Flowers for the Gardener

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  “It’s not true.” Saffie sounded tired, frustrated, and plain sad all at once. “You’ve yet to hear—”

  “Oh I’ve heard more than I want to.” His mother’s rings clinked against her wine glass.

  “No. You haven’t. You need to hear our…suggestions.”

  “Selfish no doubt.” His mother’s gaze appeared to study the ceiling. “Egomaniacal.”

  “Like you’re never inconsiderate.”

  Rich opened his mouth to try to silence Saffie but the cutting edge to her tone stopped him. She was angry…likely from frustration, the inability to share a sensible conversation with their mother. His own annoyance brewed.

  “We’re not being selfish. We’re thinking long term. For you and for us. For the staff at the firm. It’s why—”

  His mother laughed, a brutal sound. “The staff? Oh to hell with them. They’re a tool. They’ll no more show you loyalty than you should them. Why only today, both gardeners handed me their notice. Gone.” She gave a regal wave. Light from above glinted off her rings and stabbed Rich in the eyes but a sharper pain speared him in the chest. He couldn’t have heard right.

  “What?”

  “Gone.” His mother pronounced the word with care as to a dim-wit. “We are without someone to Cut. The. Grass. Or will be soon.” His mother put down her glass with a bonk, sloshing a little wine on the table as though to underline her point. “The boy I can understand. He’s young. Those of his age possess no sense of dependability. But those like…like…”

  “Ethan,” Rich whispered.

  “Ethan Fields, Mother. His name is Ethan Fields.” Saffie sounded cross and praise be, because Rich didn’t possess the energy. Ethan…leaving?

  “Well, whatever he’s called, he’s decided no matter how long he’s worked for us, and no matter how he has lived on the grounds without much expense, and his father before him, he’ll hand in his notice on a whim.”

  “He has a term to work out, I presume.” Saffie used condensation on the glass to draw wet circles on the linen.

  “Hmm…”

  “Mother, your usual noncommittal noises won’t do. There’s a contract and a period of notice. I assume he gave you notice. That’s his right. You bitching about it is nothing to do with—”

  “How long?” Saffie turned her gaze on Rich at his interruption but he had no time to spare to consider apologising.

  “What?” His mother finished her second wine.

  “How long is his notice period?”

  “The standard four weeks.” She made the fact of Ethan’s leaving sound tiresome.

  “Where will he go?”

  Ruby Gardener hid behind the glass as she drained it. Either she didn’t notice Rich simmered or didn’t trouble herself over it.

  “I’m presuming he must leave the staff quarters so where will he go?” Rich needed to know.

  “Who cares?”

  “Now who’s selfish?” Saffie pointed out. True, but it wasn’t Rich’s concern.

  “What about his father?”

  “What about him?” His mother stared at Rich. “Don’t tell me you think because the man went and died we owe something to his son?”

  His mother’s words shot-blasted his mind. William Fields…dead?

  “No. But we should have helped more when he was alive.” Saffie took a turn reaching for the decanter as though she desperately needed the alcohol. Her words made the nightmare worse.

  What was she saying? A mental hum turned her statement into senseless noise. Her lips moved, but with no sound. Ethan had said William took a step back. Rich had assumed his sneaking into the staff house was more for Ethan’s father’s sake than for Rosie, who spent more time in the main house than the annex anyway.

  William Fields gone…

  “Richard. Richard! What is wrong with you? You look ill. Pour me more wine, will you? I’ve asked you twice.”

  “Shut up!” Saffie snapped at their mother and placed a hand on Rich’s arm. Her fingers, icy from playing with the droplets on the side of her water glass, brought him out of his daze.

  “Rich, Ethan’s father ended up in a nursing home. He died a year before our father. Ethan’s been taking care of the grounds with little help since.”

  The last word barely passed Saffie’s lips before Rich was up and out of his seat. He fled the house into the pouring rain.

  * * * *

  Rich pounded on the door to the staff house. Waited. Pounded again and this time kept pounding. Not having paused to grab an umbrella or a coat, he’d slipped and slid the whole way, and was drenched. The canopy over the door provided little shelter. Water trickled down his neck, made him toss his head with impatience when it dripped into his eyes.

