The Unfinished Garden (27 page)

The church bells clashed through the first peal of Friday night
bell ringing practice. Jeez, they were loud, but not loud enough to drown out
the babble of thoughts, all variations on a theme: Where was James? Was he over
the graveyard of the
Titanic
or halfway down the
Eastern seaboard? This was
sooooo
not good. Unwanted
thoughts, very unwanted thoughts. What would James tell her to do?
Let them drift away, like clouds floating across the
sky.
She looked up again.
Same old clouds
hanging around, looking nine months pregnant.

The blackbird tuned up for his evening serenade, swallows
dipped and circled overhead and soil shot from under the hedge as Monty
excavated another carcass. The garden was fresh with the smell of rain and Tilly
inhaled deeply, desperate to harvest the memory. But the buzz of happiness
sputtered and died, crushed by the cold realization that Woodend would never be
a Haddington stronghold again. The garden, the furniture, the decor, all would
be unrecognizable. Oh God, she and Sebastian could end up having sex in her
parents’ bedroom one day.

“Isaac likes nature, doesn’t he?” Sebastian bent down and
picked up a dead peacock butterfly, which he placed on the table between them.
“I think I’ll frame this for him. I’ve just emptied a ton of photo frames.”

“Throwing away pics of Fiona?” Tilly lacked the mental
wherewithal for marriage guidance, but she raised her eyebrows in what she hoped
was an encouraging gesture. Now and again you had to be a passenger in the
conversation, especially if you were the drunk girl.

“All but one that I’ve kept for the children’s sake.” Sebastian
sighed. “I couldn’t decide who James was after—you or Rowena.”

“He came here to hire me, Sebastian. End of story.” If she
repeated it enough, she might believe it. And she needed to believe it so that
Sebastian would. James had been banging on about truth, but truth was overrated.
Why torture Sebastian with it? One of them was in alcohol-induced purgatory;
that was enough. She really shouldn’t have had that second gin. Or the third one
that tasted like paint stripper because she couldn’t leave a dribble in the
bottom of the bottle.

Sebastian uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “I realize you’re a
talented gardener, but if you’re moving back to England, shouldn’t you consider
returning to publicity? After all, your earning potential would be far
greater.”

This was what happened when she let Sebastian steer the
conversation. They jumped from dead butterflies to ex-wives to James to free
financial advice. The guy was firing conversational blanks. What did he really
want to say? Goddess divine, come back to me?

“Return to PR? I’d rather eat the contents of my compost bin.
It’s a career for—” she hiccuped. God, she was plastered “—second fiddles.”
Tilly drained her glass, even though it was empty, and slammed it onto the
table. She liked the sound, so she did it again. “Anyway, I’m expanding my
highly
successful wholesale business into a retail
nursery.”

Wow. That wasn’t a throwaway statement intended to goad. She
felt none of the hesitancy she had earlier when she’d made the same declaration
to Ro. Double wow.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder as if seeking
reinforcements. Or was he considering a runner? Who knew with him?

“I thought you wanted to move back here?” he said.

Oopsy. She should have told him she’d shelved the England
dream. But then again, she hadn’t been entirely sure until that moment. She
grappled for his hand and folded it into her own.

“Nope, not staying.” Once again, she had boxed them in. But
they weren’t teenagers anymore, desperate for a quick grope. They’d worn down
the treads of their lives. They could take things slow. “If I leave, that
doesn’t have to mean anything for, you know, us.”
Us?
There was no
us.
Damn, she was worse
at this than he was. “Why don’t we just stay connected and see what happens?”
Now that didn’t sound too scary.

“Forget the whole sex thing you mean?” Sebastian grinned at
her.

“You look relieved.” And what did she feel? Nothing. One huge
nothing.

“James brought out the tomcat in me. Made me mark territory. I
was worried I had become my father’s son, thinking with my dick. And now the
pressure’s off? Yes. I am relieved.”

“’Cos you’re in love with another woman?” The question sat on
her chest, heavy and solid. No one had mentioned Fiona in weeks, and Sebastian
had grown lighter, as if he’d wiggled free of his worries. Or maybe he had
simply followed the standard Sebastian operating manual and buried his feelings
deeper. He might be ripping up photos but he still loved his wife. He’d told
Tilly as much that day they’d had lunch at the Hall.

