Meet Me in the Garden

by Rosa Sophia

  Chapter 37

  They proved her father wrong as the weeks passed by. Their little house in Jupiter was just what they’d wanted, and even though it was brimming with boxes they still had to unpack, and there were some things in the house that needed fixing—leaky sink, a stubborn toilet with sub-par hardware—they were happy. Happy and exhausted.

  After digging in the back and planting a few flowering shade plants, Amalie stepped out the front door and slumped down on a plastic chair the previous owners had left on the porch. Aside from gardening, she’d been unpacking, putting things away in the kitchen, and she was already tired and it was only noon. Knowing she’d have to devote a good portion of the rest of her day to editing manuscripts, she relaxed, sipped her coffee, and watched as Ian got the mail.

  Since the day they’d met, she’d been able to pick up on his moods and sense when something was wrong; it was because of the past life they’d shared. That was what Roseanne said, anyway.

  Now she watched him as he stood by the mailbox at the end of their short driveway. It was a hot day, but there was a nice breeze, making the leaves of the bird of paradise wave gently.

  Something about Ian caught her eye, the way he stood reading something he’d pulled out of the mailbox. He immediately tore it up and trashed it. There had been several instances during the move she’d seen him this way, but he’d always insisted nothing was wrong. Like her, he had a tendency to hide things.

  As he approached the porch, she leaned forward in her chair.

  “What was in the mailbox, Ian?”

  “Nothing.”

  “A bill?”

  He shook his head.

  She forged on. “Ian, I know something’s wrong, so cut it out and just tell me.” She stood, glaring at him.

  “I don’t want to worry you.”

  “Too late for that.” She finished her coffee and let the empty mug hang from her fingers. “Tell me.”

  He bit his lip, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  And he told her. It was about Artie.

  ***

  The notes kept coming. They were mailed without a return address, and every note said the same thing in different words.

  She belonged to him, he said. Artie insisted she was his soul mate, the one he was destined to be with. Nothing would keep them apart.

  The constant barrages put a strain on Amalie and Ian’s relationship. Lying in bed at night, they barely touched each other, which bothered Amalie on a whole different level. Didn’t this mean Artie was winning somehow? After all, he was succeeding in driving a wedge between them.

  A week later, Ian was tearing up another note. His face flushed, he almost looked as furious as he did on the nights when he’d been drunk and blowing up at Amalie for no reason. This time, he wasn’t drinking. And this time, he had a reason.

  “You told him where we live,” he growled. “There’s not even any evidence on here of who wrote these. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to report him for stalking unless I actually catch him in the act.”

  “Ian, I swear to God, I didn’t tell him! I d-d-don’t know how he knows.” His anger terrified her, of that she was certain. She’d give anything to calm him down, but she didn’t know how to do it.

  She traipsed across the tiled floor of the large kitchen, which overlooked the back yard. Trees hugged the property line, and Amalie stared intently at the flowers she’d planted near the fruit trees as she listened with increasing reluctance to Ian’s shouting.

  “How the fuck did he get our address?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, Ian…h-h-he’s connected, he’s wealthy, somehow he…I don’t fucking know!” She screeched and stomped her feet, digging her fingers into her scalp, wanting to rip her skin off and become a new person.

  Why was it so hard? Why did everything between them have to be so difficult?

  “Goddamn it, Ian, love is supposed to be easy. Why isn’t anything easy with us?”

  “Who said it was easy?” He slammed a cabinet door, retrieving a soda. He’d been drinking a lot of soda since he quit drinking beer. “Who said any of this was supposed to be easy? You’re avoiding the original question, Am. How did this asshole get our address?”

  “I told you, I don’t know!” She leaned against the counter, feeling the cool tile under her fingers. “A-a-and he’s not an asshole, he’s just persis—”

  “Oh, he’s not an asshole? He is to me, he tried to take you away from me. There’s something wrong with this guy, he’s obsessed with you, Am.”

