“You trespassed?”
“I just wanted a quick butcher’s for garden possibilities. James wouldn’t care. The house is stunning, with lots of sharp angles and long thin windows.” Speaking his name, James, made Tilly want to turn herself inside out and howl. She was where she had never wanted to be again—in love. And it was the worst feeling in the world.
“Tilly. Why don’t you admit that you love him?”
Love advice from Sebastian. How bizarre was that? She must have been really messed up over the summer if she’d believed they could make the whole friendship thing zing. Her best friend’s husband, on the other hand, was a role they could both handle. Civility without strings. She resecured the butterfly clip. “I reached the same conclusion, about being in love. So I called, left a message, but he didn’t respond. We had this agreement, you see, that he would wait for my call. Only he didn’t live up to his end of the bargain.”
Tilly pinched a dead leaf from her red cascade rose. All spring she had struggled to train it up a trellis, but while she and Isaac were away it broke free. Now it wove wherever it fancied, and the effect was stunning. Next year she wouldn’t interfere.
An unexpected thrill pounced, a longing for the surprises of spring when tender plants poked through the soil in defiance of hardiness ratings, self-seeded annuals popped up in unexpected niches and perennials died without explanation, leaving gaps for new plants. Her garden was a place of death, rebirth, and change, and like her life, would continue to evolve whether James loved her or not. She would go after him, she would confront him, and if he rejected her, she would walk away. Some things were worth the fear of heartbreak.
Sebastian cleared his throat. “Ring him again. Messages get lost…mobiles break.”
“Not in James’s world. Nuh-huh. He got my message. The only question is what he chooses to do with it.” The rest of the story was hers. Sebastian didn’t need to hear more.
“You didn’t get this from me, okay?” Sebastian’s voice was muffled, as if he’d turned away from her. “Village rumor has a wealthy American buying Woodend.”
No! Her mother would have told her. Wouldn’t she? Tilly squinted up through a visor of fingers and watched a cumulus cloud scud across the sky. Where are you, James?
“Mom?” Isaac touched her arm. “Are you sick? You look kinda odd. Wow!” He jumped away from her. “Did you see that? Down there by the creek.”
“Tilly?” Sebastian sounded concerned, or was that irritated?
“Sorry. Isaac’s pointing at something. Probably a snake.”
Sebastian gave a verbal shiver. “How can you cope with all those snakes?”
“They live here, so do I. I can’t throw a conniption every time I see one.” One of the many things she’d learned from James. He wasn’t even here, might never be, and yet he was embedded in her life.
They’d exhausted the conversation. It was time for Sebastian to say goodbye and Tilly to return to her day. She winked at Isaac but he frowned back, motioning her to join him. And that’s when she spotted the copperhead. But what the hell was Isaac doing? He had spun around and was sprinting—as if fleeing an army of ogres—in the opposite direction.
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she stifled a weak omigod.
“Tilly?” Sebastian said. “Are you—”
She tossed the phone onto the mulch pile and ran after her child.
A tall figure dressed in black and wearing red sneakers strode down the driveway swinging a huge, black duffel. A black leather backpack hung from one shoulder, a black suit carrier from the other. The black cord from his earbuds flapped over his chest. His grizzled hair was brushed into a smooth ponytail, exposing the raw beauty of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the sculpted chin, the huge almond-shaped eyes.
Tilly halted at the edge of the driveway. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She had left a three-word message, “We should talk,” and he had jumped on a plane—two, at least, given his route. He’d changed planes for her, and he hated changing planes. That had to be good, right?
James pulled out his earbuds as Isaac slammed into him. “You’re just in time!” Isaac squealed. “There’s a copperhead down there!”
“Go keep an eye on it.” Isaac tried to pull away, but James gripped his shoulder. “From behind the well. Let me say hello to your mother, and I’ll be right there.”
“Gotcha,” Isaac said, and skittered off the second James released him.
Her child had disappeared to ogle a venomous snake, and she did nothing. Squirrels chased up a tree, yammering as their claws scrabbled for purchase on the bark, claws that excavated her plants, and she did nothing. Deer padded through her woods, grazing on her shrubs, no doubt, and she did nothing. Paralyzed by apprehension and desire, all Tilly could do was breathe.
“Your hair,” James said.
“Frightful, isn’t it?” She tugged the butterfly clip loose. “Growing like a weed. Yours, too.” Oh crap, had she just insulted him? “Where’s the Alfa?”
“In town. I took a taxi from the airport.” James walked up to her and stopped.
He lined up his luggage, then extracted his iPod from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. “You wanted to talk?”
“You couldn’t pick up the phone like most people?” Panic lodged in her throat. She was ruining everything. He wasn’t like most people, and she didn’t want him to be. She wanted him to be James. A dog howled through the woods, and Tilly heard the beat of her heart.
James frowned. “Why? I told you I’d come if you called.”
“Hurry up, slowpokes!” Isaac yelled.
Spooked, the deer bounded away, snapping branches as they took flight.
