Flowers for the Gardener

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  Why did he want Ethan to hurt? Maybe as payback for all those years ago when he forced Rich’s face in the dirt. Small recompense. Ethan wouldn’t whine despite overtaxed and bruised muscles. Besides, such a childish wish for a grown man. What difference did an event so many years before matter? They were boys then. They were men now. A sad fact shone out—Rich still didn’t feel like a grown-up. Of the two of them, Ethan came across as the more self-assured.

  Though…Ethan hinted at not liking everything about his life, or at least his job. Still, the man appeared to confront and accept what Rich could not. Stoic—a fine word to describe Ethan, and which explained much of why Rich remained as jealous of the man as he had once envied the boy.

  A man who, a few minutes before, had been on the end of his cock. He shouldn’t forget that.

  The expected satisfaction failed to materialise. To his horror, he hoped for more. How much more he didn’t know. More sex, for sure. Anything else must be unrealistic. Of all the men in the world to confide in, he had to choose the one who disliked him the most. Whatever Rich’s grounds for wanting sex with Ethan, best not to forget the reasons Ethan wanted him were no doubt less complicated.

  “You want to do this again or is it a onetime deal?” Ethan sounded relaxed, unfazed, happy to accept either option, and appeared in no hurry to stir.

  Tell him it can’t happen again.

  He should, but couldn’t. “I don’t think I’d do it here.”

  To Rich’s surprise, Ethan laughed. “Now there I agree with you. Not as comfortable as we thought.”

  No. Not even with the towels. “Or we need a different position.”

  “Still hard on the knees.” A gentle chuckle trickled out and, as he turned his head to once more stare at Ethan, the movement concealed Rich’s flinch as they reached for each other. Their hands touched, fingers entwined, a few seconds at most, but too long for his liking. They separated again, the whole incident casual but unsettling. More like they were lovers, or friends, rather than adversarial fuck-buddies.

  “We got time?”

  “Why?” Rich at last shifted, turning his face away so the other man wouldn’t see his frown. Did Ethan want to go again? Rich wasn’t interested, and not because of discomfort or ability. His emotions were wrecked. Whatever happened next, he didn’t want sex again…yet. The notion of the other man touching him bruised his heart.

  “Let’s put the rest of my clothes outside, dump these towels, and turn up the heat. I think we need ten or fifteen minutes using this sauna for what it’s intended.”

  On that they agreed.

  Chapter 7

  “No French toast?”

  Mired in his own thoughts, Rich needed a few seconds to catch the meaning of his mother’s question. The rattle of the newspaper—she studied the financials so it was permissible—caught his attention more.

  The bearing in her gaze screamed contempt. If he didn’t know better, he swore she knew the last lot of eggy bread lay buried in the garden.

  “Who wants the same breakfast each day?”

  “I have the same breakfast every day.”

  True. Porridge so thick a spoon remained vertical in it. How beneficial was that for the old digestive tract? At weekends, she included a round of toast. For once, he wished she would eat some fruit.

  “We’re not, every one of us, creatures of habit.”

  “Though we should be.” She sniffed, folded the paper and set it aside, eyes closing, giving Rich an uninterrupted view of her tired expression for several seconds. She picked at food more these days, chewing listlessly, more scraps left on her plate every day. If this continued, he’d have to confront her. Ruby Gardener’s next words focused his thoughts to a more personal problem. “As it appears I only get you as a captive audience at mealtimes I think now is as right a time as any to discuss your future.”

  His morning meal soured in his stomach. Not wishing for anything heavy, Rosie’s suggestions of a slice of buttered toast, plain yogurt, and a small portion of blueberries was perfect. At least he’d choked down the crispy bread and half-finished the yogurt. He pushed the rest away, eyed the berries, and sighed. He’d looked forward to those.

  His setting his breakfast aside didn’t go unnoticed. His mother’s gaze flicked downward. Something impossible to read settled over her face. Satisfaction? He must be wrong, but the uneasy, sinking notion persisted.

