Flowers for the Gardener

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  A small sound came from Richard as he rolled to the edge of the mattress. Doubtless, the man ached from their joint exertions, despite having done little more than lay on his back while Ethan guided them to release.

  A sudden need made Ethan fight his way into his clothes, beating Richard by a margin. They both stood at once, pulling up zips, looping belts. Both stared across the bed at the same time. Froze.

  With a motion to his own neck, Ethan said, “You better cover that.” Thank goodness he noticed the mark, though he added, “Sorry,” when Richard winced, hand going to his throat. Discoloured, the skin must be heated from the bruise formed by Ethan’s suctioning.

  “Don’t.”

  The odd remark caused a frown.

  “I mean don’t apologise. It happens. It’s sex. It’s what we both wanted. If I have something to hide, I’m the one who should take care.” Despite the explanation answering Ethan’s confusion, Richard sounded annoyed. “I should have stopped you. I should have laid down some rules.”

  Rules? What did Richard think Ethan was? Some rent boy for hire? “I didn’t think…”

  “What?”

  Speak your mind. “I didn’t think the situation called for such…planning.”

  “You know I don’t need complications.” A grunt followed as Richard pulled on his second boot. “I assumed you didn’t, either.”

  “Sex doesn’t need to be complicated.”

  “It too often is, though.”

  Hard to argue, but his boss appeared to be saying this, whatever they shared, was complex. Barbed.

  Thornier than he wanted, was prepared to accept, or put up with?

  As much as Ethan wanted to ask, he didn’t want to push Richard. Any objection might force the man to walk away, sure, but Ethan sensed more. Some…vibe coming off the man in waves, put Ethan in mind of a hunted animal about to do the one thing liable to force it to make a mad dash into the range of a shotgun, a speeding vehicle, or the jaws of a predator. Difficult to let the question alone, though.

  “I mean, most people, they find their own way in bed. They don’t make contracts to state what they do and don’t like, not in average…relationships.” He hesitated over the word, fearing the mere mention would set Richard running.

  “Maybe they should.”

  He still sounded irritable and more. Ethan added tired to the list of what ailed the man.

  “Would make lo—” Richard stopped. “Would make partnering up more honourable.”

  Love. Richard had been about to say love. Not as Ethan ever imagined Richard loving him. Didn’t hope, but he found the avoidance interesting.

  “Now you know not to leave any visible marks, so let’s make it a rule. I’ll try not to do the same to you. Not that you need worry about evidence the way I do, but my mother might not like it. Not even if she thinks it came from a girl you’re dating. No point in us annoying her. Not now. At the least, she’d warn you and tell you to cover it up. Which is what I will need to do, somehow.”

  Though some of the irritation at last dribbled out of Richard’s voice, he remained cross. What was so wrong? What might Ethan say to calm things down? “If there’s anything I can do.”

  “No. I can take care of myself.” Richard made it sound like he always did, always would. The man had no clue what it meant to look after himself. Nanny, teachers, and Rosie the cook and cleaner. Other cleaners who came on the premises, and then Ethan and his father, and occasional staff. These and more had always tended the house and grounds. If Ruby Gardener didn’t like driving her flash car, a phone call would bring a hired chauffeur to her door.

  “I need to be off.” Richard stood, manner abrupt. He reached halfway across the room when Ethan spoke.

  “We can always stop.”

  The other man hesitated, staring ahead as if the path offered a way to the hangman’s noose. His jaw worked a little, whole body stiff, a mannequin of tension.

  “We can call this off. Any time.”

