The Garden House
Page 3
As they strolled back to William’s car, Miranda felt suddenly very happy. “It will be nice to have someone enjoying the garden house and garden. They don’t get much attention anymore – not like they used to.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy them both.” William extended his hand. “On Saturday, then. Around 10:00?”
“That’ll be fine.” She shook his hand and watched him get into his car and drive away. Then she went back down to close up the garden house and pick her bouquet, her spirits strangely lifted.
*
Miranda arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early and found a seat by the wall of windows. She ordered a glass of wine, and began to make a list of things to get done: organize the drawers and cupboards, clean out the garage, go through the closets – including her own. It had taken her half an hour to find something to wear for tonight. She had wanted to change her look a bit, but everything she tried on was too tight. So she had settled on the usual black skirt and her favorite blue sweater. But she wore her hair loose for a change, and put on a brighter shade of lipstick.
She brought her hand to one of her earrings, the lapis lazuli drops Clara gave her for her birthday, and remembered her comment: “You should dress up more often, Mom.”
Clara was right. She needed updating. There were things in her closet she hadn’t worn in over twenty years. She needed to get rid of things, start fresh. Though there were some pieces she just couldn’t part with. Clothes that reminded her of her younger days, when all her life was before her.
She gazed out the window, remembering how she used to dress in velvets and satins, Victorian jewelry and long 1920s necklaces, vintage blouses and dresses. Everything Bohemian and dramatic, though it hadn’t seemed so at the time.
She used to ride her bike to school in long skirts, dress up to visit galleries, and work at her various part-time jobs wearing clothes from vintage stores, consignment shops, and import stores – many of the shops located in the Pike Place Market. She remembered the thrill of adventure when she escaped her department store job and explored the Market over her lunch hour. Running down the stairs in Post Alley, and then wandering through the maze of stores, delighting in the Tibetan beads, the Moroccan vases, the antique lace collars, the incense and oils from far away. More often than not, the adventure ended with the purchase of a few pieces of rose-flavored Turkish Delight – the pale-pink, translucent candy dusted in powdered sugar came to symbolize the promise of future travel.
Miranda gave a deep sigh. Youth should be a time of hope and promise. She saw that in the kids now, especially in Clara. For the past several years, Clara’s dreams had also been her dreams. She had convinced Clara to take two weeks in the summer to travel, before settling into her classes in the fall; and it was as if a part of her was making the trip as well.
Miranda looked down at her bullet points – cleaning out closets and drawers? That is one boring list, she thought, wadding it up.
Some part of her sat up and wondered why middle age, or any age for that matter, shouldn’t also be a time of hope and promise. Why should youth be the only time of discovery? Why was that early dreaming self at odds with her current sense of self? She remembered the feeling of being all fired up by starting a new painting, whether it was a medieval miniature or a whimsical landscape, or experimenting with silk-screening, or learning how to use a potter’s wheel.
But without the dreams that accompanied youth, such pursuits now seemed like dead ends. Some vital connection was gone. Her garden, her home, her kids – that was her life. And those things had filled her, until recently. Had it been turning fifty? Or the fact that the kids had left home and moved away? Did she even have a purpose in life anymore?
She saw Ben enter the restaurant, and a feeling of happiness washed over her. His presence often served as ballast to her wandering thoughts that sometimes carried her too far away.
As he approached the table, she arched her eyebrows.
“I know, I know,” he said, kissing her cheek and sitting next to her. “William called to say he was in town early and asked if he could stop by to see the place. I had the phone in my hand to call you, but I got interrupted, and then I was pulled into a meeting, and then – ” He threw his hands up. “I didn’t remember until I was almost here.”
“A phone call would have been nice. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he appeared at the garden house.”
Ben playfully nudged her, letting her know that he didn’t buy her annoyance with him.
She leaned into him, and handed him a glass of wine. “I ordered it for you.”
He took a sip, and let his gaze linger on Miranda. “You look great, Honey. What’d you do?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said, though she was happy he noticed.
Ben took the menu she handed him, and opened it. “So, what did you think of Mr. William Priestly?”
Miranda gave a light shrug. “He seems like a nice guy. Quiet. I think he’ll be a good tenant. He’s young, Ben. I thought you said he was old.”
“No, I said he was around thirty.”
“No, you said he’d been teaching for thirty years.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. I expected a much older man. I had no idea who he was at first.”
“Well, what do you think? Are you okay with having him as a tenant for the summer? Or do you want to set up your studio? Because I thought about it, and maybe it’s time to make those changes. Put up that wall, if you want. Make the window bigger.”
Miranda took a sip of wine and looked away. “I’m not quite ready yet for the studio. Fall will be soon enough.”
They ordered their meals, and then she began to butter a piece of bread. “I’m actually kind of glad that the garden house will be used. It’s such a pretty place. And William really seemed to appreciate the garden.”