  A light flicked on as he lifted a fist to batter at the front door again, making him curb his impatience. The door swung back to reveal Rosie dressed in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, a vision so extraordinary he stepped back. Forgot why he called by.

  “Rich?” A frown creased her brow. “Is something wrong?” Her gaze flicked over his shoulder. “Am I needed up at the house? Is someone ill?”

  Of course. Why else would Rosie think he thumped to be let in?

  “Is Ethan here?”

  “Ethan? Why?”

  Couldn’t the woman answer? Rich shifted from foot to foot, biting his lower lip. Taking his agitation out on Rosie would achieve nothing.

  “He’s not in.”

  Rich almost groaned. Where might he be?

  Rosie’s gaze moved up and down. “You’re soaked. Do you want to come in?”

  What would be the point if Ethan wasn’t here? He shook his head. “Ethan?” He turned the man’s name into a plea.

  Now Rosie nibbled her lip, features scrunched. “He…He seemed upset. I suppose you heard…”

  Only one thing Rosie could be referring to. Rich nodded.

  “I’m not sure leaving is what he truly wants.” The words came out in a rush. Rosie looped a finger in the edge of her sweatshirt and twisted the fabric into a knot. “I…I’m worried about him. With all he’s been through. I didn’t like to say. None of my business, but he seemed to be on friendly terms with you.”

  Friendly terms? Was that what they called it these days? “Rosie, please. Where is he?”

  “Down at the hut. The shed, I mean.”

  Rich released a pent-up breath. He hadn’t realised how tense he was until Rosie told him Ethan was on the grounds, nearby. Visions of Ethan having packed his bags and slipping away despite his contract, died.

  “Claimed he had work. I assume some sort of paperwork, though I don’t see why he couldn’t do it here, because…” A glance over his shoulder must have taken in the droplets hammering at Rich’s back. “I can’t imagine anyone out in this.”

  Anyone sane. Her final words faded under the drone of the rain, Rich having spun and raced into the night.

  * * * *

  If Rosie believed Ethan wouldn’t be out in this, the man proved her wrong. Though…at a guess, Ethan had been on his way back to the staff house and stopped to right some ornaments which had taken a tumble in the wind. Feet skidding on the path forced Rich to grab a tree to avoid falling. The slope leading down to where Ethan stood was short but treacherous in the torrent. Rich hugged bark and stared at the crouched figure.

  The man laid the ornaments—silver shapes on tall black metal stems of varying heights—to one side. The softness of the ground told the story of how much rain had fallen. Water ran off the hat Ethan wore—one of those sou’wester styles. A cruel wind sprang up as a wicked reminder Rich wore nothing but a cotton shirt now soaked through; Rich envied Ethan his waterproofs.

  He must look like a fool, clothes soaked, hair plastered to his scalp. What would Ethan think? Hard to care. Didn’t matter how stupid he looked, as long as Ethan listened.

  The slope proved worse than he thought. Rich slipped, landed on his backside, slid in the mud. Ignoring the birth of several bruises, he pushed against the dirt,
cold sludge squeezing between his fingers and under his hands. By the time Rich stood, Ethan had noticed his approach, though Ethan didn’t move. Rich carried on walking toward Ethan, until he stood so close, the noise of the raindrops pattering off the man’s coat sounded like thunder. Must sound like rain on a tin roof wearing that hat.

  “I’m sorry.” Though uncertain for what he apologised, Rich put his whole heart into it. His voice fell into the cocoon of still and oddly silent space between them. “Why didn’t you tell me your father died?”

  Ethan didn’t reply but pulled at the front of his coat, the press studs snapping open, the sound punctuating the rainstorm. Water sprayed from Ethan’s coat, but nothing could make Rich wetter. A single step brought Ethan close enough to encircle Rich in his arms. The idea he should protest—he’d soak Ethan—slithered away as Ethan’s heat seeped into Rich’s frozen limbs. He suppressed a groan and shuddered, sliding his hands around Ethan’s waist, accepting shelter. Nothing existed outside their embrace.