“You still love your wife, don’t you?”

Sebastian eased his hand away and shuffled his chair closer.
“The answers to your questions are yes and no. Tilly, can we kiss?”

She hadn’t kissed a man in three years, hadn’t kissed anyone
but David in thirteen, and wasn’t sure her failed attempt with James meant
anything. The equivalent of a victory dance, surely. But this was Sebastian, the
first boy she’d ever kissed. And even if her brain panicked and said, “How do I
do this?” her body would remember.

He flung his arm over the back of her chair. “Please?”

“Sure.” How could she refuse when he asked so politely? “Kiss
me.” She threw her arms around his neck, falling into a dance she hadn’t
practiced in years, but knew with clarity. Their lips fit together like the last
two pieces of a jigsaw, but her pulse didn’t race. It slowed. So, that was why
he’d asked for permission. Suddenly, she felt sober.

“There’s no passion. Is there?” she said, before he could.

“I’m sorry, Tilly.” Sebastian’s eyes were clear blue today. “I
had to be sure.”

They remained tethered by her arms, surrounded by silence laden
with history: The first time she saw him, so beautiful she couldn’t breathe;
their first kiss during the school bop, with Paul Weller singing “You’re the
Best Thing” and everything tingling from her toes up; the first time they made
love—the latex smell of the condom, the act itself clumsy and painful; his face
when she said, “I’ve met the man I’m going to marry.”

His face seconds earlier, before he kissed her for the last
time.

“I guess I succeeded,” Sebastian said, “when I vowed to cut you
from my life.” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away from her. They were suspended
in time, delaying the moment that she had been deprived of with David—a final
goodbye. She ran her fingers up into Sebastian’s hair, desperate to remember the
softness. But his hair was matted with gel and her fingers retreated. It felt
nothing like the memory.

“It would have been so easy,” Sebastian said, “to slip back
into what was. Please believe me when I tell you part of me wanted that.”

“Just because something’s easy, doesn’t make it right.” After
all, her favorite hiking trail behind Creeping Cedars wound through a forest of
poison ivy and prime copperhead habitat. The other trails were less hazardous
but lacked the spectacular vista. Amazing, what she’d risk for a view that stole
her breath.

“I’m sorry, Tilly. I can’t love you again. It’s just…not
there.”

Men who couldn’t love her seemed to be a new theme in her
life.

Something snapped in her mind. She almost heard it ping.

“You know, I’m not ready for this merry-go-round of love. With
anyone.” A smile sneaked out. She had fantasized about two men, neither of them
David, and the sky hadn’t fallen. That was enough for now—a start, a hope for
some unimagined future where love would come easily. And thanks to James and
Sebastian, she had a parachute. “Will you at least send the odd email this time,
so we can take a stab at friendship?”

But instead of answering, Sebastian jumped up and knocked a
small, potted fuchsia from the patio table. Tilly made a dive to catch it but
missed. The ceramic pot smashed onto the concrete, and Sebastian dropped to his
knees, his face scarlet.

“Christ,” he mumbled, scooping up potting soil and pieces of
pottery. “Sorry.”

Tilly wanted to reassure him, but he looked so pathetic that
words failed her. Instead, she grabbed the fuchsia and shoved it into her glass.
“Here.” She held it out. “Pack in that handful of soil.” But Sebastian stood,
dirt tumbling down his leg.

“That must have been quite some kiss,” Rowena called from under
the rose arch. She strode across the lawn, swinging a large wicker basket
shrouded with a tea towel. “Didn’t mean to spoil the party. I assumed you’d be
up at the Farm.” She lifted the edge of the tea towel and a delicious warm smell
sank into Tilly’s stomach. “Got bored and did some cooking, but you know me—over
the top as usual. Made three of them before I’d realized what I was doing.”

“Hmm. Pheasant lasagna,” Tilly said. Damn, she was famished.
“You doll.”

“Thought I’d offload this one on Mrs. H. But here, you chaps
have it.” Rowena put the basket on the table and backed up with exaggerated
steps, like a cartoon character preparing to run away. “Snog on without me.”

“Wait!” Tilly reached across the table. “Why don’t the three of
us have supper here? Like old times.”