“When you didn’t call back I panicked. I…I was coming to find you. Booked flights and everything.” Tilly reached out with her free hand and laced her fingers through his. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve decided to take on a garden design job. Just one. And only if you still want me. I mean it’s okay, if you don’t feel the same anymore.” The first time they had touched, his handshake had been so loose, so fleeting. Today his grasp was firm, but he didn’t clutch at her. It was as if he were holding back. And then she understood: whatever happened next was up to her.
In her right hand she felt his iPod, passed to her without hesitation, and in her left hand his palm, surprisingly cool and slightly damp. She imagined her hands balancing out her future, repeating what she already knew.
“Actually, no. It’s not okay,” she said. “It’s far from okay, because even though I’ve waited six weeks, and I’m sure you’ve met some buxom beauty in that time, here’s the thing—I’m in love with you. And not just a little oh-he’s-hot. Which you are. We’re talking crazy in love. Nuts for you, really.” The sound of her words rushed in her ears. She darted at him, kissed his cheek and jerked back, overwhelmed by the scent of him—so familiar, so comforting. So predictable.
“Buxom beauties? And I thought I was the one with the overactive imagination.” His eyes glistened with humor, and the dimple in his chin became more pronounced. “How long will this garden design job of yours take?”
Her muscles had frozen. Nothing worked in her body except for her sweat glands and her heart, both intent on pumping toward shutdown. She stared into his eyes and saw herself.
“The English author H.E. Bates said that a finished garden is a dead garden.” She held his gaze and sensed the ebb and flow of her breath matching his. “It’ll take a lifetime. A gar
den’s a work in progress without end.”
Reaching out with their linked hands, he ran a finger down her cheek. “Are you sure about this? I’m high maintenance,” he said, with a hint of sadness. Or was it honesty, pure and naked, handed to her out of trust?
“Are you buying Woodend?”
“Do you want me to?” His face transformed, his eyes wide with terror.
“No. I don’t need Woodend anymore.”
“Thank God. Because your mother refused to sell it to me.”
Tilly gave a smile and James mirrored it.
“Ask me what I do need, just as you did on the day we met.” Her voice grew more solid with each word.
“And what is it, Matilda Rose, that you need?”
“I need—” she savored his smile as it grew “—you.”
“Hurry up!” Isaac sounded more persistent.
“Be right there!” James shouted. Pinning Tilly’s arm behind him, he nuzzled her ear. “You had until Thanksgiving,” he whispered, “and then you were mine.”
Desire tore through her, and her heart swelled with adrenaline and joy and an unexpected shot of fear.
James pulled back but tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you scared?”
“A little.”
“Do you know why the taxi dropped me by the road?” he asked.
Tilly shook her head.
“I thought walking down your driveway might stop my legs from shaking.”
“Did it?”
“No. Seeing the woman I love did.” Then he blew her a kiss so slight that his lips barely moved. Someone who didn’t know him as she did, who hadn’t studied his face until every line had etched itself into her memory, might have missed the gesture.
“Come see the snake with us,” James said, and led Tilly slowly forward.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
It took a transatlantic village to write this novel, and I would like to extend thanks to people on both sides of the pond for sharing stories and expertise: Caroline Crawford, Dee Crump, Coleen Miller, Carol Sazone and Carol Young at www.youngwidow.org; Deborah Smith, Rose Stone, Eileen Ingram and Sharon Ireson for information on breast cancer treatment in England; Pam Baggett, Sharon Snider and Karen Suberman for all things gardening; Aaron Burris at Piedmont Wildlife Services (also thanks to the Piedmont Wildlife Center); Robert Cain and Charlotte Dunn for help with English inheritance laws; Jonathan Boyarin for critiquing the Brooklyn accent; Jeremy Packer for his expertise on mobility; Mike Edwards, Teresa Parsley Edwards and Donna Gilleskie for helping me figure out careers I don’t understand; Daniel Hanbury Higgins for taking me through the workings of an English estate; Stephen Piercy for explaining banking to someone who will never get it; Patty Rich and Charles Rose for medical advice; Jennifer Leaf in the planning department of Orange County; and Harry Rose, Jack Rose and Carolyn Wilson (the original Petal) for answering miscellaneous, pesky questions.
Many readers and writers gave generously of their time to offer feedback or advice. Special thanks to Joyce Allen, Elizabeth Brown, Bernie Bro Brown, Marcy Cohen, Sheryl Cornett, Cathy Davidson, Therese Fowler, Ann Weibel Jarvie, Sharon Rothspan Kurtzman, Martin Langfield, Joanne Rendell, Maureen Sherbondy, Caroline Upcher, Densye Woods and Anne Gentry Woodman. Big hug to my language guru, Dan Hill.
A world of thanks to Dr. Pat Gammon at the Duke Child and Family Study Center and to Dr. Mike Gammon, who gave my family the tools we needed to defeat the OCD monster.
Thank you to everyone at Spencerhill Associates and MIRA Books. Eternal gratitude to Nalini Akolekar and to Miranda Indrigo for believing in Tilly and James and for making the final leg of a long journey to publication so easy.
