The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  “Poor Mum,” said Alan. “Seems like she loved her after all. In a very particular way.”

  “Yes,” said Franca. “That she did.”

  Alan gave her hand a squeeze. “What will you do next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, just that. Are you going to stay here for a while longer?”

  “A week or two more. I wouldn’t like to just pick up and go now and leave Beatrice all alone. She has to get used to a new life. That’s no small matter at her age.”

  “To me she seems like an old woman whose husband has died,” Alan said. “The marriage was unhappy and nerve-racking, and for a long time all that was left of it was just frustration. But over the course of their lives they’d grown on one another regardless, and now she feels like an amputee. There’s simply a part of her that’s missing, whether she liked that part or not. In a way she’s become a widow.”

  “She’ll have to face her feelings,” said Franca, “she’ll have to face up to her hatred, her love, her dependence, her aggression, and her pain. She won’t be spared from having to be completely honest with herself. And that way she’ll work through it and be able to set herself up in her new life.”

  He looked at her. She felt that his gaze was very loving.

  “You know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know, yes. I know rather exactly.”

  “When will you go back to Germany?”

  “When I feel like I can leave Beatrice alone. I have to take care of my divorce. Clear up my financial claims. I have to look for my own apartment. I …” She raised her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I also have to think about what my new life is supposed to look like.”

  He thought for a moment. “Get the divorce filed. Clear up what you’ve got to clear up. But before you look for an apartment, a job, and whatever else — come visit me in London. I’d be thrilled.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “I’m to come visit you in London?”

  “At least take a look around London. Give us both a chance to get to know each other. No obligation. We’ve both been through a lot. We’re going to need time. But we shouldn’t lose sight of one another.”

  “I think I can do that,” said Franca. She sounded hesitant. “I think I can come to London.”

  “Is that a promise?” Alan asked.

  “It’s a promise,” said Franca.

  EPILOGUE

  The barman at Le Nautique in St. Peter Port approached the table by the window where the two old women were sitting.

  “Two sherries, same as always?” he asked.

  “Two sherries, same as always,” answered Beatrice. “And two salads. Avocado with orange.”

  “Gladly. Coming right up!” He smiled. “Unbelievable, don’t you think? It’s almost a year since we were talking about the stolen ships. What was the name of that yacht again, the one they’d just stolen back then? She had such a strange name …”

  “Heaven Can Wait …,” said Beatrice. “That was the name.”

  “Right. Heaven Can Wait. My God, and now your son’s brought the whole gang in!”

  “That’s stretching things a bit, to put it that way. But he did have the right instincts at the right time.”

  “Tragic, Mr. Hammond’s death! Who would have thought that such terrible things could happen on this peaceful little island of ours?”

  “They can happen anywhere. That’s just how it is.”

  “Yes, yes,” the barman sighed. The truth was that he had enjoyed the commotion stirred up by the many thefts and the two murders. A proper drama was always good for business. People sat together and talked their heads off, they drank twice as much as usual without even noticing. It had been perfectly alright with him.

  He hurried off to put the two ladies’ orders in. Mae said, “I don’t like him much. He’s so fond of a scandal.”

  She herself had been visibly shaken by the events. Two people, each of whom she had cherished, each of whom had been a part of her life, had both within a short span of time lost their lives in violent fashion. Somehow it seemed to her that she still couldn’t really come to grips with it. It was all so unreal and horrible to her. She wished she could suddenly wake up and find out that she’d been trapped in a bad dream that had nothing to do with reality.

  “Most people love sensation,” said Beatrice. “He’s no exception. Helene and Kevin’s deaths have provided fodder for conversation all over the island for weeks. People are captivated.”

  Mae sighed. As usual she and Beatrice didn’t have much to talk about, even though Mae had set up their evening together saying that they would finally be able to really chat again.

  The sherry arrived, as usual in tall champagne flutes, and they clinked their glasses in a toast.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drink to Maya,” Mae said shyly. “To her hopefully finally getting it together finally!”

  “You’re all very lucky that they gave her a training position at the Chalet hotel,” said Beatrice. “After all, she’s got no diploma. And a more than bad reputation on top of that.”

  Mae pressed her lips together. In all these years she had still not grown accustomed to Beatrice’s unadorned way of getting right to the point. “Maya has really started to change,” she defended her granddaughter. “When her relationship with Alan ended for good, it really shocked her. I think she really wants to make something of her life now.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll pull it off. At least you’ll have a few less worries, and for you that’s certainly something to wish for.” Beatrice wasn’t able to speak well of Maya. She couldn’t forgive her for being guilty of driving Alan into a deep life crisis.

  Mae saw that it would be wise to change the subject. “Do you think Franca will really go through with her divorce?” she asked, a bit of doubt in her voice. “I’m afraid that her husband’s going to pester her for so long that she’ll go back on her plans and get roped into giving it another try with him.”

  “I don’t think she’ll do that,” said Beatrice.

  She’d said goodbye to Franca the day before. “She seemed extraordinarily sure.”

  Mae could not contain her curiosity. “And what about Alan? Will the two of them be seeing each other again? The other day you hinted that …”

  “That they both like each other a lot? Yes, that they do. Franca is going to visit Alan in London when she’s set everything in motion with her divorce in Berlin. And then we’ll see.”

  “Can things go well between two people who are so unstable?” Mae asked.

  “I don’t think they’re unstable,” said Beatrice. “But they’ve both been through very hard times. They’ll get a handle on things, I’m sure of it.”

  “Mm …,” said Mae, and then they both were silent once more and looked outside, where a warm June day was changing over, barely perceptibly, into a bright, long night. The masts of the sailboats soared up into a light blue sky. Most of the people strolling along the promenade were eating ice cream. A British flag waved from the battlements of Castle Cornet.

  The barman brought the two salads. And at the same time placed a vase on the table. “Your table hasn’t got any flowers,” he said. “That just won’t do of course!”

  In the vase was a dark red rose. Beatrice touched the velvety petals with the tips of her fingers. How nice the rose felt, she thought, how beautiful it looked.

  She waited for the feeling that inevitably set in whenever she saw a rose. The feeling of having had her life cheated from her. The feeling that she hadn’t had any other choices.

  After a few seconds she realized that it wasn’t coming this time. It stayed at her thinking that the rose was beautiful. At her enjoying the act of rubbing the soft petals very gently between her fingers. At her desire to breathe in
its perfume.

  This is new, she thought in amazement.

  “You’re looking at that rose like you’d never seen one before,” Mae remarked. “When really you’ve been sitting on the source for years!”

  “In some ways,” said Beatrice thoughtfully, “I haven’t actually ever seen a rose before. Not with the eyes that I see it with today.”

  Mae thought of what her friend could mean, but nothing occurred to her. She told herself that Beatrice was just getting odder and odder as she got older.

  “Have you heard anything more from Julien?” she asked.

  “No,” said Beatrice. “Of course not. He can’t well risk being seen. Not for a long time.”

  “Could you have imagined that he had gotten mixed up with criminals?” Mae asked.

  “Oh,” said Beatrice, “with Julien I could always imagine just about anything, really.”

  “Hmm,” said Mae. She watched Beatrice thoughtfully.

  “So, how are you now?” She asked. “So all alone in that house, I mean. Without Helene.”

  “I miss her,” said Beatrice.

  Mae stared at her. “You do?”

  “Yes.” Beatrice looked past her, out at the harbor. Something had changed. She had made her peace. Late in her life, but still — at long last, she had made her peace with the roses.

  And with Helene.

  “Come on,” she said to Mae. “Let’s pay the check and go home. I’m tired.”

  “Alright then,” said Mae.