The Memories That Make Us
Page 14
Flynn and I parted ways after our run this morning, agreeing to meet back at my place after showering. He turns up, freshly shaven and showered, the scent of lemongrass soap on his skin, and his hair still damp. I finish drying off my hair, join him in the kitchen and toss him the ruffled apron from a drawer. ‘Since you lost the race,’ I tease. I smile to myself as he puts on the apron without making any mention of the polka dots or ruffles. I switch on the kettle and open up the windows. Somehow, the thoughts that were tormenting me this morning don’t seem so bothersome thanks to the post-run endorphins.
Flynn outdoes himself in the kitchen, cooking the eggs sunny side up, the way I’ve learned to like them. He heaps a pile of spinach and mushrooms onto our plates and takes off the apron.
‘Is that a car?’ I ask, listening to the distant rumble of a motor travelling up the gravel driveway.
‘Sounds like it. Um, I think I left my phone in your room,’ he says.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, before making my way to the front door. Parrot beats me there and starts barking and twirling around in circles. Moments later, there’s a knock on the front door.
It’s Scarlett, standing there with a smile on her face, suitcase by her side.
‘Surprise!’ She wraps her arms around me, the bulge of her belly pressing against me as she squeezes the breath out of me. I’m unsure of how we used to interact together, but I squeeze her back.
She beams at me, her eyes filled with happiness. ‘I had a couple of extra days off and I finally went two whole days without feeling sick, so I thought I’d take advantage and come up to see you.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here,’ I say, smiling.
‘You scared me you know, when we spoke last week and you had that guy at home. I thought you might have gone and found yourself a new man.’
I bite my lip. ‘Nope, nothing like that,’ I reply, letting out a deep breath. Blood rushes to my cheeks. Closing the door behind her, I usher her inside.
‘Wow, it’s been a while since I was last here,’ she says, looking around, taking in the surroundings. That’s the moment Flynn steps out of my bedroom and begins walking down the hallway. Scarlett’s face drops as her eyes meet his. She leans on the handle of her roller suitcase and looks as if she’s about to lose her footing.
Flynn, noticing her reaction, stiffens. ‘Uh, hello,’ he says, smiling at her.
Scarlett turns to face me, her mouth ajar, questioning me with her eyes.
‘I didn’t know you—’ she begins, but I cut her off.
‘Scarlett, this is my neighbour, Flynn. Flynn, this is my best friend, Scarlett.’ I glance at her suitcase. ‘She’s staying the night—I think.’
Flynn extends a hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says. He seems a little caught off guard by her obvious discomfort at seeing him walking out of my bedroom.
Scarlett nods silently. She suddenly appears frozen and strangely uncomfortable. ‘Uh, I’m Scarlett,’ she says, sticking out a rigid hand, which Flynn shakes. I’ve never seen Scarlett appear so stiff and awkward.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ I ask, noticing the way her face has turned a concerning shade of white.
‘No, actually … I’m not,’ she says while still looking at Flynn.
‘I’ll get her a glass of water,’ says Flynn, glancing at me.
‘It’s not what you think—we’re just friends,’ I mumble, taking the suitcase from her and wheeling it into the living room. My voice pitch wavers and a sudden rush of guilt pricks me. It’s as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be.
Flynn returns from the kitchen and hands Scarlett the glass of water, which she accepts, mouthing little more than a ‘thank you’.
‘All right, well, I better get going, I might see you round,’ says Flynn. He tucks his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘What about breakfast?’ I say, feeling awful about the whole situation. Flynn seems so uncomfortable.
‘Actually, I should go … leave you to spend some time together,’ he says. ‘Parrot, let’s go.’ He whistles and Parrot scampers in from the living room to his side. Flynn smiles at me, meeting my eyes. There’s a reassuring softness in them—one that I haven’t noticed until now. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he says quietly. He turns to Scarlett. ‘Enjoy your time together.’
Scarlett nods without looking at him.
I close the door behind him and turn to Scarlett. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s my neighbour. And I know it doesn’t seem that way, but honestly, nothing happened between us—we’re just friends.’
‘But he was in your bedroom. What’s going on between you two? Did he stay the night?’
I take a deep breath and cringe, my face scrunching up. ‘Mmm … well, yes, but there’s nothing to it. Like I said, we’re really just friends.’
The more I say it, the more I wonder whether I actually believe it.
Scarlett doesn’t mention Flynn’s name for the rest of the weekend, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about him. His car is gone again, and didn’t return last night, either. It’s none of my business where Flynn spent last night, but it plays on my mind all the same.
‘I didn’t think you drank herbal tea anymore,’ says Scarlett, as I bring a cup to my mouth.
We’re nestled in the corner of The Daylesford Convent, which has been lovingly restored and repurposed as a café and art gallery. A tower of cut sandwiches and slices of carrot cake sit between us, as we make the most of the last hour we have together before Scarlett has to drive back to Melbourne. After a full day of pampering at the local day spa in Hepburn Springs, this feels like a perfect end to our weekend.
