The blast of humidity was almost enough to make me homesick as I followed her into the glass building. Both the size and variety of flowers in here were impressive. The floor was cobblestoned moss rock, and there was even a small fountain in the center, blocking out any potential noises from the outside world with the steady trickle of water.
“Do you maintain this yourself?” I asked as she carried the rosebush to a potting bench.
“God, no.” She snorted. “I might know a thing or two about plants, but Gran was the gardener. I hired a professional about five years ago when she finally started to slow down.”
“At ninety-five,” I added.
“She was pretty unstoppable.” Her smile was instant and had the added bonus of acting like a vise around my chest. “She got so mad at me, too. Said I was making assumptions about her health. I argued that I was simply freeing up the time it took her to water.”
“You were making assumptions about her health.” The corners of my lips tugged upward.
“She was ninety-five; can you blame me?” She set the rosebush down on the bench. “I’ll pot it later.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” Or delaying what I was about to offer her. Somehow Georgia had mastered what college and deadlines had failed to do: she’d turned me into a procrastinator.
“You sure?”
“Positive. And I’m the last person to tell you about rosebushes, but I thought this guy was more of an outdoor one?” At least that was what the picture online had shown.
“Well, yeah, usually. But it’s almost October. I’d hate to stick him in the ground and hope for the best when his little root system wouldn’t have had a chance to develop before the first frost.” She opened the large cabinet next to the shed and hauled out a container and a various assortment of small bags.
“So you’re saying it’s a bad gift?” I half teased. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Her cheeks pinkened. “No, I’m saying it has to live in the greenhouse until spring.”
“Can I help?”
“You don’t mind getting dirty?” She took in my athletic pants and long-sleeved Mets tee.
“I prefer dirty.” I shrugged with a grin.
“Grab the potting soil.” She rolled her eyes as she rolled up her sleeves.
I pushed my sleeves up and walked over to the cabinet, which was much deeper than it initially looked. There were at least three different bags along the bottom.
“Which one?”
“The one that says ‘potting soil.’”
“They all say ‘potting soil.’” I met her teasing gaze with a raised eyebrow.
She leaned around my side, brushing against my arm as she pointed to the blue bag on the left. “That one, please.”
We locked eyes, and the inches between us charged. She was close enough to kiss—not that I was going to do something that reckless, but damn did I want to.
“Got it.” My gaze dropped to her lips.
“Thanks.” She stepped away as color flushed from her neck to her cheeks. She wasn’t immune to me, either, but I’d known that from the second our eyes met in the bookstore. It didn’t mean she wanted to act on it.
I grabbed the right bag, then ripped the top open and poured it into the container when she told me to.
“That’s perfect.” She stepped in and added handfuls from the various smaller bags, then mixed it all together.
“This feels very complicated.” It was fascinating to watch her pick and choose from the soil amendments.
“It’s not,” she said with a shrug, using her bare hands to plant the rosebush. “Plants are way easier than people. If you know what plant you’re working with, then you know what pH it likes the soil to be. If it likes it well drained, or saturated. If it prefers nitrogen or needs a calcium boost. Does it like full sun? Part sun? Shade? Plants tell you what they need right off the bat, and if you give it to them, they grow. They’re predicable that way.” She leveled the soil out carefully, then washed her hands at the potting bench sink.
“People can be predictable, too.” I hefted the now half-empty bag back to the shed. “If you know how someone was damaged, you have a good idea of how they’ll react in a situation.”
“True, but how often do you know someone’s damage before you start that relationship? It’s not like we all walk around with warning labels on our foreheads.”
I leaned back against the bench as she filled the watering can. “I like that idea. Warning—narcissist. Warning—impulsive. Warning—listens to Nickelback.”
She laughed, and an ache flared in my chest, demanding to hear the sound again. “What would yours read?” she asked.
“You first.”
“Hmm…” She shut off the faucet, then lifted and tipped the watering can over the rosebush. “Warning—trust issues.” She lifted a brow at me.
That made perfect sense.
“Warning—always right.”
She scoffed, finishing up with the can.
“I’m serious. I have a really hard time admitting I’m wrong, even to myself. I’m also a control freak.”
“Well, you’re wearing a Mets shirt, so at least you chose the right New York team.” She smiled and put the can back on the bench.
“I grew up in the Bronx. There is no other team. I keep forgetting that you lived in New York.” The pictures I’d seen of her from the net showed a glossed and polished Georgia, not the gardener with a messy bun and ripped jeans. Not that I should have been looking at her jeans or the way her ass filled them out…but I was.
“From the day I got married until the day I met you, actually.” Her smile faded and she crossed her arms over her chest. “So what exactly did you want to talk to me about? Because I know you didn’t go to the trouble of ordering that rosebush just to deliver it. I saw the label.”
Here went nothing.
“Right.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I want to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” Her eyes narrowed. That was quick.
“The kind where I ultimately get more than you do, admittedly.” My lips flattened.
Her eyes flared with surprise. “Well, at least you admit it. Okay, shoot.”