“Then he’ll be the perfect tenant,” laughed Ben. His phone rang and he frowned at the name. “Sorry, Honey. It’s the Difficult client,” he said, stepping away to take the call.
Miranda held the wine glass in her hand and gazed out the window. The sun was lowering in the west. A pair of Canadian geese glided onto the water, making long golden ripples that widened into dark lines flecked with shimmery pink and orange. I could paint that, she thought. Just the water. If only I could capture that ephemeral beauty, those fleeting shades of color and light.
Ben sat back down, shaking his head. “Now she wants the sunroom where the kitchen is, and she wants the kitchen – Oh, well. No need to talk about work now.” He clasped Miranda’s hand.
His warm hand brought her back into the moment. She gazed into his smiling eyes, and impulsively brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “You make me happy, Ben.”
He gave a start of mock surprise. “Is that the wine talking?”
She laughed. “Maybe it is. But you do make me happy. You always have.”
Ben’s face filled with pleasure and he squeezed her hand. “I hope so.”
Chapter 3
One week later, Miranda had cleaned out several closets, the kitchen drawers and a few cupboards, and was now tackling the boxes in the garage. She filled a crate with some of her old pieces, torn between throwing them away and letting Paula look through them; but she had promised her. At worst they would gather dust in Paula’s shops.
Miranda now had several bags of things to be donated, and a separate pile to be tossed. She placed four large shopping bags in the back of the car, and headed to the Salvation Army store.
As she drove, she realized that having a tenant didn’t make a difference in her life at all. But then, why should it? Yet she was somewhat disappointed that William was seldom around, and when he was, he was on his computer or jotting down notes. Rather than being on a relaxing vacation, he was intensely busy. Should she try to talk to him? Find out why he kept to himself so much? She could almost hear Ben warning her: Don’t interfere; how William spends his time is his business.
Miranda circled several blocks before locating the shelter again. She parked across the street, scrutinizing the building before deciding to go in. It was more run down than she remembered.
She carried in two bags, passing a teenage girl working a pitiful little garden on the side of the building. On the second trip, Miranda saw that the girl was struggling with the hard soil; she dug a hole, put in a bushy plant, and then patted the soil around it. Miranda felt an immediate kinship with the young gardener, and walked over to her.
“Hi there! Starting a garden?”
When the young girl looked up, Miranda winced, noticing the bruised cheek and swollen lip.
The girl bristled at the expression of pity that filled Miranda’s face.
Miranda quickly shifted her attention to the garden. “Oh – you’ve planted shade and sun flowers together.” She pointed to the little bush the girl had just planted. “Bleeding hearts need protection. This would do much better over there, away from the sun.”
The girl rose to her feet and appeared to be deeply offended, but she quickly covered it with a derisive laugh. She looked down at the bags in Miranda’s hands. “Bringing us your rejects? Or did you just come here to give gardening advice?”
Miranda stood speechless. She had wanted to encourage and befriend the young girl. She was about to explain herself, but the girl’s folded arms, raised chin, and narrowed eyes told Miranda to leave it alone. She picked up the bags and went inside.
“Rich bitch,” she heard the young girl mutter.
Miranda whipped around, ready to set her straight – on both points. But the girl had thrown down her gardening tool and was walking away. With a stab of pity, Miranda saw that the tool was an old, bent spoon.
She walked inside, doubting her decision to come to this place. The building was gloomy and depressing in spite of the colorfully painted sign that hung over the entrance. As she opened the door, she was met with a flurry of activity and caught a whiff of vomit and pine-scented cleanser. A young girl was being helped away to a room. Raised voices came from down the hall. Miranda felt her stomach tighten, and she remained rooted to the floor.
A woman behind the counter was on the phone, but had noticed Miranda and now pointed to a sign on the wall that said Donations.
Miranda smiled her thanks and walked over to a large box. Except for candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and dust balls, the box was empty. She gently placed the bags inside, and offered a tentative smile to two sullen teens who slouched on a nearby bench.
The older boy pushed himself up, and began rummaging through the bags. As Miranda walked away, she heard him snort in amusement.
“Badminton?” he asked in disbelief. Then he and the other boy burst out laughing.
Mirada hurried down the steps and went straight to her car. As she drove off, she defended her intentions. She had only given items that were still in good shape; not rejects. And the badminton set was full of good memories from when the kids were young. She told herself that she was being overly sensitive. These were angry teenagers, runaways, perhaps abandoned, or even abused.
As she waited for the light to change, she briefly imagined the pierced and tattooed teens leaping in a lighthearted game of badminton – and had to laugh. What had she been thinking? Try as she might, she still did everything with her kids in mind, assuming that what they had liked, these other teens would, as well.
Clara and Michael had moved on, but she had not. There she was, cleaning their rooms, cooking and shopping for four, doing everything as if they might walk in the front door and ask what was for dinner.
