Moments In Time (22 page)

“Well, Mom, I’m happy you found Maggie acceptable,” J.D. laughed.

“She’s more than acceptable. She’s a delight.”
Luke put her arm around her son and daughter-in-law as they headed toward the steps. “I’ll see you two in the morning. And J.D., I’ve made up Judith’s old room for you. I think you’ll be comfortable in there.”

“In Judith’s old twin beds?” he blurted.

“Of course not,” she chuckled. “I had Ned move them into my room. You’ll find the accommodations satisfactory, trust me.”

Luke returned to the sitting room, shaking her head and muttering to hersel
f, “Tw
in beds, indeed.”

The accommodations were just fine. Judith’s old room was at the
end of the hallway, a large corn
er room with windows on two sides and its own bath. Luke had thoughtfully placed a vase of the varied pink roses and white delphinium on the table next to the bed, which J.D. told Maggie had been his parents. She snuggled next to him and he asked how she’d liked her first day in England.

“I loved it. I l
ove your mother and I love your home. And I absolutely loved the garden. I want to get out there tomorrow and have her show me everything. Maybe someday I’ll have one like that at home.”

“Well, home is wherever we are, you know,” he told her.

“Then I guess I am home,” she said, moving closer, her arms encircling him.

“I guess you are,” he replied and reached over and turned off the light.

“
A
nd this tall shrubby-looking plant with the white plumes is what?
”
Maggie was making her way around the garden with Luke the next morning after breakfast.

“Goatsbeard, it’s called. For the obvious reason.” The tiny white flowers on the long graceful feathery plumes did, indeed, call to mind the silky beard of a goat.
“
Aruncus
is its proper name.”

“These I know. These are Canterbury bells,” Maggie said, moving on down the row, and Luke nodded. “What’s this yellow flower?”

“They are centaurea,” Luke explained, “a form of cornflower.”

“Cornflowers? I thought they were blue.”

“Some are. But some centaurea are yellow. And those red ones next are red valerian. The mauve ones are valerian also, as are those white and pinks. Then in the next bed we have dianthus—pinks, as you will. I’m a bit partial to them, so I grow a variety. These here, the first ones, are cottage pinks. The darker ones with the purple tinge are maiden pinks, and these with the slightly darker circle in the center, these are Allwood.”

“I recognize these.” Maggie had walked down the path a little farther and stopped in front of a bed of tall flowers. “Foxglove. But I’ve never seen these colors before.”

“They come in all colors, from white and cream to dark rose and shades of pinks and purples. That’s a fine old plant, but highly poisonous.”

“Digitalis.” Maggie was pleased she’d remembered. “They make the heart medication, digitalis, from foxglove. My grandmother had these also but only the dark pink ones. I like the cream-colored ones, I think, even better. And what’s the green stuff there, the ones without flowers?”

“
Aconitum.
Monkshood, it’s called,” Luke laughed, “the
namesake for my son’s band. We used to have them all around the back doorway, until the apple tree shaded them out completely and I had to move them. It’s taken me quite some time to get them to come around; they dislike being shuffled about, you know. J.D. always liked the name. It didn’t surprise me in the least when he used it for his band. I used to tease him that his friends would think him odd, naming his band for his mother’s garden flowers. They’re not quite ready to bloom, won’t be for a bit yet. They also are poisonous, even the seeds.”

Maggie spent a part of each day in the garden with her mother-in-law, learning the flowers and their preferences for sun or shade, moist or dry soil, their habits and care requirements. Later in the week she spent a day with Judith, whose garden was even larger and more elaborate than her mother’s and filled with more flowers of more varieties than Maggie could ever
have imagined. When Maggie com
mented on how much there was to learn and remember, Judith presented her with a small leather-bound book, it’s pages blank, so that she could take notes, should she ever need a reference.

Maggie found Judith’s garden to be particularly intriguing. She had managed to obtain seeds for some relatively obscure and rare plants and had nurtured them until she had clumps of many old varieties of flowers that, abundant generations ago, had fallen out of fancy and all but disappeared from modem gardens. Maggie was pleased that Judith had offered to send her seeds for some of those flowers that she had most admired, once Maggie had a garden of her own.

On Wednesday evening, Maggie had surprised J.D. by asking if there was a church nearby.

“Yes, in the village. The church we always went to. When we went that is. Why?”

“Can we see it tomorrow?”

“Sure. We can walk down if you’re up to stretching your legs a bit. Or we could drive down if it rains again.” Maggie felt she needed the exercise, so in the morning
after the rain had ceased, they strolled off down the road, past Judith’s house and on down the mile or so into the village proper. The church was at the edge of the tiny hamlet, set back off the road, with the requisite tower and churchyard lined unevenly with white headstones.

They walked around the side of the church into the cemetery, and Maggie followed J.D. down the path to the left of the gate, being careful not to step on the graves, many marked with only small flat stones. He walked to a grave not far in from the fence and stood silently looking down, his hands in his pockets. Maggie read the name on the stone. David James Borders.

“Your father?” Maggie asked.

“Yes.” He looked back at her and said wistfully, “I wish he could have met you.”

“You were named for him,” she observed.

“Yes. Only he reversed the names because he didn’t want me to be a junior.” He appeared thoughtful for a time, then told her, “My dad was a good guy, Maggie. A great person, a lot of fun. I hope I can be as good a father to ours as he was to Jude and me.”

“You will be.” She rubbed his back reassuringly.

“Hello.” They heard a call from the gate and turned to see a tall, thin elderly man with a round face.

“It’s the old vicar. Come on, Maggie.”

As they approached him, the old man smiled.

