The Unfinished Garden Read online

  He tugged open the balcony door and sat heavily on a hard, wrought-iron chair, one of a pair he’d picked up earlier in Chapel Hill. He should have tried them out for comfort, but he needed, he came, he saw, he bought. He had relocated with nothing but essentials and too few even of those.

  A fat moon as luminous as an Illinois harvest moon lit up the sky and unleashed a rush of adolescent memories. All of them involved sneaking out at night, but not to find pleasure. His ongoing mission had been to plant evidence. He had flung joint butts into the barn, abandoned Jim Beam bottles on farm machinery and placed ripped condom packets in the back of his dad’s truck. God Almighty, it was a miracle that he and his father hadn’t killed each other. Maybe that was the reason his dad had caved on the Kawasaki. Why else would a parent let his teenager buy a motorbike designed only for speed and danger? Although James had never taken risks with that bike, never gone near it when he was high or drunk, never let anyone else touch it. He still wheeled it out once a month to clean it and to reminisce, but he would never ride it again. He was many things but irresponsible was no longer one of them.

  See, Dad? James raised his face to the moon. I’m a fully functioning adult, despite your predictions.

  How many years since he and his father had exchanged words? James knew the exact time his garbage was picked up every Thursday, but he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had talked with his dad. And now, of course, it was irrelevant. His dad was dead. Both his parents were.

  The Carolina night skies were spectacular. He’d never seen stars like this. Maybe he should get a telescope. Isaac would like that, wouldn’t he? James groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  Get real. Isaac isn’t your kid.

  Fatherhood—another relationship he’d screwed up. Yes, Daniel took his phone calls these days, but he still refused to call him Dad, which was fair enough. James had done little to earn the title. In fact, he lacked the whole happy-family gene. That wasn’t self-pity; that was honesty.

  James flipped his hand over and stared at his lifeline in the moonlight. He rarely looked at it, since it splintered into three. Nothing good ever came from an odd number.

  It was time to shake off his preoccupation with Isaac and Tilly. A widow and single mother had enough to deal with; she didn’t need someone as demanding as him. And Isaac certainly didn’t need him as a male role model.

  Maybe he should treat thoughts of Tilly and Isaac as if they were obsessions, tackling them with the big three of cognitive-behavioral therapy—boss back the thought, use logic, use disassociation. Or maybe he should give up the fight. Roll over and play lovesick.

  He glanced at his watch: 9:00 p.m. or 2:00 a.m. in England. How many times had he checked the American Airlines website? Tracking them was easy, since there was only one flight a day from Raleigh to London. They would land in five hours, then clear customs and immigration. How long before they arrived at Tilly’s mother’s house?

  Let it go, James. Stick with the plan.

  But he couldn’t. Meeting Tilly and Isaac felt almost inevitable; he was incapable of resisting. For years, James had struggled with trust, a one-way street that led only to a dead end. But Isaac and Tilly had sneaked under his defenses, and he wasn’t sure how.

  Those not-so-subtle hints he’d given Tilly at Maple View Farm were the closest he’d ever come to revealing his secret: “Hi, my name is James and I’m obsessive-compulsive.” Had he been testing them on some subconscious level? If so, they had both aced the quiz.

  He glanced back up at the Milky Way. When light came and his day started, Tilly’s would be half over.

  Chapter 7

  Tilly breathed in recycled air, heavy on the antiseptic and burned coffee, and grinned. She loved night flights with the dimmed cabin lights, the stirring of passengers settling to movies or sleep and the constant thrum of engines. She and Isaac were submerged in airplane twilight, wrapped up in blankets in a row of two. Life didn’t get any better.

  “I like James.” Isaac nestled into her, and Tilly fought the urge to tug him closer. “Do you like him, Mom?”

  She mussed his hair with her nose. Just For Kids mango splash shampoo. Best smell ever. “I’m not good at meeting people, you know that.” Not exactly an answer, but then she hadn’t prepared for the question. She hadn’t given James a second thought since the ice cream incident. Although she was still miffed that he had asked her to sit on a towel for the short ride home. Who kept a clean towel, in a ginormous Ziploc, in the trunk of his car?

  “But do you like him?”

  The people in front had left their blind up. Tilly peered through their window, but there was nothing to see beyond the small, white light blinking on the tip of the wing.

  “I guess.” She sat back. “Although I have no idea why.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I suppose not. It’s just normally when you make a new friend you find common ground, a shared passion. Like gardening.”

  Isaac scowled. “Ro hates gardening, and she’s your best friend.”

  “That’s different. We’ve been on the same life raft since we were four years old. I could pick up the phone and say help, and she would catch the first available flight.” Just as Ro had done after David died, camping overnight at Heathrow to come standby via LaGuardia. Tilly remembered the cab speeding down the driveway, Rowena flinging open the door while the vehicle was still moving, her only words, Where’s Isaac?

  Tilly twirled a lock of Isaac’s hair around her finger. “Besides, she spoils you rotten.”

  “So—” Isaac picked a piece of fluff from Bownba, the once-fluffy FAO Schwarz teddy that now resembled a squashed possum. “You like James, then?”