“I think we both need to get out of our comfort zones when it comes to dealing with each other and this book. I’m not used to having someone dictate my endings, let alone an entire story, since two-thirds of it is already written, and you don’t trust me farther than you can throw me.”
Her head tilted slightly, not bothering to deny it. “What do you have in mind?”
“I will spend some time getting to know Scarlett—not just the character she wrote herself as in the book, but the real woman, and then I’ll write two endings. One will be the one I want, and the other will be what I’m known for—what you want. You can choose between the two.” I grabbed my ego in a choke hold to keep the asshole quiet.
“And I have to…” She lifted her brow.
“Go rock climbing. With me. It’s a trust thing.” Smooth. Real smooth.
“You want me to put my life in your hands.” She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable.
“I want you to put Scarlett’s life in my hands, which I think starts with yours.” Because she valued Scarlett’s more. That’s what the trip to the gazebo and the internet had taught me. She was ruthlessly protective of her great-grandmother, while she’d allowed her husband out of their marriage with little to no consequence.
“And the final decision is still mine?” she clarified, her forehead crinkling.
“One hundred percent, but you have to agree to read both endings before you decide.” I’d win her over one way or another. I just had to get her to read it my way.
“Deal.”
Chapter Sixteen
February 1941
Kirton-in-Lindsey, Englan
d
“Good morning!” Scarlett said to Constance as she arrived for her morning watch.
“So loud.” Eloise, who had only been posted to Kirton for the last month, winced as she stirred a mug of cocoa.
“Someone stayed out with the boys a bit too long last night,” Constance explained as she handed Scarlett a steaming mug of coffee.
That could probably be said for most of the 71st and the WAAFs this morning, as well as a healthy percentage of the single, civilian girls from Kirton. Scarlett was among the sleepless, too, but for much…different reasons. After what they’d both considered an acceptable amount of time, Jameson had taken her home for their own celebration, though there had been a sharper, more desperate edge to his lovemaking.
As of yesterday, the 71st was officially ready for defensive duties. Training, and the blissful months of relative safety, were over. The only thing to celebrate in her mind was that the unit had finally been outfitted with Hurricanes, rather than the cumbersome Buffaloes Jameson hated so very much, but he still missed his Spitfire.
Scarlett offered Eloise a compassionate smile. “More water, less cocoa.” She finished putting her things away and looped her arm through Constance’s elbow as they headed for the door. “How late did you stay out, poppet?”
“Just long enough to see some of the girls home.” She sent a meaningful look toward Eloise, who followed close behind.
“Which was totally unnecessary,” the pretty little blonde added. “Did I enjoy myself? Certainly. But it’s not like I’m silly enough to end up in any of the dark alcoves with a flyer. I’m not about to have my heart broken when—” She winced. “Not that you’re silly, of course, Scarlett. You’re married.”
Scarlett shrugged. “Yes, and that was still silly of me. We both know there are no guarantees. I worry every time Jameson flies—and he’s only been training these last few months, but now…” Her heart plummeted, but she forced a smile.
“He’ll be fine.” Constance gave her a squeeze, and they walked toward the briefing room.
Scarlett nodded, but her stomach hollowed out. She plotted aircraft every day that had lost their radar and ended up crashing simply because they couldn’t see how close they were to safety. She plotted the raids, the losses, and changed the numbers, all the while knowing that it would soon be Jameson back in combat.
“And don’t worry about this one,” Eloise said, nudging Constance. “She’s head over heels for that little army captain of hers. She spends most nights penning letter after letter.”
Pink rose in Constance’s cheeks.
“When exactly does Edward get leave again?” Scarlett grinned. Nothing would be better than seeing Constance as settled and happy as she was.
“In a few weeks,” Constance answered wistfully, sighing at the threshold of the briefing room, which was already half full.
Scarlett’s eyes flared with surprise as she spotted one of the occupants. “Mary?”
Mary’s head whipped her way. “Scarlett? Constance?”
Both Scarlett and Constance scurried around the long table to embrace their friend. It had been four months since they’d seen each other at Middle Wallop, and yet it seemed like an entire lifetime had passed.
“You both look wonderful!” Mary exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over her friends.
“Thank you,” Scarlett responded. “You do as well.” It wasn’t a lie, but there was something…off about Mary. The spark in her eyes had dimmed, and she could do with a few nights’ rest. A weight settled in her chest. Whatever had sent their friend here wasn’t good.
“She should practically be glowing, since she’s married now.” Constance nudged her sister. “Show her!”
“Oh, all right.” Scarlett rolled her eyes but held out her left hand with as little fuss as possible, keeping her focus on Mary.
“My God.” Mary’s gaze flickered from the ring to Scarlett’s eyes. “Married? To whom?” She’d barely asked the question before her eyes widened. “Stanton? Eagle Squadron is still here, right?”
“Yes and yes,” Scarlett answered, unable to keep her lips from twitching upward.
