Sky Garden

by Jenny Schwartz

  “Coming after you isn’t worth the risk to him. At the moment, we, the police, have nothing on him. We can’t name him. But if he comes to you, then the chance of tying things back to him increases significantly. He’s smart enough to know that. Clever enough to know when to cut his losses. Purvis was an amusement for him. That’s gone and this fellow has moved on.”

  Lanie shuddered.

  “And you’re moving on, too,” Marshall continued relentlessly. “You’re young and resilient, and you don’t want to waste your life hiding. If you’re asking me if it’s safe for you to step out, I’m saying to do it. You’re in more danger of being hit by a car than by this fellow. Don’t make him the monster in the cupboard. He is a monster, but he isn’t in control of your life. You are.”

  “Victim counselling?” she asked with a shaky smile. Her family had insisted on it: their price for giving her the space she’d requested. She’d had three months of counselling and found a way to move on—or thought she had. Perhaps her quest to find the serial killer’s instigator wasn’t much more healthy than ignoring the whole situation by burying it.

  “Common sense. You defeated one monster, Lanie. Don’t let this one scare you away from living.” Marshall went slowly downstairs, down his own outside staircase.

  She watched his gray cap vanish, and was alone.

  The wind was picking up, promising a storm. She’d ridden out more than one storm in her tiny flat. Square and ugly it might be, but it was solid. When she went inside, she could shut out the world—if she wanted to.

  For months, she had. Now, Nick tempted her to open the door, to move on, as Marshall had said.

  Not that she’d ever excelled in romantic relationships, so fate was being particularly mischievous if this was her prompt to get on with the business of living. She laughed, rueful and amused. Everyone had disasters in their romantic history, although her first serious boyfriend probably took the prize.

  Heath had been a dental student, fascinated with the theatre and her act. At least, she’d thought he was fascinated with the act. Too late, she’d discovered that he believed her mediumship to be real. After a while he’d asked her to channel historical figures while they made love. In effect, he’d wanted to sleep with other women, dead women, while sleeping with her. Ugh.

  She’d learned since then. Maybe it had made her a bit cautious whom she loved. She’d chosen safe men.

  Nick wasn’t safe. He wasn’t cruel or duplicitous, but he wasn’t tame, either.

  Could she handle a long distance relationship?

  She laughed, half-embarrassed at how far ahead of herself she was getting. All she and Nick were doing was flirting.

  But flirting felt wonderful. It felt free.

  Looking out across the rooftops, Lanie reached a decision. She’d celebrate the approach of summer by letting some joy into her life. If Nick was willing to flirt, she was willing to play. She could still search for a monster. It wasn’t as if Nick spent much time in England.

  Chapter 7

  Lanie would never have imagined it two months ago, but here she was at the end of the day, the museum empty of visitors—although they were still officially open for another forty minutes—and her up a ladder in the hall with Nick holding it for her. Filming had finished for the day after a three day marathon, and the last of the gardeners and television crew had departed. Now, Lanie had to detach a twig of pine from the hall chandelier. The hoist on the outside staircase might have worked to haul up building materials and soil, but plants had to be carried up in the elevator.

  Velma had folded up the dust cloths and departed with them, returning them to their retirement in her husband’s shed. Only belatedly had Lanie noticed the greenery attached to the chandelier. She had no idea how it had ended up there. None of the plants had been over six foot. But apparently that was the way of roof gardens: mysteries happened. At least none of the delicate crystals on the chandelier appeared broken.

  She unhooked the twig.

  “Pity it’s not mistletoe.” Nick smiled up at her.

  “Oh?” Flirting, they were definitely flirting.

  He looked tired but happy. He’d worked as hard physically as anyone else, and then, on top of that, he’d had to stand in front of the camera.

  The program’s television audience would love him. His white cotton shirt stretched over his shoulders and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing beautifully muscled and tanned forearms. Just looking at his work-scarred hands sent an exciting thrill through her.

  “I guess a garden expert like you wouldn’t ever mistake pine for mistletoe?”