  Wanting to disappear, she left the kitchen and stepped out the back door, slumping onto a wicker chair on the porch. She stared intently at her little garden, while Ian ranted and finally stopped. Silent, he stepped beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry I yelled.” His voice was cold, edged with an eerie calm.

  “It’s okay.” She took his hand, and kissed his knuckles.

  He seemed, for the first time, to notice the work she’d done in the back yard. “Looks pretty, Am.”

  “What?”

  “The garden.” He leaned down and kissed her, but it felt poisonous; she tasted his anger, and it was bitter. Standing, she stepped back inside, grabbed a light jacket and headed for the front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” Guilt assuaged her; she wanted him to know where she was. Pausing, she added, “Roseanne’s house. I need her…her guidance.”

  He said nothing, and she knew it was because he understood. They both turned to her in their times of need. To Ian, she was a close friend, a confidant.

  Amalie knew who she really was. The wise woman from her past, the witch from Ireland whose friendship had helped support her until her untimely death in another life.

  Ian couldn’t see that. But Amalie could. So clearly. Too clearly.

  The same way she saw the Woodsman push her down the stone pathway. The thought chilled her; she’d let him into her life again. Was she destined to repeat her mistakes? Would he have her again—or would she survive this time?

  As she drove down Indiantown Road toward Juno Beach, she thought to herself, dear Goddess, I hope I survive. If there’s anyone who knows how to learn from her mistakes, it’s me.

  Boy, is it ever me.

  Chapter 38

  She’d always kept the wooden box sequestered away in her closet, no matter where she lived. It was a part of her past she’d shut out, but it was coming back to her, riding on the gentle waves of a familiarity she couldn’t ignore. After Roseanne’s urging, Amalie had gone home that evening and straight for her closet. She pulled out the box, unearthing it from beneath bags of old clothes she intended to give away, some computer stuff, and a few loose file folders.

  The box had a broken hinge, and a rusty latch that bent to the side when she lifted the lid. When Aunt Celeste had given it to her, she’d told her Grandma Maggie’s father had crafted it many years ago. He’d used the box for tools until giving it to his daughter, who’d used it from that point on as an altar box. She kept her most precious possessions within it, items Amalie now held in her own hands. She placed the box reverently on the floor, beneath the artificial light of the closet, and lifted a velvety cloth that protected a large crystal ball, a deck of tarot cards wrapped in ancient lace, some half-burnt candles, and a number of other small items.

  There were a few plastic charms that seemed to mean nothing, but Amalie set them aside with great tenderness—a tiny beige cowboy hat, a gold star with the paint flaking off, a copper pendulum. The charms, she knew, were from Aunt Celeste’s childhood, and the copper pendulum had been well-used by her aunt until she’d switched to a crystal one instead.

  Amalie dragged the box out into the bedroom she shared with Ian. No more did they have separate rooms; they slept together in a queen size bed. Very often, she tugged her body against his, feeling his warmth in the chill of the night. Their room—even now, it was strange to her.

  Ther
e was one item in the room that stood empty, between two bookcases filled with old tomes she’d collected over the years. The white hutch would be her altar.

  “What you need to do is get back in touch with who ya are,” Roseanne had urged.

  The visions swarmed in her head, and she knew what she had to do. Deep inside, she was still the witch from Ireland, and she would embrace her roots. Thinking of her grandmother, Maggie, Amalie carefully placed each item on the altar, over a smooth piece of lace. In the middle she set a white candle. And before that, she lay the prayer beads her grandmother had once used to pay homage to Hekate. Then she sat, crossing her legs, and bowed her head.

  She left the darkness behind her. And she moved on.

  ***

  He should’ve known something was amiss; it was with an odd clarity he realized she’d never given him her phone number. They just knew when to meet each other, and they never failed to show up, as though their passionate plans were carefully synchronized.