Thanks to my mother, Anne Claypole White, research assistant extraordinaire and chief cheerleader, to my sister, Susan Rose (walking, talking encyclopedia of the English countryside), and to the Grossbergs—Al, Mike, Linda, Jeff, Sharon, Andy, David, Karen, Miriam and Edie.
To old pals Jocelyn Piercy and Carolyn Wilson, thank you for never giving up hope despite the first manuscript. Thanks to Julie Smith, Catherine Parker and Jill Sugg for becoming Team Barbara, to flag-wavers Hannah and Hugo Piercy, and to Danlee Gildersleeve, Chuck Whitney and Ellen Wartella for keeping my menfolk sane. Love and gratitude to all the friends—old and new—who’ve been supportive along the way.
Tears of appreciation for beta reader Leslie Gildersleeve, who has been behind me, alongside me and ahead of me from the beginning, who listened to the first idea and the last idea and critiqued every draft in between. What would I do without you and Friday afternoons?
A kiss to my husband, Lawrence Grossberg, without whom, nothing. Thank you for encouraging me to chase dreams, for tolerating uncleaned bathrooms, for not throttling me when I said, “Can you read this one more time?” and for understanding that a woman needs her garden, even if she is kvetching about deer, voles, whitefly and drought.
To my award-winning poet son, Zachariah Claypole White, you are my hero. Thank you for keeping me in smiles and giggles, for knowing when to blast U2 in the car, for showing me what it means to be loyal and brave, and for reminding me constantly of the beauty of words.
Last, but never least, to my father, whose death inspired me to write Dogwood Days, which became The Unfinished Garden: “Look what I did, Daddy.”
*James’s comment about children and oxygen masks comes from When Children Grieve by John W. James, Russell Friedman and Dr. Leslie Matthews.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
How is gardening used as a metaphor in this novel? Do you believe in the healing power of gardening?
James is an unlikely hero. What do you think draws Tilly to him?
Do you have a favorite moment, scene or line in the book?
What roles do trust and mistrust play in the characters’ relationships?
Why do you think issues of control appear repeatedly throughout the novel?
Is it reasonable for Tilly to cling to guilt after carrying out her husband’s final wishes? What role does Isaac play in helping her navigate her feelings?
What are the parallels between Tilly’s guilt and James’s fear?
How does the parent/child relationship impact other relationships in the novel?
In what ways do you think Sebastian and David have played important but different roles in Tilly’s life?
Finding the balance between closing yourself off and opening your life to others is an important theme of the novel. Discuss.
In the final chapter, Tilly says that she needs James. In what ways do you think Tilly and James need each other?
How do you think Tilly’s relationship with James will differ from her marriage to David?
How has Tilly changed from the beginning of the book to the ending? What events have caused her to change?
What obstacles, if any, do you see for James and Tilly in the future?
Interview with Barbara Claypole White
What was the inspiration for The Unfinished Garden?
The Unfinished Garden is a personal story on many levels, and, like Tilly’s flower beds, evolved over time. The original idea came from watching my mother navigate life as a new widow and thinking, “What if that were me?” I was a stay-at-home mom with no income of my own and no citizenship of the country in which I lived. I’m English, but my husband is American—a renowned academic who loves to jok
e that I killed him off in my novel. (He’s nothing like David, except for his attitude to bugs and his philosophy of pizza toppings.)
I always knew my heroine would be a gardener, since gardening is my therapy, but I wanted to understand why she made the decisions she did after her husband died. I read a wonderful book called I’m Grieving As Fast As I Can by Linda Feinberg and interviewed a group of young widows. Before long, I found Tilly.
Finding James was a more difficult journey and took several years. My original hero was a grieving dad, but as I sought escape from our child’s obsessive-compulsive disorder, James appeared. I rewrote my hero, and yet I held back, avoiding his dark corners. And it showed. I put the manuscript aside, researched and wrote another story, and became involved with a nonfiction project about parenting and OCD.
But James, being a good obsessive-compulsive, got stuck in my head and refused to leave. Finally, I caved. As I rewrote the manuscript to give James his true voice, I wanted to show the side of OCD I saw every day. Popular culture often portrays obsessive-compulsives as victims, serial killers or people to ridicule, but I see only compassion, empathy and the courage it takes to fight unwanted thoughts. James really is the bravest person Tilly knows.
Many teenage girls have scoliosis. Is there an autobiographical element to Tilly’s curved spine?
Yes. My spine is gloriously S-shaped, and serious gardening can wreck my back! (Does it stop me? No.) Like Tilly, I’m always lying on the bedroom floor with my legs in the air. I was diagnosed when I was twelve or thirteen and wore a spinal brace as a teenager. Nasty instrument of torture it was, too. But it did start my lifelong love affair with scarves. (I wore a scarf every day to conceal the metal frame around my neck.) I may, actually, be a little obsessive about scarves….
The Unfinished Garden Page 34