  “You’d be surprised what mistakes a man can make.” His dark eyes were brilliant with laughter and intent.

  Lanie descended the ladder, pausing two rungs from the ground, where she could still look down at him. “Do you think it’s mistletoe?” She twisted around, holding up the twig for inspection.

  It had been a wonderful three days full of laughter and fun. She was super-glad, now, that Mrs. Smith had over-ruled her misgivings and given the roof garden the go-ahead. Lanie smiled at Nick, who was at the heart of her happiness.

  He abandoned the ladder and put two hands at her waist.

  The front door opened and the chime announcing a visitor beeped.

  Instinctively, they both looked, and then, Lanie felt the sudden withdrawal of Nick’s hold. Uncertain, she descended the last two steps and faced the visitor. It was late enough in the day that she felt entitled to politely ease him out.

  But before she got her mouth open, their visitor spoke. “Nick.”

  “Dad.”

  Lanie stared. This was Nick’s father?

  The man was tall and there was a resemblance to Nick in the prominent nose and jawline, but he was of a heavier build with a rounder face. His gray hair was cut short, so if it curled like Nick’s black hair, the curl had been tamed. But the eyes were the same, dark and reserved.

  “Lanie, this is my father, Richard Tawes. Dad, Lanie Briers, the museum’s curator.”

  Richard advanced.

  Lanie held out her hand and had it firmly shaken.

  In fact, he held her hand a moment longer than politeness dictated; not in a creepy way. He seemed to hold her in place while his gaze searched her face. “Good evening, Lanie.” Then he released her hand and faced his son. “You look happy.”

  A minute ago, the statement would have been true, but Nick had closed down. He wore his most remote expression, his mouth a straight line. Yet the very lack of expression revealed so much.

  Lanie’s breath caught. What on earth was going on that Nick’s dad could sound surprised to see him happy?

  Richard had left the front door open, and the busy sound of evening traffic and pedestrians sounded loud. Perhaps only by contrast to the silence that gripped the hall.

  “What do you want, Dad?”

  “A museum is an unlikely place to find you, Nick. You always seemed to reject the past.”

  “This is a job.”

  Richard’s speculative gaze flicked to Lanie, and stayed. “A job.”

  She flushed despite his neutral tone. “Nick’s designing a roof garden for the museum. Would you like to see it?”

  Nick moved once, sharply.

  “Another time.” Richard stared at her a moment longer, then nodded, more at some thought of his own than at her. He addressed Nick. “Chloe’s not well.” The stark statement held pain, tightly controlled.

  Nick folded the ladder. “She didn’t mention anything.”

  Chloe? Lanie frowned, uncertain as to why the name rang a bell, and puzzled by Nick’s response that was just a fraction shy of disrespecting Richard’s evident worry.

  Mrs. Smith’s voice sounded in her memory. “Nick’s stepma. A lovely lady.”

  Ooh boy. There really was nothing as complicated as family. Time for Lanie to retreat. She reached to take the ladder from Nick.

  He held onto it, his attention on his father. “Is Chloe in town with yo
u?”

  “At Waterhill. Nick, please, come home. Just for a day. Chloe would like to see you.”

  The tension between father and son was more suited to a family court than the museum’s hall. Anger and sorrow and the ruin of what might have been seemed to hang in the air.

  Lanie’s skin goose-pimpled at the intense emotion. She had no place in the middle of it. Yet as much as she wanted to retreat with the ladder—putting it away would be a great excuse to leave the scene—Nick wasn’t releasing it any time soon. His knuckles were white as he held it. Lanie decided to escape without excuse or apology. She back-stepped towards the library door.

  “I’ll come to Waterhill on Saturday,” Nick conceded

  “Thank you.” Richard’s shoulders relaxed. “Don’t tell Chloe I called on you.”

  “I won’t.” Dismissive, final; as if his father should have known he wouldn’t mention it. “How did you know to find me, here?”

  “I asked Nelson.”

  “You could have simply phoned me or emailed me, like Chloe does.”