  “Your future.” Repetition conveyed every possible meaning.

  “I’ve told you the meetings—”

  “I’m not referring to work. I mean your life. You will be running a significant and successful business. It would do well to present a certain persona to the world.”

  “What do you want me to do? Wear suits down to breakfast? Hire a chauffeur?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. I’m talking of family. About the possibility of you marrying and having children.”

  Of course this was coming but, so soon? “Things have changed in that regard.”

  “I know too well. And any marriage is more likely to end in divorce these days. It’s what prenups are for. Regardless of the outcome, offspring lie ahead. You need someone to whom you may leave our fortune.”

  Rich suppressed a shudder, not wanting to think of children, uncertain he’d ever been keen. Such decisions involved meeting the right person. He certainly didn’t want to think of them as ‘offspring’. Who used that word? His mother spoke as though children were nothing more than a commodity. Besides…being gay complicated matters, though there were possibilities. His mother, though…she wouldn’t accept any children unless they came from his mixing his genes with someone of whom she approved.

  “I’m not saying you must marry right away. Doesn’t prevent you from dating. Once you step up as Chairman, there will be plenty of offers coming your way. It wouldn’t hurt to screen the potentials.”

  So much for thinking Ruby’s insouciance couldn’t get worse.

  “I’ve made a small list.” She pushed a piece of paper across the table.

  Though he had no intention of dating a single one, a couple of names caught his eyes. “Alison Broadhurst? She’s quite a bit older…” He petered off.

  “I was quite a bit older than your father.”

  “I know.”

  “We worked out.”

  Rich nodded, a noncommittal gesture. With luck it would terminate the conversation at least temporarily. Nothing else to say came to mind except how he found it funny he shared that coincidence with Ethan. Whereas Rich’s mother was older than his father had been, Ethan’s father was older than his mother had been. In both instances, the younger parent had died first. What a dreadful thing to have in common.

  “I’ll give you time to consider my suggestions.”

  Rich popped a blueberry into his mouth without tasting it. The action of chewing gave him a good excuse not to reply and enabled him to bide his time until she rose out of her seat and left the room.

  * * * *

  Not till late afternoon was Rich able to escape his mother’s watchful gaze. Though after breakfast they’d gone separate ways she appeared to hover like an apparition whenever he left the study. The only way to avoid her was a shut door until after they shared a late and non-communicative lunch—her meal nothing more than a hot drink. At the first opportunity, he snatched a coat and headed out into the garden, glancing at the sky and willing the sun to set. To his relief, soon after, a blanket of obscuring darkness fell, the early onset aided by cloud cover. Head down, hands stuffed into pockets, he wandered the paths, unable to see more than a few steps ahead and mindless of direction. For most of the walk, he pushed concerns out of his mind, and tried to silence any circling questions. Concentrating on what resembled a hopeless endeavour—a way of coming out that would keep his mother happy—to see light came as a shock, and he stopped.

  The back of the staff quarters rose out of the ground like some malignant monolith. Had this been his destination all along? Was his subconscious responsible? />
  If so, his mind was a treacherous son of a bitch. Hanging around Ethan might do him harm with even the sex, though excellent…odd. More like fighting than enjoying themselves and Rich as much to blame for their shared animosity.

  Did he search for Ethan? He should turn around, but though he looked back, Rich hesitated. His mother took her nap—a recent habit since his father’s death—but he’d be lying to himself if he pretended the timing was the only motivation to take a walk. Ethan had finished work for the day so that lessened the chance of bumping into the man but should that be his excuse for this behaviour. Surely, all the more reason to stay clear of the area around the staff house. So why hang around outside?

  Pitiful. If his subconscious mind brought him here, he was pitiful. Stupid to expect someone else to ease his woes, least of all Ethan. The danger of relying on another, particularly an employee, was too great. The physical release struck Rich as drug-like. Threatening, intoxicating and, like a narcotic, it didn’t solve his problems. If anything, the indulgence made things worse. Made him more trapped. More alone.