My forehead wrinkles. ‘I don’t,’ I say, setting down the cup. The cup I poured without giving things a second thought. It’s oddly frustrating to think that some of my old habits and preferences for things have a way of popping up unexpectedly.
‘You seem a bit distracted,’ says Scarlett, taking a sip of her tea.
‘I was just thinking about … Blake.’ Err, Flynn. My cheeks heat up.
‘Spring will be here in a couple of weeks,’ she says quietly.
I purse my lips and nod silently.
‘A lot can happen between now and the end of spring,’ I reply, reaching for a sandwich. I open it up, examine the tuna and cucumber, close it, and reach for a different one.
‘You prefer the herbed cream cheese,’ says Scarlett. She sighs. ‘I know you don’t want to know details about your life, but I’m finding it really hard to not tell you all the things I want to, Gracie. Especially now.’
She takes a bite of her sandwich, a slow bite, a thoughtful bite, one that makes me feel like she thinks I don’t realise how much could actually happen over the next few months.
‘I feel like I’m making progress,’ I say, looking down at my plate. ‘I actually prefer the salmon.’
Scarlett chews her lip. ‘I don’t know if that’s quite enough to get your life back on track.’
‘Scarlett, I need your advice,’ I say finally.
‘You know, it’s usually me asking you for the advice.’
‘Really?’
‘You never liked being told anything. You had this free spirit, you know. We’d call you a crazy little ember, because you had so much energy and passion, and you never let life get on top of you. When your mum passed away though …’ She pauses, as if she’s unsure of whether to continue.
‘It’s okay. Go on,’ I say, swallowing a piece of sandwich.
‘You changed. It’s like you lost your way, your direction. You started reassessing all these things in your life …’ She continues, dropping a sugar cube into her teacup, following it with a splash of milk. ‘You and your mother were close— really close. She was almost ready to retire the farm before she passed away. She wanted you to take over.’
‘Wow.’ My mind wanders to Tilly. What else might Tilly know about all of this?
‘Stop,’ I say firmly, momentarily closing my eyes. ‘Just let me get through spring.’ I set down my fork. Sooner or later I’m going to have to stop ignoring the fact that my life has a thousand loose ends needing to be tied up.
‘Fine,’ Scarlett whispers.
I clear my throat. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’ I push away my tea—elderberry and mint, which isn’t as bad as I thought it might have been—and fold my hands in my lap.
Scarlett blinks earnestly at me. ‘Of course you can,’ she says, her voice low. She shifts in her seat and folds her napkin.
‘I can’t stop thinking about him. I know I said we were just friends, but I can’t help wondering if Flynn …’
She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh God, Gracie. Don’t put me in this position. Please.’ Scarlett shoves aside her plate. ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ she says.
‘I have nobody else to talk to about it,’ I say, looking up at her.
How stupid of me to open up to Scarlett about this, of all people.
‘This whole pregnancy thing—day and night, dancing baby on the bladder,’ she says, her words spilling out as if she can’t hold them back.
‘I know you’ll probably want to tell Blake about Flynn, but … I think it’s best that you don’t … for now. Until I can work out exactly where things stand between us and how long I’ll be staying.’
She clumsily pushes her chair in. ‘I don’t want to see you get hurt, Gracie. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.’
Scarlett goes to the bathroom, and when she returns we leave the tearoom, and the silence that has weaved its way between us doesn’t go unnoticed as we stroll through the main street. We admire pieces in local antique shops, where we unearth treasures like a silver baby rattle, and other vintage finds like a damask fabric-covered armchair I almost can’t resist bringing home with me.
‘There’s so much I want to tell you, Gracie. About Blake, about your life, about all of it,’ says Scarlett casually, as if she can’t quite say it if she’s looking me in the eye. ‘No matter what happens over the next couple of months, I want you to know that.’
‘I’ll be ready for you to tell me more soon. But in the meantime, tell me about your baby. Tell me about all your hopes for this little person.’
‘Well, so far, all I can tell you is that I’ve never felt so enormous as I do right now. As far as hopes go, all I desperately want is for her to be happy and healthy.’
‘That’s what we all want, isn’t it?’ I reply.
‘Yes. Of course it is.’
‘It’s a girl?’ I hesitate before extending a hand to Scarlett’s belly. She nods, encouraging me. I place my hand against the fabric of her blouse, feeling the warmth beneath. Scarlett places her hand over mine. ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ she says quietly.
I pull away, unable to maintain eye contact with her. Am I that transparent? And are my feelings about Flynn that obvious?
‘This armchair is gorgeous. It would look so good in the living room,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘Perhaps you should think about redecorating,’ says Scarlett. ‘It might help.’
I tap the rattle against my palm. ‘Maybe, but I think I have something else in mind,’ I say thoughtfully.
I reach into my pocket for the round seed, Tilly’s seed, and show it to her.
‘What is it?’ she asks, uncertain.
‘A seed that’s going to bloom into a sweet pea,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘But I like to think of it as a key. A key to unlocking a part of my life I feel ready for.’
She takes it from me and rolls it around in her palm. ‘I think gardening will be great for you,’ she says. ‘In a few weeks the weather should be warming up, and getting outdoors should help clear your head. Besides, you’re a natural when it comes to flowers.’