  Lanie was nearly at the library door.

  “I wanted to be sure you’d come.” Richard looked beyond his son, and found Lanie. “Lanie, please come with him.”

  She jolted.

  Nick released the ladder, taking one step towards Richard and placing himself between them. “Why, Dad?”

  “You looked happy.” A heartbreakingly simple answer. Also, a non-answer. “Your Singaporean girlfriend, the German one, Chloe didn’t like any of them. She didn’t believe…she wants to see you happy. Lanie looks ordinary, a real woman; not a model or a career shark.”

  A dubious compliment. Lanie glanced down at her green t-shirt and jeans, crumpled and smudged with dirt after the busy day. She probably had dirt smudged on her face, too. She might have become a tad too enthusiastic about planting out the roof garden.

  “Bring Lanie,” Richard ordered. “Maybe, then, Chloe will stop worrying about you.”

  “She has no reason to worry about me.” Nick’s hands clenched.

  “So bring Lanie and show her that.”

  “Leave Lanie out of this.”

  “You didn’t come home for Christmas.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Give Chloe some peace of mind. You know she blames herself.”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  Richard’s very lack of reaction underlined his tension. This was an old argument, an ancient unhealed issue. One that still hurt. He abandoned his son and focused on Lanie as she stood in the library doorway, one crucial step away from vanishing from sight. “You’ll like Waterhill. Old place. Casual dress. Come for lunch. We’ll expect you.” He spun on his heel and marched out.

  Nick didn’t swear, throw the ladder or storm over and lock the door. He stared at its closed, blank panels. “You don’t have to come to lunch,” he said in a monotone.

  “Where is Waterhill?” She couldn’t help her curiosity, and of every possible response, it was perhaps the safest.

  “Dad’s estate in Hampshire. The house is a bloody gorgeous Tudor pile.” He looked at her. “I hate it.”

  Or his dad, or whatever. Hate and love, they could be difficult to tell apart sometimes.

  She hesitated. She’d had time to recall her gossip with Mrs. Smith, who’d said that Chloe was a paraplegic. She hadn’t said if Chloe had other, serious health issues, and it seemed she did. Richard hadn’t sought out Nick on a whim. The man was gravely worried about his wife’s health.

  And it seemed Nick was, too. Whatever kept him away from England and his family, he’d committed to going to Waterhill. “If you do come, you don’t have to pretend to be my girlfriend.” He lifted the ladder, swinging it around and tucking it under one arm.

  For an instant, his actions distracted Lanie. The ladder was heavy. She’d carried it often enough herself to know. With her, moving it was grit-her-teeth-and-struggle time. Momentarily, she envied him his strength.

  “Chloe worries that—never mind.” He started down the hall for the kitchen and the storeroom off it where the ladder lived.

  Lanie locked the front door and trailed him slowly.

  Far from being alone, Nick’s homelessness was self-selected. “A bloody gorgeous Tudor pile” hadn’t been the background she’d have guessed for him. Nor was his father. Richard’s accent was different to Nick’s, posher, lacking the undertone of other places.

  And Richard was more astute about people than Nick, or more willing to manipulate them.

  She believed he’d been honestly shocked by Nick’s light-heartedness, but Richard had swiftly moved to use what he saw as the cause: her. Lanie couldn’t believe that she’d reassure any upper class woman intent on seeing her son, or stepson, marry well. Unless Richard was less astute than she imagined and he’d assumed that she was one of those women, daughters of privilege, who were given imaginary jobs to keep them amused.

  Huh. Curator of the Horry Museum was full-time hard work. She loved it, but it was no sinecure.

  Or was Richard’s aim simpler and more basic: adding another woman to the weekend party might enable conversation to flow. She doubted that happened easily when it was just him and Nick.

  “Lanie?” Nick stood at the kitchen door, holding it open even as he juggled the ladder.