  Yet Ethan was hard to give up. Rich’s thoughts flittered back, not to the sex but to when they lay there, both in pain, but replete and relaxed.

  To when they almost held hands.

  Standing outside in the wind, Rich wanted nothing more than for the other man to appear, to be there to kiss him.

  He should leave, didn’t move. Another two minutes ticked by. Five. He didn’t flinch, unsurprised when the door to the smaller house opened and Ethan came out.

  * * * *

  “Are you sure this is all right?” Richard asked not for the first time. The way he kept staring around…he appeared shell-shocked, or bewildered to be in the house. “Sorry.” Now he looked sheepish when he met Ethan’s stare. “Not been in here for years.” He waved a hand toward the sitting room off the kitchen where they stood. “The conservatory wasn’t there when I last came in.”

  Had it been so long? Though a recent addition, the conservatory off the lounge had been installed before Ethan took over the study adjacent to the kitchen as his room. That meant Richard’s last visit home happened before the refurbishment—the addition of the glasshouse and reconfiguring the downstairs living space into a more communal area, the new layout provided by input from the staff who lived there.

  The opportunity to take Richard through to his bedroom lay open but the man acted skittish enough, so Ethan bided his time. Besides, seducing Richard might not be such a good idea. A couple of days on from the sauna incident, he had no way to tell what went on in the man’s mind. Did Richard think about him as much as he thought of Richard?

  To test the waters, Ethan said, “Rosie is up at the house until she serves dinner.” Of course, Richard should know of Rosie’s whereabouts second only to Ruby Gardener. “We’re alone.”

  Richard failed to bite, gave a terse nod, and went back to leaning against the countertop, head down, gaze focused on the floor. Though he opened his coat, he didn’t remove it. His hands hid in his pockets.

  What to do? Offer him tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Alcohol? Was Ethan destined to spend their time making the man drinks when he wanted to be kissing him?

  Not the right time. Something about the man appeared…broken. Vulnerable. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Richard this way, not when they were young or teenagers. Sure, he at first assumed Richard’s detachment to be self-imposed—the rich man’s distain for those who worked for his family even though, without people like Ethan, those in Richard’s position wouldn’t have anyone to employ. In that regard, Ethan was wrong, but this…

  This was something else.

  Did he want to become involved with whatever weighed so tremendously on Richard Gardener? Hard to be sure. The question dragged at him, made him dither on a precipice of uncertainty. Left him dwelling on so many scenarios he almost jumped when his boss spoke.

  “I should get back.”

  “You don’t need to go yet.”

  “Rosie. Dinner.” So simple a statement sounded hopeless.

  “You can run back.”

  “In the dark?”

  At least Ethan’s comment had prompted a small smile. “Tell her you lost track of the time and forgot the way.”

  Those sharp eyes flicked up. Pained, haunted. Too many emotions sharpened Richard’s gaze. “What’s the point in staying?”

  The point? In his room, Ethan would take time undressing the man, would lay him on the bed and slip in beside him. Oddly enough, the fantasy of what happened next didn’t have to involve sex, resembled something more akin to companionship.

  Did he wish to get involved? Stupid question to ask when he already was. He couldn’t run off, not yet. Not and leave Richard in this state. Ethan would end up spending too much time worrying. He didn’t think Richard was anywhere near to letting him in on whatever troubled the man, but Ethan was unable to cut ties the way he pruned roses. With care, sure, but without pity. If he tried, he’d spend most of his time with his mind trained on what might be going on up at the manor.

  Ethan moved until he stood in front of the other man and did what was innate to him. He put their foreheads together and slipped his hands into Richard’s open jacket, fingers resting on the man’s hips. A bloom of heat flowed from the coat, making the need to press against the man urgent. He stopped because Richard flinched. Tension radiated, forcing both to go still. Ethan held his breath. Long seconds passed before the strain bled away. Richard didn’t unwind, but the muscles under Ethan’s hands released.