  Neck jerking in short, tight twitches, gaze narrow, sharp, and focused, Richard snapped out, “If that’s what you want.” His lips compressed so thin the words fought their way out. No mention of what Richard wanted and no time to ask. With his back straight, a quick march propelled the man out of the door, leaving a chill wind in his wake.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday. Rosie’s day off. As she often pre-prepared Sunday lunch, she left one job to whoever happened to be home—to slide dishes into a hot oven following a timeworn schedule. The directions, written down and worked out by Rosie, varied depending on the choice of roast. Why his mother went to the trouble of choosing different joints defied comprehension. Rich loved and even preferred the dishes Rosie created with the remaining meat. Beef, lamb, pork, turkey. Never chicken. Never anything unusual, not even on the side. No one dared to call Rosie’s cooking plain…except for her roasts. She made them the way his mother insisted, which explained his dislike of traditional Sunday meals.

  “The kitchen doesn’t need cooling down. Either choose something or close the door.”

  Ruby’s tone lowered the temperature several degrees, made Rich close his eyes to protect them from freezing. He took advantage of his concealment behind the refrigerator door—time enough to take a deep breath before he slammed it shut. The perverse pleasure of the unit rocking, and items knocking inside, died as his mother ignored the display of emotion. As always, her habit of ignoring him served to put him in his place and make him small. The realisation she still managed to affect him made his irritation worse.

  Jaw aching, he folded his arms across his chest. “No roast today?” A purposely facetious question—if they wanted to eat, the first dish should be baking already. “Seems wasteful.”

  “It won’t spoil in so short a time. I’m sure Rosamund will be able to whip something out of it tomorrow. Or, if your sister shows, we can enjoy a belated Sunday lunch on a Monday evening.”

  With a head shake and a slump of his shoulders, he admitted defeat. He should have known. Should learn to stay quiet, to not bate the crocodile. Absolution beckoned by way of defending Saffie but he lacked the energy and determination. His defence of his sister came out in a modest few words, “She will be here.”

  “Two or three days late. As usual.”

  Granted his mother was right but as they expected this behaviour, why did his mother always rely on Sapphire showing up on time?

  “The solution is simple.” Though his brain shushed him to silence his lips continued to flap. “We add at least forty-eight hours to whatever arrangements Sapphire makes and she’ll arrive ahead of our expectations.”

  Ruby stared at him for several seconds, the same look she would bestow on something distasteful. Maybe dog shit. “What has got into you?”

  The inquiry threatened to make him giggle as a vision of Ethan popped into his mind. Ruby’s unchanging gaze suffocated the sound.

  What did she want? What caused her to come here, walk in on him?

  Realisation washed in. Until that point, she had focused on the kettle as one who didn’t know how to operate such a device.

  No. As a person who expected him to offer to make a drink for her. For some reason his skin tingled, a not uncommon sensation since his first visit to the staff house. No. Before. Since the sauna, and his first time with Ethan.

  As a distraction, he topped up the kettle with filtered water and put it on to boil. Alas, while he waited, his thoughts raced. An itch flared between his shoulder blades, no doubt caused by his mother’s stare. He resisted spinning around to check, afraid to find his supposition correct. A wild imagination provided an image of her having snuck up behind him, silent, menacing, knife in hand.

  What was the matter with him? When had his mother turned into the wicked witch of Oxshott? Though he didn’t think she would be happy to learn of—his lips twitched shy of a smirk—his liaison with Ethan, she was hardly likely to stab him in the back.

  Still, the sensible thing would be to take the es
cape route Ethan offered. If Rich obeyed his instincts, he would never have given into the attraction, no matter how tempting.

  What did Ethan gain out of all this? Sex, sure, but what else? If he had designs on blackmail, such a plan required something more. So far, without proof, it would be one man’s word against another’s. Although Ethan could now describe some of the private areas in the house, given the years he had lived here, all it suggested was a possibility of trespass. Without evidence, like photos, or a way to tip off their mother and set a trap, she would dismiss the allegation. If he took Ethan’s interest in him as genuine—even if only for sex—why did the gardener take the risk? Ethan must be aware he put his job in jeopardy, if not from Rich than from Ruby. Might be possible the man tested him on a personal level, but why? What reaction did Ethan expect or desire?

  Genuine emotion? He wished but couldn’t trust without question. Danger lurked so he had better not fall asleep in Ethan’s bed. Wanted to. Part of him longed for someone to catch him with the gardener, to dob him into his mother, but why?

