“I might be biased. My last name isn’t as French-sounding as Volant, but I love our version of lavender.” Reaching down, she stripped a few of the dry buds from the dark sprigs and held her hand out toward Emma. “The stems are woodier and stronger in order to survive the winters up here, but that gives the smell of the lavender a little strength too. It’s not as floral, a little earthier, but I find the combination more soothing.”
Emma leaned close, closed her eyes, and took a slow, deep inhale. The subtle creases in her brow smoothed out, and a slight pink of pleasure gave color to the normal pallor of her cheeks. Also, the temperature went up a notch outside, or maybe just inside Brogan.
Reggie must have noticed the transformation, too, but didn’t seem nearly as transfixed as she blurted out, “If you like lavender, we could plant some more, maybe where Aunt Brogan said to cut back the chives.”
“I would love more lavender,” Emma said sincerely. “Actually, if you could . . . Never mind.”
“What?” Brogan asked.
“Nothing. I got a little carried away in my mind. It happens a lot, sort of runs away with me.”
“Nothing wrong with that. It’s your garden. This is your space to let ideas run as wild as you want.”
Emma’s blue eyes held hers for a few seconds before she looked back toward the ground, but the connection was long enough for Brogan to glimpse something alluring behind the blankness at their forefront. Something was stirring inside the woman before her, and she found herself almost wishing it wasn’t simply a desire to garden.
“Could we do a row of lavender all along the patio here? Then every time I step out my back door or write at my little table, I can be surrounded by something soothing.”
“Sure we can!” Reggie said with renewed enthusiasm, then turned to Brogan. “We can, right?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Actually, it’s about the perfect time of year for replanting lavender. A week, maybe two, will put us in the heart of spring soil temperatures. We might even be able to work from the shoots you already have. Clipping them back should help them to grow stronger and spread out. Counterintuitive, I know, but sometimes when you make a living organism feel threatened, they dig deeper and reach farther than they would if they felt comfortable.”
Emma’s lips parted slightly, and her chest rose slowly as if she were trying to take in more air.
“Great.” Reggie scribbled some notes. “Let’s go down another level.”
Brogan followed along. What else could she do? She was there to keep an eye on Reggie. She was there as a gardener. She wasn’t friends with Emma. She didn’t have any right to pry, not about what made her so sad, and not about what Brogan could possibly do to bring back the smile she longed to see.
£ £ £
Brogan followed Reggie around the garden calmly and patiently, explaining what each plant was along with when and how it could be trimmed or transplanted safely. The extent of her knowledge impressed Emma, even if it didn’t exactly surprise her. Much like Reggie, Brogan seemed to notice things, not that they’d had much of a chance for her to test the theory, but the way Brogan’s green eyes swept over a room or a person simply gave Emma the sense she saw more than someone else might. She sometimes found that suspicion mildly unsettling, but never quite unpleasant. And now, in the sunshine, amid stems that might someday bear roses, she felt a warmth of gratitude for the McKay women who spoke of the coming spring with such certainty she almost believed them.
“Okay, that’s all,” Reggie declared as they reached the bottom back corner of the garden. “I have a complete map of the garden exactly how it is now.”
“Perfect,” Brogan said, clasping her on the shoulder. “All done for today.”
“For you maybe,” Reggie said stiffly.
Both Brogan and Emma raised their eyebrows at her.
“Now I need to make a map of how we want the garden to look when we’re done.”
“Right, but can’t you do that another day or from home?”
“It won’t be the same,” Reggie said matter-of-factly, “but I can do this part on my own. You can leave.”
Brogan folded her arms across her chest and cocked her chin to the side. “Dismissed. I see how it is. And what if I don’t want to leave? What if I want to stay and watch a great landscape artist at work?”
Reggie sighed heavily, causing a strand of copper hair to flutter under the bill of her cap. “You’re trying to babysit me.”
“What? I’m wounded.” Brogan clutched at her heart and laid on a thick Irish brogue. “My favorite niece, my own spitting image, the lass I taught to hold a cricket bat and spit off the river bridge like the boys accuses me of ulterior motives.”
Reggie’s eyes narrowed at Brogan as if she was ninety percent sure she was teasing, but not certain enough to laugh. She then turned to Emma with the same green eyes Brogan had used to examine her earlier, and Emma couldn’t bear it.
“I think you’re off to a marvelous start,” she gushed, then noting the surprise on Brogan’s face, added, “I don’t think you need any supervision at all, but I do have a few things I want to ask Brogan about the house. Would you mind if we popped into the conservatory and had a chat while you work?”
“No,” Reggie said, her shoulders a little straighter. “I don’t mind.”
Brogan gave the bill of her cap a little tug as she turned to go. “The student becomes the master.”
Emma followed her as she headed in through the conservatory and out of Reggie’s hearing range. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Why don’t I take a look at whatever you need help with around the house first.”
Emma shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t have a list. I merely made an excuse to let you stay without hurting Reggie’s pride.”
Brogan smiled warmly. “I suspected as much, but then I remembered hearing something about you not knowing how to use your hot water tank and didn’t want to take anything for granted.”