Miranda spent the rest of the afternoon working in her garden, raking out the dead underbrush and carrying it down to the compost pile. She saw that the daylight was beginning to fade, and she felt unexpectedly overcome with weariness. A few drops of rain began to fall, making a muted patter as it landed on the leaves.
She walked over to the old swing and sat down on it, rocking back and forth, her hand playing with the faded satin bow that she had tied there for Clara so many years ago. When the knot holding the bow suddenly split apart, Miranda gave a little gasp and felt a fresh sense of loss. She let the soft rain and the darkening light make a kind of curtain around her. She sat in the swing until it was nearly dark, holding the bit of blue ribbon in her hand.
*
Ben kept glancing at Miranda over dinner. “Is everything all right? You seem tired.”
“I’ve been dragging all day. I guess I didn’t sleep well last night. Some dream kept me awake.”
“About what?”
She searched her mind, then lifted her shoulders. “I can’t remember.”
Ben gave her a few moments to say more, but she remained silent. “Looks like you made some progress on the garage. You finally throwing out that bag of broken dishes?”
“No. I’m finally going to use them.” She waited for him to comment on how many years the bag had been sitting in the garage.
But Ben just wanted to get her to talk, so that he could find out what was bothering her. “Did you get rid of a lot of stuff?”
“I threw away a lot. Gave a couple of things to Paula. And I dropped off some bags at a shelter for teens. It was – upsetting. To see these young kids – bruised, defensive, hurt.” She shook her head at the memory. “And angry. One girl was really rude to me.”
“Maybe you should stick to the Salvation Army.”
“I suppose so.” Miranda took another helping of salad and tried to sound even-toned, cheerful even. “I spoke to Clara today.”
Ben looked up. Aha. Here it was. “And?”
“She’s changed her mind about traveling this summer. Wants to get started with classes instead.”
“Oh, well. She can always go later.”
Miranda took a moment before answering. “I don’t think she’ll be going anytime soon. She’s made up her mind – she’s going to study Law.”
“What happened to Comparative Literature?”
“She said that was what I wanted, not her. I never pushed her in that direction.”
“Not pushed, maybe,” said Ben, “but strongly encouraged.”
“Because I thought that was what she wanted.”
“Well, Law was her original choice, after all.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Miranda pushed around the lettuce leaves on her plate, and then set her fork down.
“I would have given anything for the chance to tour the Lake District,” she finally said. “To explore London and Paris, visit Monet’s garden.” Those dreams still loomed large in Miranda’s mind. “I just don’t understand it.”
“That’s because you love that sort of thing. She has other interests. She has to do what’s right for her.”
“I know. It’s just that…” Miranda left the sentence unfinished. She couldn’t help feeling that it was her dream being crushed by Clara’s decision.
She started to clear the table. “Do you want coffee?”
“Are you going to have some?”
She considered it, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think I’ll just go up and take a bath.”
He reached over and rubbed her shoulder. “Go on. I’ll clean up here.”
She went upstairs, and ran the bath water. Then she reached for the lilac sea salts and poured them into the bath, swishing her hand around the water to make them dissolve faster. She straightened up, and placed her hands on her lower back, looking into the water.
She wasn’t herself, she thought. It was more than just Clara’s decision. For the past few days s
he felt that something was nagging at her, nudging her. But she couldn’t detect the source of the unease. It was as if something were tapping her on the shoulder, asking her to pay attention. She used to get that feeling when something was wrong with one of the kids. Maybe she had sensed Clara’s change of heart. Ben would laugh at that. He always ridiculed her vague intimations, her belief that she often picked up on other people’s feelings.
A hot bath would help. She stepped into the fragrant water and sighed as the tension and fatigue gradually left her muscles. Her nightly bath had become a ritual. A leftover from her waitressing days – a way to wash off the workday, and welcome the night. Part of the ritual was to turn off the overhead light and allow the room to be illuminated by the gold filigree nightlight. As soft as candlelight.
She pulled the shower curtain across the bath, sealing in the steam. That final gesture always signified a sinking into a world of calm, of honoring the end of the day, and marking the beginning of night.
As she adjusted to the prickling hot water, she sank deeper into the bath. She gave another sigh of relaxation, held her breath, and slid under the water, shaking out her hair, aware only of the water, the holding of her breath.
Then with a splash, she sat up, flashing on her dream from the night before. Her face filled with worry, seeing the vivid details.
Sunlight on water as she swam in a pool, the sense of well-being, children’s laughter nearby. Then, deeper into her dream, she heard a dog’s whimper. It seemed to come from a vent in the pool wall. She swam closer and looked inside.
A dark, earthen chamber came into focus and she caught a glint of something. She peered closer, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that it was the metal frame of glasses on a man. He sat cross-legged in the darkness, next to a muzzled dog.
A voice said, “That’s Jasper.” With a rush of revulsion, Miranda realized he had been watching her swim.