  For the resulting explosion, maybe. For the sight of the expression on his mother’s face if she learned of him having intercourse with a man, and an employee at that. Especially if someone else told her before he did. Sickness rose close to his vindictiveness, but to bruise her for once could be worth it.

  Wrong timing. Too soon after his father’s passing. Though he could justify his feelings based on the injuries she inflicted every day, he hesitated to cause her any more pain. With her grieving, instability in the company and at home, every choice he came up with felt wrong. Six months, or even six weeks on, he didn’t know what he would do if his emotions failed to change. Now, he found it difficult enough to talk to her no matter the topic. Breakfast, the day’s news, the weather…A look from her, a question, hearing her clipped tone, and his tongue froze.

  What did it matter if he confessed now? She would learn of his homosexuality one day—he intended to tell her—so why not blurt it out?

  Telling her would make things worse. When the day came, she would go deaf and blind, refuse to listen. She would hate his being gay, and it might be a close thing as to whether she hated him. The need to be able to communicate with her now outshone everything. In the weeks ahead, anyway. Everything hinged on his trying to get through to her, to make her listen.

  As for telling her about Ethan…she would detest the man, accuse him of being a snake, seducing her son…not far from the truth in a twisted way, though Rich hadn’t rejected the attention, but he did not want to put Ethan or the man’s father in harm’s way.

  “There you go, again. Off with the fairies.”

  Rich bit back his laugh. “What would you like? Tea? Coffee? One of these peculiar fruit concoctions?”

  “I never asked you to wait on me.”

  “I can read you these days. You wouldn’t ask. You expect us to know.” He took down her favourite cup.

  “This is what I’m on about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re being captious.”

  Unable to control his reaction, Rich snorted. His mother often found fault in others, most of the objections she raised were petty, yet she now accused him of the same. She wouldn’t like his response but he didn’t bother looking around when she made a choking noise.

  “You think I’m funny?”

  “No, Mother. Ruby,” he amended. Only Ruby Gardener could make herself sound superior, and push his education, his whole background in front of his face by using a word many people had never heard of, as she complained. “I would think argumentative might fit, but not captious. Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, of course. It’s the afternoon.” She sniffed to underline her words, making the comment come across as more snooty.

  “Ah…silly of me to forget.” Coffee in his mother’s world was a morning drink or to round off formal dinners.

  “I’m finding you confrontational. Like your sister. Are you becoming a clone? Am I doomed to birth two ungrateful children?”

  “Oh for…” Rich pinched the bridge of his nose. The task of making and serving a drink became all absorbing as he tried not to swear. Next he’d hear about how she’d taken risks being an older woman when she gave birth. His father had frowned upon her using such tactics to guilt her children into bending to her will, but he was gone now.

  Where did Rosie keep the biscuits? No, better not offer Ruby anything to eat. She never ate in the kitchen.

  At last he could put off facing her no longer.

  She had taken a seat on one of the stools at the counter moving as soundlessly as in his imagination. Rich carried the cup across in a saucer as his mother liked it, surprised his hands remained steady and the china didn’t rattle. Nevertheless, he took care not to speak until he put it down.

  “We are not ungrateful. Gratitude does not mean we must always agree with you. It doesn’t mean we do everything you want us to do. Nor does it mean we are obliged to arrive on time. Did it ever occur to you one reason Sapphire stays away so much is she’s frightened to invite you into her life? She fears sharing. We…both do.”

  The hesitation made him feel like a coward. Unfair of him to try to hang this all on his sister, but this new phase of his life unnerved him as much as it did her. Where and when did he become so outspoken? Funny what a death in the family could do. Might even explain his having fun with the gardener. Did he give in to primal urges because he faced unbearable responsibility?

  Ruby Gardener sat like a statue, holding a teaspoon, paralysed in the act of stirring her tea. Her eyes were wide and her lips compressed. For how many seconds had she sat staring at him? Having his attention, she spoke.