  “Clearly not as much as you do.” Should she worry that her eight-year-old still dragged his teddy bear to bed every night? Tilly attempted to squish her feet under the seat in front, but between the bottle of duty-free Bombay Sapphire, her canvas backpack and her floral Doc Martens boots, there was no room.

  “Are we going to help him?”

  Why was her son suddenly more tenacious than a Jack Russell terrier? Bugger it. She had been enjoying the growing distance between herself and James, herself and Sari, herself and the stings of everyday life. Thanks to Isaac, they rushed back, and all she wanted was a reprieve.

  “You need to understand, Isaac—” Oh crap, now he looked crestfallen. “It’s not that I don’t want to help James, but he has that neat I-want-it-this-way thing that screams perfectionist.” Or worse, a Virgo, like Sebastian, and the last thing she needed was another Virgo. Although, technically, she didn’t have a Virgo in her life, not anymore.

  “Cripes. Not like you and me, then.”

  “Exactly!” Tilly wagged a finger. “Think of the trail of possessions you and I can leave across two continents. A woman as scattered as me could drive a man as uptight as James seriously nuts. You do the math. It ain’t gonna work.” She would be barmy to get involved with someone that persnickety. Which didn’t explain why she had agreed to talk with James in September.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about this,” Isaac said with great solemnity. “I hate hiccups. They scare me because I want them to stop, but nothing I do works. I need you to help me. That’s a horrid feeling, isn’t it? That your body won’t do what you want it to do.”

  “Sounds like middle age,” Tilly mumbled.

  “I bet it’s a whole lot worse if it’s your brain that won’t cooperat
e.” Isaac paused. “I think we should help James.”

  “Nicely expressed, Angel Bug. I’ll consider your opinion, but right now you need sleep.” And I need peace and quiet. Tilly patted fleecy travel blanket into the gaps around Isaac.

  “Tell me the story of how you and Daddy met.”

  Tilly covered her mouth. At best, this story was happiness and despair tied up with a bow. At worst, it was a form of self-mutilation, a cut that bled with the life she had lost, or rather thrown away.

  “Please?” Isaac looked up with huge Haddington eyes, as pale as her father’s had been. Thank God for genetics. Even a hint of them tethered you to the past.

  Tilly smoothed down his bushy hair but it bounced free, sticking out every which way. “Our story begins one summer.”

  “Just like now, Mommy.”

  “Except this summer is a new chapter in the epic story of Isaac and Super Mom.” Tilly struck her Popeye pose and Isaac snickered. Given the turmoil in her gut, however, Tilly felt less as if she were about to write an exciting new chapter in their lives, and more as if she were free-falling without a parachute, waiting for the big splat when Sari destroyed her business, and Sebastian…. Great, now she had Sebastian to worry about as well as James.

  Isaac poked her. “Mom? Are you asleep?”

  “Miles away. Sorry.” She resumed stroking Isaac’s hair. “It was a beautiful Saturday in June.” Fourteen years ago last week, another notch on the totem pole of survival. Isaac wriggled into her, as if trying to crawl back into her womb. “I had run away from London and escaped to Bramwell Chase for the weekend. Grammy was off with the historical society, and Grandpa was due back from Northampton for lunch. We had the whole afternoon planned: work on the roses, then hike across the estate. I was propping open the gates for him when—” She didn’t want to remember this, not tonight. Tonight she just wanted oblivion.

  “When you heard this funny noise because Daddy didn’t know how to drive a stick, and he’d borrowed some old banger.” Isaac over-enunciated the last two words using a perfect English accent. Tilly swaddled him into her.

  “This MG lurched up the High Street, gears crashing. Your father said that was the summer he discovered his two great loves: MGBs and me. Of course, that was before you were born and became more precious than anything.” Isaac made a soft noise, like a kitten’s mew. “Daddy bought his MGB after he got home. The 1972 Roadster that will be yours one day.” If it survives being shrouded under a tarpaulin in the garage.

  Her heart contracted at the memory of dark ringlets framing David’s face and his chestnut eyes sparked with ambition. She’d wanted to lose herself in those eyes, and she had. Watching David, as he enchanted a lecture hall or entertained a room of friends, could leave her paralyzed with love. And yet however large his audience, however far away Tilly sat or stood, his eyes always found her. She pushed the heel of her hand into her heart, but the pain tightened. How had she navigated three years without him, without his adoration, without his need to share every joy and every disappointment with her?

  She took a shallow breath. “The car stopped, and the most gorgeous man I had ever seen stuck his head out of the window and said, ‘Hey there. Can you help me?’ And I thought, I’ll help you with anything you like.”

  Isaac’s giggle dissolved into a yawn. “Daddy was on his way to a conference, but he got lost ’cos he didn’t believe in reading maps.”

  “Only your father could take off across a foreign country and assume he’d end up where he wanted to be. When he explained he was looking for the Open University, I laughed so hard I couldn’t tell him anything, and Daddy started laughing—”

  “And Grandpa turned up. And he liked Daddy straightaway.”

