The Garden of Happy Endings

by Barbara O'Neal

  He held her and they both wept, overwhelmed and clinging to each other. “I’m sorry,” Alexa said. “I wanted to make it easier for you.”

  “Easier? I don’t understand any of this.” He took her hands, kissed her fingers. “Tell me what happened.”

  Alexa raised her head, and shook it slowly. “I love you,” she said. “And this is the most beautiful, romantic thing I’ve ever even heard of. But I can’t marry you. My father—” Her voice broke. She took a breath. Spoke firmly, so he would understand. “My father has disappeared. He stole a lot of money. Like, millions. The police have frozen all of my mother’s accounts. They took our house. He’s gone and I’m poor and have nothing.”

  “Your father has disappeared?”

  “He’s wanted by the federal police. Your family—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  He was, in addition to being passionate and beautiful and rich, very intelligent. She did not have to explain it twice. His breath left him as if he’d been punched—ooff!—and he bowed his head over her hands. “That is bad,” he agreed.

  Gently, she extracted her hands. “So that’s why I left. So you didn’t have to make a choice between me and your family.” She stood, wiping tears from her face with resignation. It was done.

  “Azul.”

  She turned, and he got to his feet, moving his hands to his neck. He lifted a chain from beneath his shirt, and on it was the ring he’d given her. “I have made my choice.” He took the ring off the chain and held it in his palm. “I choose you.” His eyes burned brighter than a noonday sky, so blue and intense that she wanted to melt. In that fierce gaze, she saw his devotion, his love, his passion. And she saw that she had wounded him. “Do you choose me?”

  “Yes,” she said, and took the ring and put it back on her hand, and flung herself into his arms, weeping with relief and love. “I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do.” He hugged her back, tightly.

  “Do not,” he said, “ever leave me again.”

  “No,” she promised.

  He pulled away and held her hands in his own. “We may not be able to marry properly. I don’t know how to make that happen. But from now until we are dead, I am your husband and you are my wife.”

  Alexa nodded solemnly. “I am your wife and you are my husband.”

  They kissed once more, to seal it.

  She tugged his hand. “Come. It’s time you met my mother.”

  Elsa watched the flight down the Riverwalk with her heart in her throat. They all did—not just Deacon and Tamsin and Elsa, but everyone on the patio, and the people out walking their dogs, and the romantic couples. When Carlos tackled her, one man looked ready to get involved, and then Alexa turned and hugged him.

  Tamsin said, “That has to be one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Elsa wiped away a tear. “I hope they can work it out.”

  Deacon took her hand, raised it, and kissed the palm. She looked up at him. “I’m not going to try to top that,” he said, leaning in to speak quietly, “but I hope you won’t let this … distract you.”

  She smiled, a very small smile. “From?”

  “Me.”

  She slid an arm around him and leaned into his body. “Not a chance.”

  Carlos and Alexa came up the hill hand in hand. Both had tear marks on their faces. The diners broke into spontaneous applause, and Carlos lifted their clasped hands into the air.

  “Sometimes you’ve gotta run ’em aground,” said a craggy voice.

  Carlos bowed, then gave a little wave, and Alexa led him to the table where her mother waited. “Mom, this is Carlos. Carlos, my mother, Thomasina Corsi.”

  He bent over her hand with courtly grace. “I am honored to meet you.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Tamsin said.

  Alexa introduced Elsa and Deacon, and then it was plain they wanted only to escape. “I will return her to you soon,” Carlos said, and they walked off, into the gloaming, heads twining like swans.

  Tamsin touched her chest. “I’ve never seen a couple so madly in love.”

  “Me, either,” Elsa agreed.

  Deacon put his hand on Elsa’s lower back, lightly. The heat moved from his hand to the base of her neck, spread in radiating waves around her ribs. She said, “I’m sorry to desert you, Tamsin, but I have plans with Deacon.”

  Tamsin waved a hand. “Go.”

  Deacon pulled her toward the parking lot and they climbed into his truck. Before he even closed his door, Elsa leapt on him, laughing, and buried her face in his neck, kissing his throat and chin playfully. He slid away from the steering wheel a little and pulled her closer, putting his hands in her hair, shivering under her rain of kisses.

  Her playfulness fell away as she lost herself in the smell of his skin, the taste of it against her lips. “You better drive us home,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed, and turned the key in the ignition.

  Deacon awakened in the soft gray gloaming on Monday morning to find himself wrapped around Elsa like a limpet. She was fast asleep, her naked back pressed against his chest, her bottom nestled into his genitals in the classic spooning pose. Her hair spilled over his arm.

  A powerful sense of gratitude poured over him. Her tiny body was so small that his arm, angled across her chest, almost completely covered her. Her skin was smooth and clear and olive. She smelled of some fruity shampoo and garlic and sex, and he wanted to begin again, kissing her from head to toe and every nook and cranny in between, but there was a day to get going.

  He didn’t want this weekend to end. She had stayed with him Saturday night and all day Sunday and Sunday night, too. Flashes of their lovemaking moved through him, her hair flung out on the pillow, the earthy sound of her coming, the pulse and heat of it around him. He thought of the long hours they’d spent talking, and the midnight snack he had scrounged out of his kitchen.