  Artie walked slowly beside Crazy Trey, the old bearded man who lived on a houseboat. They’d met one day at the store, and Trey shared stories of his psychotic ex-wife, showing off the scar on his shoulder where she’d stabbed him with a bread knife. Trey was what Artie liked to call a South Florida Special: skin so tanned it was almost brown, with wrinkled flesh that drooped off his skinny body. He had a long silver ponytail to match his scraggly beard, and walked with a slight limp, wearing an old tattered t-shirt displaying a faded American flag. He loved Humphrey, the golden retriever that went everywhere with Artie unless he was going for a run.

  He wished he’d been able to introduce Humphrey to Amalie, but she’d never gone out on his boat with him.

  Soon. I can get her back, I know I can.

  They stood on a little bridge, and Crazy Trey scratched at the back of his neck.

  “Ya means ta tell me, ya never got the girl’s number?” When his mouth moved, it betrayed the fact he had few teeth left.

  “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it’s like we never needed it. We were just, I don’t know, magnetized to each other. She came to me, said she just…needed me. And I believed her.”

  “She don’t need ya.”

  “She does.” He hated the way Trey shrugged off the weight of his words. He didn’t understand. How could anyone comprehend how much he loved her? There weren’t words enough, there wasn’t time enough to show it.

  But somehow he would prove it. He would find a way.

  “I don’ know, man.” Trey walked slowly along the sidewalk, Humphrey sniffing at his heels while Artie held tight to the leash. “Sounds a little weird ya had somebody look up ’er address, ’n take those notes to ’er. Don’t ya think you oughta just let it go?”

  “I can’t. I have to keep trying.”

  Crazy Trey eyed him with something bordering on pity.

  “I gotta go back to the boat. You want me to tow you?” Artie was sick of this conversation, but he wouldn’t leave the old man stranded. The motor on Trey’s dinghy had died, so he thought he’d offer him a tug back to his houseboat.

  Trey shrugged. “Nah. I need the exercise.” He squeezed what was left of his bicep, as if to make sure it was still there. “Take care a’ yerself, Artie, don’t let this girl take over yer head. I been there, it can mess ya up.”

  Artie nodded by way of a response, then he and Humphrey headed back to the dinghy. He hated to agree with a single thing Trey said; they called him Crazy for a reason, after all. But something in those last words he’d spoken made sense.

  He prayed to God Amalie wasn’t pushing him over the edge.

  ***

  Several weeks passed, and there was nothing in the mailbox but bills and junk mail.

  Amalie opened the box and peeked inside. A small, white, almost translucent tree frog was sitting on top of the mail, peering up at her, its throat pulsing gently.

  “Ah, hello there.” She giggled. “I see Roseanne sent some of her friends to look after me.” Amalie tugged the mail out of the box, causing the frog to jump up, affixing itself to the side of the box in the shadows. “Oh, jeez. You didn’t sort out the junk mail.”

  “Who’re you talking to?” Ian strolled up; he’d just arrived home from work, clad in a pristine button-up shirt and tan slacks. He kissed Amalie on the cheek as she glanced through the mail, and the two of them slowly walked back up the driveway.

  “Oh, you know, tree frogs.” She paused, tugging a coupon out of the pile of junk. “Oh, look, a coupon for pizza! Want pizza tonight?”

  “That’s the woman I love. Acting like talking to frogs is no big deal.”

  “It isn’t,” she insisted as he tugged her close. “Someone ought to talk to them.”

  “And I suppose it has to be you, eh?” He nipped her gently on the earlobe, and she gasped.

  “Yes, yes, it has to be me.” She pulled back and looked him in the eyes, grinning. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me too. Let’s go order pizza.” He snatched the coupon out of her hand, and they hurried to the front door. “I see the mail looks tame enough.”

  She caught the underlying meaning. “No notes, nothing.”

  “It’s been three weeks. The fucker’s lucky.”

  His tone made her turn, apprehension seizing her as she dropped the junk mail into the trash. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I would’ve either found him and messed him up myself, or reported him to the police. He’s been stalking you.”