“No.” Sebastian was frantically brushing dirt from his chinos.
“You stay, Rowena. I’ll leave.”

“What’s going on?” Rowena scowled at Tilly. Then she turned to
Sebastian. “Sebastian?” But he hooded his face with his hands and didn’t
reply.

Rowena whirled around, her arms tensed as if grabbing an
imaginary bar. “Aren’t you tired of this game yet, Tilly—spin Sebastian around
and break his heart? Well, it’s not on.”

“Wow. Time out. Why’re you angry?” Tilly considered saying
something along the lines of
It’s his fault, he did
it.
But instead she opened her arms in surrender. “It’s not what you
think. Sebastian’s not in love with me. He’s still in love with Fiona.” She made
soothing downward motions with her palms. “Nothing bad happened here. No
massacre of anyone’s heart. Sebastian’s fine, I’m fine. One big happy family,
right John Boy?”

Sebastian raised his head. “I have to leave.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Drop it, Tilly.”

“Okay, so I forgot you used to hate
The
Waltons,
but you don’t have to dash off all embarrassed. I don’t care
that you still love your wife and neither does Rowena. No, that came out wrong.
Of course we care. We care deeply, don’t we, Ro?”

“Stop.” Sebastian’s shout jolted Tilly into silence. She and
Rowena exchanged glances. When had he ever raised his voice? “I’m not in love
with my wife. Happy?”

“So why did you tell me—” Tilly stood.

“I didn’t. You made that assumption and I let you. Christ,
Tilly.” He rubbed his jaw, leaving a smudge of soil under his mouth. “Why do you
always force me to examine my feelings? Do you know how painful that is? I shut
down, follow assumptions people make, because it’s the only way I know how to
protect myself. I’m not like you and I never will be. I can’t talk about love.
I’m a coward—” he held up his hands “—one who believed, up until this moment,
that anything was easier than facing the truth. And its repercussions.” His
glare shifted to Rowena, but the frown fell away, his face transformed by the
saddest smile Tilly had ever seen. And this time he didn’t have to test his
feelings with a kiss.

Expletives formed in Tilly’s mind. She opened her mouth and yet
nothing came out, not even a squeak. Not that Sebastian or Rowena would have
heard her. They were staring at each other, Rowena so washed out even her lips
were colorless.

“I love you,” Sebastian said, his eyes dancing over Rowena’s
face as if he were committing her features to memory. “And I understand if you
want me out of the Farm. I can pack up this weekend.” He sucked in his chest.
“If you don’t want to see me again, tell me now. I’ll have to talk with Mrs.
Haddington, explain that I can’t buy Woodend.”

“No!” Rowena screamed. Inside the house Monty howled a macabre
duet, and Mrs. Haddington ordered him into silence.

Rowena grappled for the back of a chair, the one Sebastian had
been sitting on minutes earlier. “How dare you say that after twenty-three years
of being my best friend’s boyfriend, my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, my best
friend’s? Twenty-three years, Sebastian. Doesn’t that count for anything?” She
shoved the chair away; it crashed into the table. “If this is some petty attempt
to get back at Tilly for James, to make her jealous, I’ll rip out your gizzards.
Tilly and Isaac are my family, and if you want to hurt them, you have to get
through me first. Go back to the Farm and pack up your possessions before I have
you evicted.” She pointed at random, waving her arm toward a revolving horizon,
her bangles clanging against each other. “Get out!”

You tell him, sister.
Tilly put her
hands on her hips.

“No. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not leaving.” Sebastian spoke
slowly, in sharp contrast to Rowena’s staccatos of fury. Tilly stared agog. He
was going to get such a mouthful. “I want to make a declaration of love for the
woman who has stood by me always, even though I’ve been too stupid to realize.”
He stepped toward Rowena. “And I’m going to admit to the fact that I’m buying a
house to be near the woman I love.” Tilly gasped. Sebastian talked over her as
if she were air. “When we went out for dinner and you offered me the Farm, it
was as if we were meeting for the first time. And you looked—” He gave a soft
smile. “Christ, you looked like an angel come to save me. I felt as if I were
returning from the dead. And then you told me Tilly was coming home, and I
allowed myself to listen to uncertainty. I thought I was too messed up to know
my own heart. But when James was alone with you every night, I—I wanted to kill
him.”