SIXTEEN
Tilly’s house, enclosed by a small cottage garden at the end of a narrow road lined with trees, wasn’t difficult to find, just like she promised. Her flower cart, stacked with empty buckets, is retired in the front yard under a large jacaranda waiting to blossom.
I knock once and the door immediately groans open. Tilly’s hair is pulled into a bun and she’s wearing an apron, an oven mitt still on one hand.
‘Come on in,’ she says.
I follow her, closing the door behind me as she limps down the corridor to the kitchen. The house smells like a bakery—deliciously warm and sweet, apples caramelising on the stovetop, ribbons of steam laced with the scent of cinnamon, brown sugar and raisins rising up and causing the window to fog. She switches off the gas and pulls a steaming loaf tin from the wall oven, the aroma filling the compact kitchen.
‘You didn’t need to make any effort.’
‘Who said anything about it being an effort?’ She sets the tin on a cooling rack. ‘Now, we should get down to business. What did you do with the gift I gave you?’
‘Um, nothing, I wasn’t sure when to plant them exactly.’
‘Sit,’ she commands impatiently, nodding at one of the kitchen chairs.
I pull out a wooden chair from the table. A white cat pounces to the floor.
‘What’s a girl to do? Swat you over the head with what’s obvious to me but not obvious to you?’ She turns the tin upside down on the wire rack and starts tapping it with a wooden spoon.
‘I’m sorry, Tilly, but I’ve no idea what you mean.’
She flips around to face me. ‘Why did you come to Summerhill, Gracie? What is it you think you’re looking for?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Because I don’t remember anything that came before.’
‘Well, that sounds like you’re in a perfect position to start afresh, don’t you think?’ She takes two teacups from the cupboard. ‘Tea?’
‘I don’t drink tea, aside from chai. Water will be fine,’ I reply, twisting the cuff of my sleeve around my thumb. I still have my coat and scarf on.
She tsks under her breath and carries a teapot over anyway, setting it on top of a crocheted doily.
‘Well, then?’ she asks, peering at me tetchily.
‘I don’t know, Tilly. I don’t know what I’m doing here. All I know is that I don’t belong anywhere else.’
Tilly raises an eyebrow. ‘You came to my flower stand eight times in seven days.’
‘Yes.’
‘And somehow, even if not by choice, you’ve been given a clean slate, a way to create a life you want that’s free from all the baggage and the drama that most people spend their whole lives trying to escape.’
‘But what to do with it, Tilly?’
‘Well, it’s darn obvious, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
Tilly reaches for a pair of glasses on the table and slides them on. She sits down and reaches a knobbly hand for an envelope. She pulls out a handful of photographs and flicks through them before selecting one and passing it to me.
‘This here is some of what you don’t remember.’ Staring back at me is an image of Summerhill.
‘Is this you?’ I bring the grainy photograph closer, as I try to make out Tilly’s features. The sun has facilitated the creases and sunspots she wears on her face now, but the resemblance to the younger, more slender woman in the photograph is unmistakeable. She’s standing by a flower cart, the same cart she uses today. ‘Who’s the little girl?’ I ask, pointing to a child wearing a blue dress. She’s holding an armful of yellow tulips, a small white dog by her side.
There’s a pause.
‘Tilly?’
Tilly peers at me over her glasses. It’s then I notice the way that despite her tough exterior, there’s something soft-natured about her, ab
out the way she speaks without really needing to utter words. My heart beats a little faster, knowing what she’s trying to tell me. I flick through the other photographs, all of Summerhill. One of them captures the peony field in full bloom, a strawberry milkshake of colour in long rows. Lady Alexandra Duffs. Madame Jos Odiers. Sarah Bernhardts. Bowl of Creams. I know these flowers. I know them all.
My voice catches in my throat. ‘It was … me, with you, on the farm?’
Tilly sighs. ‘I thought you looked familiar the moment I saw you. You have her eyes,’ she says, taking one of the photos. She runs a finger over the image of my mother.
‘Nobody grew flowers with the same kind of attention she did. I wasn’t going to let anybody have that farm. But there was something special about your mother, Gracie. She loved the flowers and the flowers loved her. And she knew what you and I both know. Flowers can unlock memories, provide a window to hope, or a message of love. They bring joy. They’re …’
‘Nature’s best healers,’ I whisper, blinking at her.
A trace of satisfaction forms on her lips. ‘That’s the gift,’ she says. ‘And you, just like your mother, have it.’
‘You sold her your farm?’
Tilly’s eyes glaze over, as words steeped with nostalgia pour out of her. ‘You were only three years old when she turned up at the farm, asking for a job. Giles, my husband, thought it was crazy, opening up the spare room to a young mother and child, but we didn’t have any grandkids yet, so I thought, why not? You took to those fields like a dear little wildflower. In the afternoons, you’d hear me pushing the cart up the incline, those bells gently ringing, letting you know I was on my way, and you’d race out the back field, and come back with an armload of flowers to restock the buckets. We even had one with your name on it.’ She points to a photo and sure enough, there’s a bucket labelled Gracie’s Selection.