  “Absolutely.” How could anyone not? David always had the right words, the right smile, the right inclination of his head. Only Tilly saw the fragile ego that pecked away underneath.

  “And Grandpa invited Daddy in to look at maps. And he never made it to the conference ’cos he stayed with you instead.” Isaac’s voice was tinged with sleep. “And when Daddy left he asked you to marry him. And you said yes.”

  “I never could say no to your father. Although at the time, I thought he was joking. But when your father saw something he wanted, nothing stood in his way.” Tilly shivered as her thoughts bounced back, briefly, to James.

  Isaac was silent for a moment. “That’s not always good, Mom. Is it?”

  “No.” She kissed the top of his head. “But it was that day.”

  Isaac gave a shadow of a smile and, as if someone had switched him off, conked out. He looked younger in sleep. She could trace the face of the baby with the rosebud mouth suckling at her breast, the toddler with his father’s luscious lips, the little boy who whistled through the gap before his front teeth descended. David had never seen those front teeth, had never seen Isaac read a chapter book, had never seen him whiz through math homework declaring, “This is so easy!” If she had learned to say no to David, would things have been different? Would he be here with them now?

  * * *

  The engines droned as the plane flew closer to England and Tilly struggled to keep her mind from Sebastian. But Bramwell Chase was a village. She could bump into him walking down the High Street or cutting through Badger Way. Even an imaginary meeting left her giddy.

  Should she slug him and say, “Naff off, asshole?” No, that smacked of amateur dramatics. She could give him a curt “Do I know you?” Nope, that was petty. If only she could snap out a Rowena-comment, a one-liner that shriveled up your desire to exist.

  What was his wife’s name? And the kids—a boy called Archie and a girl? Archie and Isaac were the same age. They could even become friends. Tilly clutched at her throat. What if Sebastian turned up on the doorstep all smiles and “Remember me?” Her breathing eased. No, that was one scenario she didn’t need to prepare for. Sebastian was a successful personal banker for a reason. He never dabbled in spontaneity, never took risks, not even for her. When Tilly told him she was engaged, Sebastian had said, “I’ll catch you the second time around,” and walked away.

  Would she recognize him after ten years? Would he recognize her? Since they last met she’d hacked off her hair and donated every piece of clothing that didn’t fit the jeans and T-shirt category to the thrift store. And now Sebastian was turning forty. He’d probably sprouted a beer gut and tufty, falling-out hair. Yes, a balding banker grown slack on the high life. That was the image to work with, especially the balding part. Sebastian had always obsessed over his receding hairline, unlike David, who’d had enough hair for two. But as her eyelids fluttered, and her head drooped against the plastic wings of the headrest, it wasn’t David who visited her dreams. She was cornered in sleep by the sixteen-year-old with the puckish grin, the boy she had once craved as if he were a drug.

  Chapter 8

  Tilly spotted him the moment the electronic doors jolted open. At least she thought she did. It could also be a mirage, brought on by lack of sleep and cheap gin—the airline had cut the Bombay Sapphire. It couldn’t be Sebastian—one foot resting on the pillar behind him, head rolled back, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his white jeans, suede jacket slung through one arm. Not at 8:00 a.m. in the arrivals area of Heathrow. Except that the redhead jumping up and down next to him screeching, “Haddy! Over here, you twit!” was Rowena.

  With a dang and a thud, Tilly’s luggage cart rear-ended a chrome bollard. How did that happen? One moment
she was gripping the metal bar so tightly she thought she might cut off circulation to her fingers, the next all she could think about was escape. She turned, but the door to the customs hall had closed behind her.

  “Haddy!” Rowena waved and the bangles and beads on her wrists chinked against each other like gypsy bells. “Haddy!”

  Isaac ducked under the barricade and hurtled toward Rowena. “Hey, Rosy-Posy,” he giggled, then launched himself into her arms.

  Sebastian lowered his head, but appeared to have no interest in locating his ex-lover. He looked more dazed than intrigued, his expression that of a person who had just woken from a nightmare and was struggling to cobble together his surroundings.

  Tilly experienced a sudden plummeting in her gut. Still beautiful, then. Maybe more so. But she hadn’t really expected him to be fat, bald and ruddy. She had always known he would gain substance with age.

  “My little man,” Rowena squealed as she twirled Isaac. “I’ve missed you so much! I forbid you from leaving me ever again.”

  Isaac disappeared into a kaleidoscope of laughter and color, wrapped in Rowena’s ankle-length skirt and clasped to the turquoise sweater that nipped in at her tiny waist and stretched over her perfect breasts. The sleeves were forced above her elbows in an effort, no doubt, to hide the holes. Secondhand cashmere sweaters—they’re recycled, Haddy!—were Ro’s standard uniform and she was loyal to the last thread. Even on toasty summer days she complained of being fucking freezing. But then Rowena, a landowner infamous for serving marijuana with her shooting lunches, had always lived outside the lines. Being with Rowena was like jettisoning yourself through a bubble wand and not knowing when you would burst back into reality.