The Unfinished Garden (6 page)

Poor James. She couldn’t imagine not being able to hold hands.
She loved that feeling of being weighted to another person. Holding hands was
the best of the best, and the one thing she missed most about her marriage. More
than sex, more than kissing. David had been a hand holder. He couldn’t even sit
next to Tilly on the sofa without reaching for her.

Tilly flattened her hand over her heart…and shrieked. Her sugar
cone had collapsed, and icy sludge oozed down her legs.

Chapter 6

James paced the apartment with his hands clasped behind
his neck, and tried to ignore the irritating flopping noises his leather slides
made on the wood floor. He could take a Clonazepam, that might help. But there
was no specific anxiety to dull, no chemical that could alleviate the tumble of
emotions racking his mind, half of which were contradictory. The silhouettes of
furniture surrounding him were exactly where they had been the day before.
Nothing in this room—including the stack of week-old New York Times in the
corner and the four remotes lined up on the right side of the coffee table—had
changed, so why did the world around him feel so different? Was it because Tilly
had gone, or was it because the hope of her had gone?

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
cooperate.” 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.