  “Sorry, I was dreaming.” She added an apologetic smile. “I should have got that for you.” She hurried past him and across the kitchen to the storeroom, holding its door wide. The kitchen sink held empty mugs from when they’d all sat and had a late afternoon cuppa before a final burst of work and filming. She’d have to wash, dry and put them away before the museum opened, tomorrow. So much for her glamorous life.

  Which led back to Richard’s invitation.

  She wanted to go with Nick to what had to be his family estate. She’d never been to one before—at least, not unless she was a paying visitor gawking at the lives of the rich and famous of centuries ago. Plus there was her fascination with Nick, himself, and the sudden revelation of fraught family ties. How much did they contribute to the puzzle of his wandering lifestyle?

  But the light flirtation they’d been indulging in wasn’t ready to bear the weight of family. Certainly, she continued to keep her own noisy, curious and loving family at bay.

  She stilled a shudder before it worked its way fully down her spine. Of course, her reasons were crueler than any Nick might have for his isolation. Her serial killer’s voyeur remained at large. Despite Marshall’s advice to move on, she still tracked the political sites for hints of the monster’s presence. Sometimes, in the middle of a crowd, she’d wonder if she was watched.

  If she accepted Richard’s invitation, she wouldn’t be an onlooker at life. She’d step into the heart of a family drama, and she’d do so blind. She doubted Nick would uncharacteristically bare his soul and explain everything.

  She snorted at the thought, and turned it into an unconvincing cough.

  Nick edged the ladder and himself through the storeroom’s low and narrow doorway, barely brushing against her. He smelled good, of a day working in the sunshine. He put the ladder down against a wall and returned to her. “You probably have other plans for Saturday.”

  “No, I…” To go, or not to go. Would he find her impossibly intrusive if she agreed?

  He waited, body language open, no folded arms or compressed mouth. He mightn’t be the most expressive of people, but he was quite capable of cancelling his dad’s invitation if he didn’t want her at Waterhill.

  Which meant the decision was hers.

  Instinctively, she shied from intruding, and yet…Richard hadn’t issued the invitation lightly. Nor had he chased down his son on a whim. The unknown Chloe needed reassurance. Lanie knew what that was like, needing to feel safe and to know that those you loved were safe. Perhaps this was a time when the kindness people had shown her, needed to be passed on.

  After holding herself apart from life for so long, did she want to be wrenched into the heart
of a family drama? Was Nick worth the risk?

  He frowned down at her, wearing an impatient scowl of bad temper and old hurts.

  Really, there was only one possible answer. “What time will you pick me up?”

  His smile was slow and real, stunningly gorgeous. “Ten o’clock?”

  “All right.”

  They stared at one another, while her pulse beat thunderously loud in her ears. Lanie realized they were both aware that their relationship had just vaulted several stages. They’d been dancing around it, neither admitting that their conversations, in person and email, went beyond that of work colleagues, but now his dad had forced the issue. From flirtation that afternoon, they were suddenly in serious territory.

  And I didn’t run, Lanie congratulated herself. She had taken a chance, a huge leap into the unknown. Her stomach somersaulted and steadied.

  Nick clasped her hand. “Let’s go look at the garden.”

  The elevator felt tiny, but this time Nick didn’t care. It wasn’t his claustrophobia that he concentrated on, but Lanie.

  His dad was often wrong, but never more than when he’d described Lanie as “ordinary”.

  She was extraordinary, a self-contained person who yet drew people to her. The Horry Museum might be a bit different than other such institutions, but it was still a lot of work to run, and Lanie made it seem effortless. In particular, he noticed her way with people. The commitment of the museum’s volunteers was proof of that, but she even managed Nelson—and no one usually achieved that. Nelson liked to be the one in charge.

  She listened and she influenced and she quietly got her way. Yet he’d bet that most people thought they’d reached their decisions and acted on their own. She was subtle.

  He found her magical.

  With her standing shoulder to shoulder in the small space, their hands still clasped, and the elevator smelling of the dirt and plants that had been carried in it, he was happy. Although he made a mental note to grab a broom and sweep out the elevator.

  Its doors rattled reluctantly open at the roof.