  Everything faded and, for once, Rich didn’t resist. His own father’s death. The decisions he still needed to make regarding the company. How difficult his mother was to handle. The ugly interior of the manor. The house he was going to run away to live in. All of it faded. When all the troubles of the world rested on one pair of shoulders, one thing mattered. The people a person loved. Someone he loved hurt and nothing was as important to him as Ethan’s pain. The man couldn’t leave. This was his home…but was it really, with his father gone? Still…Ethan remained part of his plans and there was so much more to say. To share.

  Body. Warmth. Space. Life. Breath.

  Without thinking, Rich leaned in, tilting his head to kiss.

  Lips brushed. Gentle. Chaste. Perfect.

  He didn’t need tongues, or skin against skin, or grasping hands, and erections. Those things were part of his emotions, and would come again in time. All he needed was to be close.

  The world stopped spinning…started up again as a bird screeched.

  No. Not a bird.

  Rich drew back, blinking, heart pounding in similar fashion to the way he’d banged on the door of the staff house. Pain blossomed in his head, his chest. His gaze moved, answering a magnetic call.

  “What do you think you are doing?” His mother’s birdlike cry drowned out the storm. She stood on the path close to where Rich hugged a tree a few minutes before. The raincoat in which she huddled made her look small, the garment too large for her. His father’s? One thing Rich never expected to see were Wellington boots on Ruby Gardener’s feet.

  “Step away from that man!” The order became another screech. “You!” She pointed but her meaning took another moment to sink in, her thin arm and small hand lost in the sleeve of the coat, her fury flung at Ethan. “To hell with your notice. You’re fired! I want you gone. Tonight!”

  Rich left the shelter of Ethan’s embrace and stepped in front of him, shielding him, standing exposed in the storm. “No. He’s not. If he wants to leave it’s his business, but he is not fired!”

  “This is my house.”

  “True, but the management of the estate is down to me now. If you don’t believe me, speak to our solicitor. Speak to the managing director. You forget father arranged it this way and you agreed. I’m in charge.”

  She stood cloaked, the hood falling forward, the inability now to see her gaze somehow making it worse, as he sensed her stare burning into him, flaying him alive. Rich waited for his skin to blister and peel. Seconds shivered away into the past until at last she turned and stalked away along the path. She stumbled at one point before she straightened her back and marched on, but the slip came as a sharp reminder of how fragile she was, her age, of how his father’s death had stolen years from the end of her life. As angry with her as he was, Rich couldn’t let her walk all the way back to the house alone. If she’d shook off his help, he still had to shadow her back to safety.

  “We’ll talk, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” Rich held Ethan’s gaze, squeezed his arm. “Please. There’s much we need to say.” An age passed before Ethan gave him a nod and released Rich to hurry after his mother.

  * * * *

  Mindful to take off his coat and rain hat in the doorway, Ethan took a few minutes before moving into the house proper. Rosie would murder him if he dripped everywhere. The walk back to the house had tired him, made his movements slow and sluggish. Now, out of the cold, the few feet to his room appeared to be a mile. As he leaned on the inside of the door to his room, he pushed it shut, and closed his eyes.

  Damn it. Despite Richard’s plea, he should pack up and go that evening. Wouldn’t be like skipping out under cover of night. He’d be following Ruby Gardener’s orders, that was all.

  The temptation might have proven too great if not for two things. First, being the need to sort through his father’s things. Gaze drifting over the boxes in the room, a single thought plagued his mind—this was the reward of procrastination. Course, he’d been grieving and putting it off got easier than facing the problem. What with the increased workload, he’d struggled with his day-to-day chores, too exhausted to think about searching through his father’s belongings. Father and mother both, of course—his father hadn’t thrown a thing of hers away.

  When his father became too ill to get up the stairs, they’d brought him and everything precious to him into this room. As his health deteriorated and he needed more than a little oxygen, Ethan had arranged the nursing home. William had gone, pained more to leave his son and this lot behind than by illness. No, Ethan could not abandon any box. If the contents were something he didn’t want, he must find a good home for them.