Emma’s face flushed. “Does the whole town know?”
“Only a few locals with a strong desire to be helpful,” Brogan said casually. “None of them as helpful as Reggie, though. She’s a great kid— lots of passion, and a real instinct to be useful, but she’s also a bit like a puppy. If you throw the ball, she’ll keep coming back with it for more.”
She liked the cute analogy, and the gentle affection with which Brogan made the comparison. “I don’t mind having her over. I mean, maybe if I were on a deadline or a writing binge, but neither of those things seem on my horizon unless some of her youthful energy rubs off on me.”
“You like kids?”
“I don’t have much experience with them. They’ve never found me very interesting, I suppose, and maybe they’ve never held much interest for me, but then again I’ve never met a ten-year-old with a passion for reading and gardening.”
Brogan’s shoulders relaxed, and her smile took on a hint of pride. “I love all my nieces and nephews. Every one of them has a personality all their own and is special in some way, but I’ve got a soft spot for Reg. She’s always been a bit out of the box. She wants to break things down, figure out what makes them work, and once she starts, she doesn’t stop until she’s got a solid grasp. I want to protect that instinct, make sure she gets a chance to explore until she finds what she’s looking for.”
Some of the tension that always knotted Emma’s chest loosened. “I guess we both see bits of ourselves in her in different ways. I wonder if that’s how parents feel every day.”
“My parents had enough kids to see themselves somewhere in the lot of us. I don’t know if they found the likeness comforting, though.”
“I’ve never even considered how terrifying and affirming that must be. I’m an only child.”
“Lucky you.” Brogan’s laugh clearly indicated she’d made the comment in jest, but Emma didn’t laugh along. As she glanced out of the conservatory windows to watch Reg work, she ruminated on the fact that while the girl
might second-guess herself or her place in the world at times, she’d never have to doubt the love of the wide support system, that was put in place before she was ever born. She and Brogan would never have to face anything alone.
“Did I say something wrong?” Brogan asked softly.
“No. I’m sorry. I was thinking about the way your family all help each other. I’ve been here only a few weeks, and I’ve already seen you in the act of supporting each other at least three times.”
“It’s what families do.”
“When you have them. I’m the only child of two only children. Not that I went unloved as a child. My grandmother especially doted on me, but she’s gone now, and so is my father. I don’t have much family left. There’s no built-in safety net there.”
“Family doesn’t have to be based on blood. It can be something you build with people who love you, who cheer for you, who celebrate the ups and downs.”
The knot not only returned to her chest, but worked its way up into her throat. Once upon a time, she’d shared Brogan’s idealist views on family of choice. She’d even thought she’d built exactly the type of bonds Brogan spoke of. She’d been wrong on at least the latter count, which made her suspect she’d been mistaken on the former as well.
“Hey,” Brogan whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”
Emma blinked away the haze and searched those green eyes. “What is?”
“Whatever is making you so sad right now,” Brogan said softly.
Emma was slammed with simultaneous instincts to argue with her and to throw herself into her arms, begging Brogan to show her how. Both impulses were likely inappropriate to act on, and before she’d found some middle ground, Reggie trotted up to the back door, waving her new map.
“I’ve got it.” She beamed proudly. “See?”
Emma accepted the paper she had thrust at her and scanned the pencil drawing of boxes and circles filled with the names of plants. Lavender around the top, an array of shrubs that would flower at different times through the middle, and varieties of roses around the perimeter, which would add flashes of color to the hedgerows. She could almost visualize the bright vista against the ocean backdrop as it reflected the summer sun. She could sit out at the table and listen to the waves, smelling the lavender, and . . . the ice in her core melted noticeably at the thought. Summer. Ten minutes ago, she hadn’t even been sure of a spring, and now she was already making plans for the summer.
“Do you like it?” Reggie asked, her hope laced with an uncertainty Emma hadn’t heard in her before.
“I love it.” She held the drawing close to her chest. “Can I keep it?”
Reggie lifted her little chin and squared her shoulders. “Sure. I mean, I made it for you.”
“And how much should I pay you for your work?”
“Nothing.” Brogan cut in quickly. “We don’t help our neighbors for money.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to, but if you’d come here in your official capacity as a landscaper, I would’ve paid you.”
Brogan opened her mouth as if to argue, but Emma held up her hand. “Besides, I’m an artist. I value creative work. I firmly believe artists need to support other artists, and this map is a kind of artwork that will be the blueprint for a different type of art, which will hopefully inspire my own art. That’s worth something to me.”
Brogan nodded and took a small step back, then turned to Reggie, whose cheeks had gone a bright shade of pink.
“What do you think would be a fair price?” Emma asked gently.
Reggie looked at the ground and shuffled her feet along the concrete shyly before finally saying, “I don’t want any money.”
Emma was about to reiterate her argument, but then Reggie whispered, “I would really like it if you came to my school on book report day, though.”
