to her.
Sometimes you had to take what life offered. Sometimes you had to dare yourself to be happy and damn the consequences. And sometimes all you needed was a kiss.
She pulled herself farther up his body, and he smiled as his lips stroked hers.
“If we do this, how can I let you go?” she said, and he felt the vibrations of her words.
“You will. And you’ll find me again, when you’re ready. Take as long as you need.”
He swallowed her breath and tasted hops and the sweetness of ripe strawberries. He whispered her name, even though he longed to scream it into the night.
For this woman, he would get it right. For this woman, he would be the person he always wanted to be: the son his dad could be proud of.
Chapter 30
Tilly ignored the scrabbling as Monty interred the decapitated rabbit he found earlier under the raspberry canes. She bent down and picked up a tuft of rabbit fur—soft, white, pure—and nudged it around her palm. There was no blood, no hint of violent death. Strange, how deceptive the outward face could be, how easy it was to look at a place, a person, and see what you wanted to see. A garden, for example, might appear to be a gentle place of harmony, but while you weren’t looking snakes gulped down frogs, praying mantises hoovered up insects, and foxes munched the heads off baby rabbits. And a man like James might appear successful and confident, but inside he was battered and torn, a well-kept secret.
Rooks flapped on their way home to roost, marring the robin’s-egg sky, and undernourished apples that had tumbled before their time crunched and splattered under her clogs. Tilly stepped sideways, grinned and stomped on another faller. Squelching apples was way more fun than jumping into puddles.
Apples meant Halloween and Isaac’s fa
vorite time of the year. And then they would roll from one holiday to the next. Maybe this year they would stay home for Thanksgiving, instead of schlepping up to New York to be with David’s sister. And maybe they would have a Hanukkah tree decked out in blue lights and dreidels. Maybe they’d start some new traditions this holiday season. Maybes were good. She liked their promise of uncertainty.
Tilly circled the lilac tree and dialed. Finally, a connection. She’d forgotten how little patience she had for the frustrations of life in Woodend and poor phone service was top of the list. She flopped to the grass, her heart beating so hard she felt each pulse in her throat.
“Sari, it’s Tilly! I’ve—”
The answer phone screeched, and Tilly jerked the receiver away from her ear.
“Tils! Hang on!” Sari yelled. “I was about to call. Phone and power back on within an hour! Jesus, I’m so excited I could lose my Ann Coulter Eats Babies bumper sticker and not bawl. The house is fine, greenhouse—not a scratch. Garden’s a bit flattened, but nothing you can’t fix. It’s so good to hear from you.”
Tilly smiled. “Is everything okay with Aaron, the boys? Your house?”
“All tickety-boo, as you Brits say.”
Tilly knew what was coming. She could hear it in what Sari wasn’t saying. “The old oak fell, didn’t it?”
There was a pause. “Smashed into the studio, hon. But the books are fine, which is a miracle. And Aaron clambered up on the roof to secure a tarpaulin.” Sari sighed. “My hero.”
Balancing the portable phone between her shoulder and her cheek, Tilly yanked a Biro from behind her ear. Then she fumbled in the back pocket of her jeans for a small, spiral notepad. Damn, her first to-do list. How grown-up was that?
“Brilliant.” Tilly drew flowers down one side of the pad and kept on doodling until there was no room left to write. “If a tree’s involved, my homeowner’s insurance will cover it.”
The Unfinished Garden Page 32