  True, he could cart all of it around with him, but to where? His father’s paintings alone put paid to his running away. He couldn’t leave those. At the least he would need to return with a van and, for all he knew, Ruby Gardener might destroy some of this stuff out of spite. Not as Rosie or Richard would stand by and let it happen but the old bitch had her ways. She would plan, do it underhand.

  The second reason he dithered to leave was the kiss. The one in the rain. Richard’s sorry, so urgent, so pained in the way it vibrated over his skin as if a thing alive. Then Richard…taking a step, standing between Ethan and his mother, speaking out for him. Not a scenario he ever imagined, with Richard so caught out. If the old woman didn’t understand her son was gay now, she kidded herself.

  God, what kind of conversation was going on in that horrid house? The thought of what Richard suffered made Ethan shudder. The longing to dash up there made him grit his teeth, make fists, stand rigid, back pressing into the wood of his door as he struggled against doing something which would make a terrible situation worse.

  Admit it.

  Despite not wanting to, there appeared little choice. He cared for Richard. More than cared. Though as a boy he’d not fully understood his feelings, like the flowers he tended, his emotions had blossomed over time. Even when he heard mention of Richard he’d paid attention, wondering if he placed the man on a pedestal, his longing unreal and ludicrous.

  The moment Richard came back into his life those doubts withered. Ethan still liked the guy, and over the last couple of weeks had grown to love him. How deeply…he wouldn’t mind a chance to find out. All the sneaking around…neither of them had an opportunity to talk honestly, laugh, discover what the other liked. Although he wanted it, Ethan still couldn’t see anything serious between them happening, and not because of what might be transpiring up at the main house.

  “Don’t get in your own way, son.” William Fields’ voice echoed in the overstuffed room.

  Good advice, but what child ever listened to a parent without a fight?

  “I don’t know if I can be as forgiving as you, Dad.”

  Though Richard hadn’t known William Fields had died, he should have asked, but hadn’t, too taken with the fact of his own father dying, what would become of the company, his mother, what to do with his life. As much as Ethan understood and lo
ved Richard, he also hated the man for that.

  Chapter 16

  No surprise to see Richard walk into the staff house as if he had every right to go where he liked. Sure, he owned the place, but this amounted to taking liberties. Early morning; Rosie had left for the main house a short time before to make breakfast for everyone. She left Ethan a pot of fresh brewed coffee, she said, in the hope it helped wake him. Ethan didn’t need caffeine. He required an antidote to wanting Richard all over him.

  Once again he hadn’t slept well, so spun the dial a little more over to cool than normal in the shower, not because of arousal, alas. When pale light filtered in first thing, all he had wanted was to pull the covers over his head. Bad idea; if he slept in, he’d be in a worse state at bedtime.

  If he hadn’t enjoyed many winks, Richard looked like he hadn’t kipped at all. Disheveled, unshaven…might not have brushed his hair, though it could be a mess because he ran his hands through it too often…as he did just then. Looked like Ruby Gardener had put him through hell, for which Ethan harboured mixed feelings.

  Ethan remained standing, leaning against the counter in the kitchen, hands grasping a hot mug full of rich black coffee. Ethan took a swig, gaze aimed in Richard’s general direction but not meeting his gaze. The man dithered in the doorway. Without asking, Richard walked over, grabbed a mug from the six-pronged tree Rosie insisted they use, and poured out a generous helping of the black liquid. Richard took it with milk but he didn’t go to the fridge. He knocked the first mouthful back almost as one would a shot of whisky. Good thing the machine delivered it at a drinkable temperature.

  One of them had to break the silence. “So…horrendous night, eh?”

  “Worse.” Richard’s voice came out gravelly.

  “Guess she’s figured out you’re gay.” A touch of amusement went with the statement, Ethan unable to control his feelings. He still felt Richard should have told his parents years before. Was it an accusation in Richard’s eyes? Hard to say. Ethan offered up a crooked smile. “Guess I’m no more popular than you are.”