Mary softened. “I’m happy for you. You two really are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” she replied gently, still sensing there was a reason for Mary’s appearance. “Now what on earth are you doing here?”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh. Michael…he was a pilot I’d been seeing since you were reposted…” She blinked rapidly and tilted her chin up. “He went down during a raid last week.” Her mouth trembled.
“Oh no, Mary, I’m so sorry.” Constance lifted her hand to Mary’s shoulder.
Scarlett swallowed painfully past the lump in her throat. That made three lovers Mary had lost in the last— She stiffened. “They didn’t…” She shook her head. Surely they wouldn’t be so cruel.
“Label me a jinx and repost me?” Mary flashed a brittle smile, then cleared her throat. “What else were they going to do?”
“Anything but that,” Constance snapped, shaking her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Scarlett added, guiding her to an empty chair at the table. “They’re too bloody superstitious. I’m so sorry you lost him.”
“Risks we take falling in love with them, right?” Mary folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead as Scarlett took the seat next to her, Constance on her left.
“Right,” Scarlett muttered.
“Good morning, ladies. Let’s get started,” Section Officer Cartwright announced as she swept into the room with her immaculately pressed uniform. “Take your seats.”
Chairs squeaked across the floor as the women gathered around the conference table. At Middle Wallop, Scarlett would have known most, if not all, of them. But living with Jameson meant she had met only a few of the ladies here at Kirton. There was no more hut gossip, no more flurries of excitement before a dance, no more late-night chats.
She was still part of them, yet oddly separate. She wouldn’t give up Jameson—not for the world—but there was part of her that sorely missed the company of other women.
“Mail,” Cartwright ordered, and a young clerk stood at the head of the conference table, calling names and sliding envelopes down the long, polished expanse.
“Wright.”
Both Constance’s and Scarlett’s attention whipped toward the clerk as a letter came spinning their way.
Stanton, not Wright. Scarlett reminded herself when she saw the letter was addressed to Constance. Not that anyone would be sending her mail, anyway. Her parents still hadn’t deigned to respond when she wrote to them after her marriage, though Constance still received regular missives from their mother.
They never asked after Scarlett.
Constance’s shoulders fell a fraction of an inch as she opened the envelope as quietly as possible. “It’s from Mother.”
Scarlett offered her hand a brief squeeze. “Perhaps there will be one tomorrow.” She knew all too well how it felt to wait for a letter from the man you loved.
Constance nodded, then lowered the envelope beneath the table.
Scarlett adjusted her seat slightly, blocking Constance from Cartwright’s hawklike gaze so she wouldn’t be caught reading during the briefing.
“Now that’s been handled,” Cartwright began. “You should have all read through the new standards provided to you at last week’s briefing. I’m pleased to say that we haven’t had a single WAAF late for her watch since the half-hour policy was enacted. Well done. Are there any questions about last week’s policy changes?”
“Is it true the 71st is to be reposted?” a girl from down the table asked.
Scarlett’s heart stopped. No. Not so soon. Her head spun with every possibility. They hadn’t had enough time yet, and there were only so many favors she could call in to be reposted with Ja
meson—if they were even headed to a station that had an ops center.
Section Officer Cartwright sighed in obvious frustration. “Aircraftwoman Hensley, I hardly see how that has anything to do with last week’s policy change.”
The younger woman blushed. “It would…change where the aircraft originate from on the board?”
There was a collective groan.
“Excellent attempt, but no.” Cartwright glanced down the table, pausing briefly on Scarlett. “While I understand that many of you have formed emotional attachments—against advisement—to members of the Eagle Squadron, I’ll remind you that it is, quite frankly, none of our business where the unit will be sent now that they’re fully operational.”
A dozen forlorn sighs filled the conference room, but Scarlett’s wasn’t one of them. She was too busy conquering the emotional devastation to sigh as though she suffered from nothing but a crush.
“Girls,” Cartwright groaned. “While I could use this as an opportunity to remind you of your responsibility regarding virtuous behavior, I won’t.” And yet with that line, she surely had.
“What I will say is that rumors are rumors. If we believed or got caught up in every piece of maybe that landed in our ears, we’d be halfway to Berlin by now, and I expect you—”
Constance began to hyperventilate at Scarlett’s side, clutching the letter so hard, she expected to see her sister’s nails pop through the paper.
“Constance?” Scarlett whispered, her breath catching at the horror in her sister’s eyes.
Constance’s scream filled the room, the sound tearing through Scarlett’s ribcage and gripping her heart with an icy fist.
Scarlett reached for Constance’s wrist, but the scream had already morphed into a mournful wail, stuttering with gut-wrenching sobs that shook her shoulders.
“Poppet?” she asked quietly, gently turning Constance’s face toward hers. Tears didn’t just streak down her face—they ran in a continuous line, as though her eyes couldn’t be bothered to fill, then empty.
“He’s. Dead.” Constance’s words came between heaving cries. “Edward. Is dead. There was a. Bombing raid—” Her chin sank as the sobs came faster and harder.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 20