  “Clearly he’s not stalking me now, Ian,” Amalie retorted, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. She wasn’t sure if she was angry at herself, or Ian. She found herself wanting to defend Artie; he hadn’t really done anything wrong, but Ian would beg otherwise. He’d driven them apart, nearly broken them up. That was enough to make him furious. It wasn’t something a real man would do, he said. It was cowardly, stealing another man’s woman.

  Amalie washed the dishes in silence, occasionally glancing up at the little garden she’d built in the back, which was quickly flourishing. She enjoyed sitting out there, watching the butterflies swoop down over the blooms. She’d even seem hummingbirds, so now she was planting flowers to attract them. They hovered in front of the windows sometimes, and she’d freeze and watch them, worried that even the slightest movement might scare them away.

  Something about the garden comforted her, and when she thought back to her visions, she realized why. Somewhere in a garden, somewhere far away, a long time ago, was where she’d once kissed Ian.

  Ian Gardner. Her body thrummed with suddenly realization. Even his name was a testament to the past, a clue meant to tug her toward the truth.

  The visions kept their hold on her and wouldn’t let go.

  After they ate their dinner and went to bed, they made love and Amalie fell asleep cuddled against him. But she dreamt of dark things. She dreamt of the Woodsman.

  When she woke up, the truth set in. She’d known it, but she hadn’t faced it. Artie McLaren was the Woodsman.

  He’d killed her once. Would he do it again?

  Chapter 39

  Ian paced across the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “Goddamn it, Mike, you mean there’s nothing we can do?” He pulled the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker so Amalie could listen.

  “No, man.” Mike’s voice was tinny as it echoed across the small house. “You said she hasn’t gotten a note in three weeks, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” Ian sounded terse, agitated, as he spoke through gritted teeth.

  “So, what are you worried about? Look, there’s nothing I can do. As a police officer, I can’t run around arresting people based on your suspicions. I can’t just pick this dude up. I’m not going to investigate him when you’ve got nothing to go on.”

  Ian turned, watching Amalie lean against the doorframe. Behind her, the light of the day streamed in through the wide kitchen windows, making dust motes sparkle. Her arms were crossed f
irmly over her chest and her jaw clenched tight; he could tell she longed to defend Artie, but he couldn’t figure out why.

  “I only have two days left of my vacation,” he muttered, resigned. He met Amalie’s gaze before she bit at her bottom lip, uncrossed her arms, and went to the sink to get a drink of water. “I don’t want to leave her alone, knowing this guy knows where we live.”

  “He won’t do anything, Ian,” she retorted from the kitchen, but she didn’t sound convincing. Her tone was edged with a disbelief he couldn’t ignore; even she distrusted Artie, she just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Ian. Man. Calm the fuck down.” Mike sounded persistent, calm; he was a close friend of Ian’s, and he’d been a cop for a long time. He knew how people could overreact, worry too much. Even he did it sometimes. Ian slumped against the soft blue armchair that had once sat in Amalie’s little apartment in North Palm Beach.

  “I’m trying,” he said, knowing it was true. He was trying. But he loved Amalie so much, and he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her.

  When he hung up the phone, he went to where she stood in the kitchen and slipped his arms around her waist.

  “Ian, please just forget this whole thing. You can’t get the cops after him, not when there’s no proof.”

  “I guess you’re right, pumpkin. I just—”

  She turned in his arms, kissing him, running her hands over the stubble on his chin. “You’re just the sweetest, most attentive man I know. I feel so safe with you.” She smirked. “But you gotta go back to work sometime. I’m on remote assignments for a couple weeks, they won’t need me at the office for a little while. I’ll be fine here, the doors have locks. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

  He nipped at her neck, and she gasped. “Let’s stay here, just relax. The house is all cleaned up, everything’s unpacked. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company.” He backed up a step, looking deep into her eyes. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning, we’ll have lunch in the back. It’ll be great.”