  It was a miracle that he could feel this way after so many years, filled with possibility and hope and a sense of honor. He held himself still so as not to disturb her and let it all move through him.

  Love. Love, love, love. He’d maybe thought he was too old for it, had made too many mistakes, and yet, here she was, curled up like a kitten against him, her hands tucked under her face like a child. She had confessed she wanted children. She had confessed she wanted a husband.

  His old self, the self he had been yesterday, might have said he didn’t deserve any of those things. The self he had become under her ministrations knew that he would give as much as he would take.

  She moved a foot against his shin, and he tucked his hand close around her breast. “I have to get to work, sugar,” he said.

  “I know.” She turned in the circle of his arms, lifting her face to be kissed. He obliged and rubbed his nose over hers.

  “I really don’t want to leave this weekend behind,” he said.

  She gazed up at him seriously, lifted a hand to his face. “Me, either.” Flinging a leg over his thigh, she clasped his hand on her breast and gave him a coquettish blink. “Would you like to come to supper tonight?”

  “I’ve got a long day,” he said with regret. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  “Good.”

  Suddenly, she tossed the covers off her body. “Oh, crap! I forgot I promised I’d go to court with Tamsin. I have to get going, too.” She picked up the phone from the night table and punched in a number. Waited for the call to be answered. “Hey, Tamsin. What time is court?” She listened, nodding. “Good. I’ll spend an hour at the garden and then head home.

  “Whew.” She clicked the phone off and set it aside. Deacon lay where he was, admiring her compact nakedness, her small breasts and flat belly, her generous thighs and that wild hair.

  “Come here,” he said, and flung back the covers himself.

  Laughing, she leapt on him, covering and kissing him, and they made love one more time.

  Elsa
had gone by to pick up Charlie early on Sunday. Tamsin had been asleep, and Elsa had felt a little guilty taking the dog when Alexa obviously wasn’t home, either, but he was ecstatic to see his mistress.

  Now Deacon dropped them off at the church gardens. Charlie bolted joyfully straight down the center aisle while Elsa ambled behind him, lost in postcoital juiciness. She was sloshing with satisfaction, leaving behind bright red footprints of pleasure, her joints loose and easy beneath her thoroughly explored skin.

  Deacon, do-dah, do-dah. She wanted to sing his name, do somersaults, skip across the paths.

  The family garden plot she shared with Tamsin had clearly been weeded and tended the day before. Elsa connected the industrial hose to the pump in the center of the field and dragged it to her garden. She watered the tomatoes and sprinkled the beans. Daydreamed in the warm morning.

  “Good morning,” Joaquin said.

  She startled a little at his sudden appearance. “Hey. How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  She waved the water over the patch of squash. “How’s Joseph?”

  “He’s all right. He’s out of the hospital, back at home.”

  “That’s good. Have we come up with any new ideas for security?”

  He shook his head. “Trying. I gave a pretty fierce sermon yesterday on the responsibilities of the community.” He glanced at his watch. “A couple of neighborhood men came by yesterday afternoon to offer their help in organizing watch crews, and I’m going to meet with them in a couple of days. We’ll see if it works.”

  “Good start.”

  “Yeah. I wish—” He broke off, his jaw tight. “I feel responsible for Joseph. I should have stepped it up sooner than this.”

  “Things begin where they begin,” she said. “It isn’t like this was a safe spot before the garden went in.”

  He shrugged and changed the subject. “I saw Tamsin and she told me about Carlos showing up.”

  Elsa smiled in memory. “Walking, it was the most romantic thing I ever saw. It was beautiful.”

  He stood there, not moving or talking, and finally she really looked at him. “What’s up?”

  “You were pretty scarce yesterday.”

  Elsa raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “Did you spend the weekend with Deacon?”

  She stiffened. “Don’t, Joaquin.”

  “You’re my oldest friend. He killed somebody, you know that?”

  “Yeah, years ago. And he’s a lot more loyal to you than you are to him, Mr. Priest.” She flung the hose aside. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I just can’t believe you’d sleep with somebody like that. It’s immoral.”

  She gave a deep belly laugh. “Oh, it was okay for us, but not for me as an adult, right?” She shook her head. “Give me a break. You’re just jealous. And I can’t help you with that.”

  His cheeks flamed. “I’m not—”

  “You are.” She took a step closer. “Look, it hasn’t been easy for me, either, being here like this. I’ve had a lot of unresolved stuff to deal with, too.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes. Not just this, either. I’ve been thinking about you and God and the Church and where I fit.” She shook her head. “And I can talk about a lot of things with you, Joaquin, but not this. Not love and sex and all that goes with it.” She took another step toward him. “When that priest knocked me off the dais of the church that day, and you were the one who comforted me, and our romance started, it felt like God had a plan for me. I could forgive the priest for narrow-mindedness—”

  “You didn’t forgive him. You left the Church.”

  She raised a hand. “Let me say this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Dorothy helped me overcome my anger and hurt over that, but it also felt like we—you and I—were destined to be together. So when you decided to be a priest, I was absolutely shattered.” She sighed. “You have no idea.”