“I thought that was you, J.D. I’d heard you were back for a bit. With your bride.” He greeted Maggie with an outstretched hand. “Welcome, young lady.”

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“This is Reverend Andrews, Maggie. He’s an old friend of the family.”

“Delighted, my dear.” The old man patted her hand, still entwined with his own.

“Maggie wanted to see the church,” J.D. explained.

“Then by all means, let’s bring her inside,” he said and led them around the side to the front door.

Maggie stepped into the stillness of the tiny church and
looked around. The altar was sparse, much less elaborate than the Catholic churches she’d spent so much time in, and there was none of the marble she was accustomed to. The wooden pews were highly polished as was the railing around the altar, and the interior smelled faintly of wood polish. It was lovely in its simplicity, and she said so.

“Perhaps we’ll see you some Sunday while you’re visiting then,” he suggested.

“Perhaps you will,” she said, smiling.

On the walk back to the house, J.D. asked, “What was that all about anyway? Why the sudden interest in the church? You getting religion?”

“I’ve always ‘had religion,’ ” she answered with a laugh, “though it’s been quite some time since I’ve gone to services on Sunday. I have to admit I miss it. And it seems to me that we should agree on how we’ll raise our family. Jesse should have some religious upbringing. And we should probably have a church of our own.”

“Would you like to come down on Sunday for the service, Maggie? Is that what all this is leading up to?”

“Yes.”

They both laughed, and she added, “And it occurred to me that it would be nice if we asked the vicar to bless our marriage. Do they do that sort of thing in England? They do in the States.”

“Yes, of course they do. And I’m certain he’d be pleased to do that. When would you like to have this little blessing performed?”

“Maybe Sunday. After the service but before the party. What time was the party anyway? Two o’clock?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe we should ask your mother what she thinks.”

“I know what my mother will think. She’ll think it’s a lovely idea. Which it is,” he said as he draped an arm over her shoulder. “My parents were married there, you know. As well as my grandparents. And my sister. And we were all christened there.”

“Okay, okay. I get the point,” she laughed.

“Want to stop at Judith’s?” He pointed to the left side of the road toward his sister’s house.

“Certainly.” She crossed the road with him, and they walked up the path leading to the front door and knocked. Alex admitted them.

“Mom’s out back.”

They walked through the hall into the back of the house and out into the sunny garden where Judith was retrieving a mud-splattered Cassie from the huge puddle into which the toddler had
blithely
sashayed.

“There are times, Maggie, when you understand that the good Lord makes children as cute as He does merely as a means of assuring they’ll survive times like this,” she quipped, nodding her head toward her youngest child. “Cassandra, you’re a mess. Alex, take your sister in to Mrs. Young and ask that she clean her up. Oh, bother,” Judith grumbled as she rinsed her hands in her watering can, then grinned as she dried them on her brother’s shirttails. “And can you believe that Ned wants another?”

“Four might be a bit much to handle, Jude,” J.D. chuckled.

“Three is a handful. You’ll be wise to have just the one, little brother. Remember this, Maggie, if he tries to talk you into a second
…
or a third.”

Maggie laughed, and the memory of that day and Judith’s words were to become a family joke over the years as both her family and Judith’s multiplied.

L
uke’s house was bustling with activity when the small group returned from church on Sunday, following the blessing of the marriage by the vicar. Judith had arranged for a caterer from the nearest city and had pretty much taken over the party preparations from her mother, who was content to leave the planning in her daughter’s able hands. There had been barely an hour to spare between the conclusion of the simple ceremony and the party’s appointed hour. Luke had decided early that morning that the flower arrangements scattered here and there throughout
the house lacked sufficient fragrance and would benefit greatly from the inclusion of some lavender. Maggie trailed behind her with a flat basket as her mother-in-law inspected the bed of herbs, selecting the best stems and clipping them neatly with her old garden shears.

“We have an early arrival,” announced J.D. from the doorway.

A beaming Hobie Narood burst into the garden and quickly followed the cobbled path to where the two women stood.

“Mama Luke, it has been too many years.” He embraced her fondly.

“Too many, indeed,” Luke said, planting an affectionate kiss on his broad, brown face, “but, oh, my wandering boy, it’s a delight to see you again.”

“And you.” He gave her another hug before turning to extend a hand to Maggie. “Ah, the little lady from the jazz club.”

“You remembered.” A pleased Maggie took his hand.

“Of course.” He grinned. “I told you that same night, did I not, J.D., that this was a woman worth pursuing?”

“You did at that.” As J.D. approached, Maggie noticed the tall woman who accompanied him. She moved like a cloud, seeming to float across the cobbled walk without a sound.

“My wife, Aden,” Hobie introduced her, “you know
, of course, J.D.’s mother…
”—Luke embraced her warmly— “and this is his new wife—”

“Maggie Borders.” Maggie took in the woman with fascinated eyes.

Aden was fully as tall as her husband—a good six feet—but thread-slender where he was beefy, his roundness a stark contrast to her sharp angles. Her very bones appeared to define the colorful strapless dress, a sarong of sorts, which wrapped around her body and was held fast on one side by a large, plain disk of hammered gold. Her earrings, fashioned of gold beads, fell to her shoulders. Her hair was cropped short, her eyes the palest amber, almost
yellow in the midday sun, her skin a glowing deep brown, rich walnut to her husband’s lighter oak. She carried herself with a natural grace, an inborn dignity. Maggie had never seen a more singularly elegant human being. Aden acknowledged Maggie’s greeting with a slow smile but did not speak.

“We are early,” Hobie told them, “and I apologize if we have interrupted your preparations.”