  “This is the point.” Surprised by his willingness to put the emotions raking him over into words, Ethan squeezed. “This. And more than this. At least for now. Doesn’t matter what we once were to each other or how we’ll eventually feel. We’ve both got things going on in our lives, Rich.” Hard to swallow on the end there. “No one is stopping us losing ourselves in the other for a spell. No one but you.”

  Doubtful Richard would listen even if Ethan knew better words.

  When Richard laid a hand on one of Ethan’s arms, Ethan let go of the tension he hadn’t realised he held.

  “I can’t stay,” Richard said, but at least he sounded like he wanted to.

  “Five minutes.” Ethan didn’t wait to see whether Richard agreed, but spent the next few minutes kissing him.

  Chapter 8

  “You are preparing to start at the office next week.” Ruby Gardener’s eyes sparked, her sweeping gaze taking in everything. No doubt she created a list of apparent faults each time she saw him. What would it be today, and had she intended her words to be a question or a statement?

  In no rush to reply, Rich delayed by draining his cup and pouring more tea from the pot prepared and left for him by Rosie though not asked for. Surprising for his mother to be about at this hour. Ruby seldom partook of a proper lunch so, for once, he hid out in the dining room…which meant he had jumped at the sound of her voice. Was she tracking him? Did his reaction make him appear guilty? If so, to what degree, and of what might his mother believe him culpable? If lucky, nothing more than reading while he ate.

  Rich made a point of closing the novel, uncertain what to feel when her gaze shifted and followed the movement. Business related material was the single type of reading of which his mother approved at any meal, so he took the extra precaution of flipping the book face down and the spine away from her gaze. Unless she walked over and picked up the hardback, at least she wouldn’t have anything to say about his choice of author.

  Her gaze didn’t linger but drifted beyond…to papers in a folder at his side. Good thing the file sported a blank cover.

  “I’m taking a short break before getting back to it. Did you want something? This can wait.” He put the novel on top of the file when what he wanted was to grab the lot and run out, or to deposit it on the floor and place a foot on top. Anything to shift the binder and the book out of sight. If she noticed the papers were nothing to do with work, and he studied the plans to improve the
garden which Ethan’s father had submitted to his parents a couple of years before, her reaction was easy to predict. An accusation of meddling was the least, best hope. Ludicrous, when interfering was now part of his job.

  Having rejected the ideas once, she would adhere to the decision, though he struggled to understand why. A mere glance at the sketches provided suggestions for increased productivity, meaning a chance to grow more food. If not needed on the estate, the old man’s recommendations to give excess produce to staff or to charity made sense. Rosie could use some for baking. The estate might make its own jams or pickles.

  Ruby Gardener hated the suggestion. The stumbled upon, scribbled-on, yellow stick-it note with his mother’s handwriting conveyed her terse tone, her retort to William Fields simple: they were not running a farm. She also refused to approve his changes to create better and more enjoyable walkways, though whether for any practical reason, personal preference, or plain truculence, he couldn’t say. The design allowed for fewer paths, those to remain redirected for better access and demanding less maintenance.

  Jabbing a fork into a tomato, Rich shovelled a little of the salad wilting on the side of his plate into his mouth—an excuse to bide more time and avoid answering. With luck, she might forget or let the subject drop. This was the wrong time to confront his mother about her refusal. The larger project he had in mind required better prep and a conversation with William Fields. Which led to a host of other potential issues.

  Unfair to raise the man’s hopes if there was no chance of winning his mother’s approval. On the other hand, he didn’t expect to win without a full proposal. William’s design provided a good base and, if Ruby listened for a change, Rich’s ideas might be good for her, too. Give her something on which to focus. Charity began at home, the greatest currency health. Ruby needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Work came with the potential to help overcome depression.