  He bowed his head. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  “But you see, I didn’t want to be bitter and hard and mean-spirited, so I worked really hard to get myself back together. To make peace with you and a god who could call you and leave me in a million little pieces—”

  “Elsa—” He had tears in his eyes.

  “Wait.” She raised a finger. “I grieved you and me, us, and all the things that we would never do or be or have. I grieved for the lost children, for the lost perfection. I found a vocation, and my place. But I also really want a family and children and all that goes with that.”

  He ducked his head. “Strange twist of fate, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “That because the Church would not allow you to become a priest you will probably end up with everything—a vocation and a spouse and children.” He met her eyes, and there were tears flowing down his face. She wanted to go to him and knew she couldn’t. “It’s so ironic.”

  “You don’t have to remain a priest, Joaquin. You have free will.”

  “I have said vows,” he said, his jaw tight. For one more hot minute, he stared at her, his dark eyes burning into her face. Then abruptly he turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff.

  She was going to have to leave Pueblo. What she had believed to be water under the bridge was flooding over that bridge now. She could not bear to lose her friend Walking, but she would have to if he couldn’t make peace with their past.

  And what about Deacon? Would he want to leave? Would it even be appropriate to ask? Or would they suffer through some long-distance connection that would be doomed to trickle into nothing? It was so very new and fresh and tender. How could it possibly stand up to such weighty questions so soon?

  “Argh!” she cried. “Couldn’t just let me have one good day, huh?”

  She stomped over and turned off the water. She might as well go home.

  That was when Charlie came to her, limping dramatically on his forefoot. “What happened, baby?” He whimpered softly and lifted his paw. Something had sliced right through three of the pads, and it was bleeding profusely. Forgetting everything, Elsa whipped off her sweater and wrapped it tightly around his wound. She dialed Tamsin. “I need you to come take me to the vet.”

  Charlie needed six stitches. Probably, she thought with a thunderous scowl, something left over from the gang boys’ trash-and-destroy mission the other night. She’d like to crack their heads together.

  What was wrong with them, anyway? This was a neighborhood project. Some of their mothers and brothers and fathers and little sisters were invested.

  Because the paw had to be bandaged, the vet gave Elsa a cone for Charlie’s head. When he saw it he turned baleful eyes on her. “I won’t do it unless I have to,” she promised him. “I’ll keep him leashed, Doc, right by my side. I’ll put the cone on at night, and when he’s alone.”

  On the way home, she pushed his face away from the bandages three times. “Charlie, you’ll hate it if I have to do this.”

  “I’m going to drop you off so I can get to court,” Tamsin said.

  “I’m still planning to come with you, sis.”

  “Don’t be silly. I can handle it on my own. If you leave Charlie, he’ll have to wear the cone. Just hang out with him and I’ll be back in a couple of hours. But if you see my daughter, will you ask her to call her mother?”

  It took much longer than Tamsin had expected to get her turn with the judge. When it finally arrived, she willed herself to stand up straight next to her court-appointed lawyer, who looked to her like a boy, barely old enough to be out of law school. But he had a commanding voice and a presence that belied his age—and he was donating his time.

  As he made the argument for leniency, the judge looked bored right to the tips of her streaked hair. All Tamsin could think about was the peonies lying on the grass, with no one to appreciate their beauty, and her quilts stacked in trash bags, and the empty rooms echoing with no one in them.

  She had nothing left to lose. “Your Honor, may I sa
y something?”

  Her lawyer leaned over. “Not a good idea.”

  “I need to speak for myself,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to be obnoxious or anything.”

  “Very well,” the judge said, “step forward.”

  Tamsin clasped her hands together. “I know it was wrong to break into the house, but I just wanted my quilts, and I’m asking you to let me have them, to release them. They’re my own work and they’re all I have. My husband had nothing to do with them. It’s wrong that his actions should take away my life’s work.”

  “He took a lot more than that, Mrs. Corsi, from a lot of people,” the judge said, looking over her reading glasses. “Allegedly, of course.”

  Tamsin paused for a moment, thinking of the best way to phrase her reply. “I agree, it’s terrible. A lot of people have lost a lot, but so have I. I’ve lost my home, my gardens, everything I’ve worked for for the past twenty-five years. And so be it—but I want the quilts and the machine. That’s it. Taking them from me isn’t going to give anybody else anything. It will give me a lot. I need to be able to support myself.”

  The judge said nothing for a moment. “Very well. I’ll release the quilts and dismiss the breaking and entering charges, but if you come within thirty feet of that house again, I’ll throw you in jail. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tamsin thought of the peonies—and let them go. Somebody, someday, would love them just as she did. “Thank you.”

  As she left the courtroom, she felt a sense of jubilation and excitement, relief, and more than that. She felt free. As if she had moved over some invisible threshold. To what? she wondered. Her new life, maybe?

  Or maybe, she thought, ducking out of the rain into her car, she had crossed a threshold to herself.

  A most intriguing idea. For a moment she sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the rain. She was in her mid-forties. Her daughter was grown and her husband had disappeared. She had virtually nothing of her own.

  She laughed. How many people were handed such a clean slate, such a sweet chance to start over?