  “You are no closer to your sister than I am.”

  “That’s…” He stopped. Though he wanted to, telling his mother the truth wouldn’t be in his or Sapphire’s best interest. “Maybe true. If it is, I’m sorry for it. I am. And no, I can’t read her mind, and she won’t like the idea of my speaking for her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s late every time because she’s working up the courage to put in an appearance.”

  He deliberately gazed around the kitchen. “Now, as there appears to be no plans for dinner, I suggest we do our own thing for today. I opt to eat out.”

  He hated leaving his mother alone again, but she made it difficult to be near her, and when not reading documents related to work, for the last few days all he’d done was to potter around the house or shag the gardener. He needed time off the estate.

  * * * *

  Six days a week Rosie cooked for everyone including those in the staff house. On Sundays, Ethan needed to fend for himself. The tarted up menu he held offered old-fashioned fare. The recipes would never lose demand, and the quality was always excellent. Flavoursome, hot, decent-sized portions, discount for two courses, though Ethan chose not to pre-order dessert. The sweet taste might spoil the treacle-heavy specialty ale the pub served on tap. Ethan had braved the London orbital, the dreaded M25, to make his way out to a pub more country than bistro.

  “Sausage, mash, and gravy.” The waitress jotted down Ethan’s order as she walked away, leaving him on his lonesome. Typical—he appeared to be the only diner with a spare chair at his table. At least the pub’s casual code meant few glanced over. If they happened to spot him, people looked away as if he were invisible, which suited Ethan fine. He wanted to eat and go.

  He swigged from his pint, the glass half-empty, the liquid lining his unfilled stomach. If he didn’t slow down, he’d feel the effects before his food arrived.

  He took another mouthful. The alcohol might make things better. Not only his emotions were sore as hell. Too much enthusiasm attacking the workload the other day, labour the one thing to help rid him of excess energy and frustration. Richard made him so mad.

  Ethan rolled the rich flavour of the beer on the back of his tongue. When he set down the pint, the level of brown liquid did nothing to quell his mood.

  Pint. Three-q
uarters gone. Richard Gardener would make him an alcoholic, though the man meant he was some kind of addict, just not for alcohol.

  I must be mad not to walk away.

  No joke. The time they spent together never went the way Ethan planned.

  What plans? Giving in to impulse and opportunity didn’t count as planning. No way did he expect to stumble across his boss in the garden that day. Digging in the dirt. Expression etched with guilt.

  With his lips twisting, Ethan gave into the rising amusement for a minute before forcing it away. The little B always did this to him. Every time. Anger rose as always, knocked back by unwanted feelings or whenever Ethan recalled something entertaining Richard had done, often unintentionally. Made Ethan want to forgive the man his moods.

  Yeah, cos like I never have any of those.

  He caught the attention of the server with a raised finger and pointed to his glass. She gave him a nod.

  Did the problem stem from them being alike? Did it give rise to the animosity between them? Did the cause matter? So they had sex a few times, maybe a few times more. They didn’t talk or share, not really. Richard didn’t ask about Ethan’s father.

  The beer arrived and he took a gulp, the glass unnaturally heavy, which reminded him of the damage to his right shoulder. The amount of liquid he took into his mouth hurt his throat as he forced it down. The combined pain proved welcome. Good thing the girl turned her back, so failed to see him gulp liquid like a man crawling out of the desert. Food arrived not two minutes later, though Ethan eyed the plate with disinterest, appetite suppressed, diluted by liquid hops.

  He dug in anyhow, ignoring the ache caused by every movement of his arm. Pay squandered amounted to waste, which he could ill afford. If he didn’t eat now, regret was certain when hunger set in.

  The rich gravy soon kicked his stomach awake. The creamy mash went down smooth and easy with caramelised onions. The local, meaty sausages contained a rich hint of herbs. The one thing the meal lacked was companionship. No dinner conversation.