Emma’s breath caught at the simplicity of the request, and her heart raced at the complexities of accepting. She hadn’t made a public appearance in well over six months. She hadn’t written since then or done a single interview. She’d barely even spoken to the people she knew, much less strangers. And she’d achieved some sense of distance from the life she’d had before. She’d just moments earlier begun to hope for a time of peace and serenity. Would stepping back into the persona that had led to all her pain undercut her progress, or even kill the forward momentum completely? The risk seemed unreasonable to take when she was still in such a precarious position emotionally.
And yet, there were Reggie’s green eyes peeking out from under the bill of her black cap, as if almost afraid to look at her directly. The pleading there was too much for her, and the pulse of panic pounded through her ears. Turning toward Brogan for help, she was hit once again with the same green gaze, only deeper, with a sympathy that both heartened and amplified the silent request not to let them all down.
Her heart gave a sharp twist as she blew out a shaky breath. “Yes.”
Chapter Five
“Brogan!” several little voices shouted as she walked through the door of her parents’ home. Immediately a ball of energy and elbows crashed into her thighs, followed by two more of slightly varying heights.
“Hello there . . .” She placed a hand atop each red head, one at a time, and tilted them back until she could see their faces. “Wendell, Seamus, and Arthur.”
“And me.” One more tiny person came careening around the corner on a collision course with the bodies still entangling her legs, and in the last second before impact, Brogan scooped her up and slung her over one shoulder. “Wow, I caught a Ginny, too. What a lucky day. Think I’ve got enough to make McKay stew with lots of little carrot tops.”
The boys shrieked and giggled, then took off running through the house again, leaving Brogan clutching only Ginny, who squirmed and laughed as she stomped through the entryway to the big, warm living room.
“Mummy,” Ginny wailed between gasps and giggled. “Daddy, she’s going to eat me.”
“Good catch,” Neville said, as he rose from beside the fire he’d been stoking. “Fire’s on. Let’s ask Mum for a pot, probably a midsized one. She’s not too big yet, not much meat for stew.”
“Arthur’s bigger. Eat him,” Ginny yelled, throwing her brother quickly under the bus.
Both Brogan and Neville froze, stared at each other, then burst out laughing. Brogan doubled over and set Ginny on her feet. Then the girl took off running.
“She takes after her dad, the squirmy little rat.”
Neville shrugged amiably. “Learning to undercut your older siblings is a survival skill for younger children in a big family. Don’t tell me you didn’t blame Archie every time you did something wrong.”
“I didn’t have to,” Brogan said. “Nora used to beat me to the punch.”
“Used to?” Archie came in from the kitchen with a bottle of cider in one hand and the other one clasped on his daughter Lily’s shoulder.
“Wow. The prodigal son made it to a family dinner?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been here more times than not, and I was even at Friday Club last week. Can we knock off the absent child routine? Or better yet, direct it at Siobhán?”
“As much as I enjoy taking potshots at the firstborn heir to the throne, she lives in Belfast,” Neville said.
“And whose fault is that?” Brogan asked. “How’s she supposed to protect her long-standing rule over us from fecking Northern Ireland?”
“She’s not,” Archie said. “Titles and power pass through the male line in this country. All authority falls to me.”
“Dad!” Lily huffed. “Sexist.”
“Yeah, Dad.” Brogan gave her niece a wink. “You really going to leave everything to James even though Lily’s older and obviously got both her brains and her looks from her mother?”
He smiled down at his daughter, who, despite having inherited his copper top, had her mother’s eyes, nose and, from the expression on her face, also her steely resolve. Brogan enjoyed watching her older brother�
��s will buckle when faced with even the slightest resistance from either one of the women in his life.
“Of course it’s sexist. And therefore, when I am king, I will change the law.”
“Not if Grandpa beats him to it,” Liam McKay said, as he stuck his head through the living-room door. “I’m still chieftain of this clan, and I say my ungrateful children need to help their mother set the table.”
There was a flurry of activity Brogan had often mused would be overwhelming to outsiders. Even people who’d been around awhile, like her brothers- and sisters-in-law, still stood back on the peripheries when the McKay clan rushed to the table, a mix of hands and platters and clinking silverware amid the clamorous voices and scraping chairs. Everyone had their places, though those places were more hierarchical than static. The order usually preferred spouses in precedence, followed by siblings, alternating sides in accordance to age. Leaves had been added to the table over the years, and then kids’ tables popped up along outer walls. A pair of high chairs rotated next to the sets of parents with the most pressing needs, but none of this was ever discussed as much as intuited, and always assembled quickly.
Within minutes of Liam’s decree, the entire family sat shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand around the table, with heads bowed as their patriarch’s baritone washed over the silence. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”
“Amens” echoed around the table as her dad added a hasty, “Tuck in.”
Again, conversations erupted in every corner of the room.
“Can you pass me the Yorkshire puddings?” Nora asked, straining in vain to reach even halfway across the table, with her big baby-belly holding her back.
“Here, take two,” Brogan said, tossing them onto her sister’s plate. “You sure it’s not twins again?”
Nora’s narrowed eyes and flared nostrils clearly expressed how unfunny she found the joke.
Edmond blew out a low whistle from across the table. “You’re either brave or stupid, talking like that to a pregnant woman.”
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