The Bones of You (8 page)

10

S
omething’s niggling in a corner of my mind. I don’t remember what it is until the next time I’m sitting in Jo’s kitchen, looking out at her garden.

“You know, that little apple tree, Jo . . . I’ve been thinking about it. That’s probably not the best place for it. I think I’d move it before it gets too established.”

She looks surprised. “Why? I like it there.”

“Well, from a gardener’s point of view, as it grows bigger, all the plants underneath will be in shade. And you won’t be able to reach the apples without treading on the underplanting.”

“To be honest, I’m not that bothered about the apples,” Jo says. “I’m happy with it where it is. If the plants need replacing, I’ll get someone to come and do it. You’re probably right, but just now, I have so much to think about.”

It’s against my gardening ethics, but I shrug. It’s her garden.

But in this post-normal world, something else doesn’t add up. After her heartbreaking declaration of guilt the other night, when she spent the evening sobbing her heart out, telling me how if she’d been a better mother, known where her own daughter was, Rosie might still be alive, Jo’s acting as though it never happened.

“Jo . . . since the other night, I’ve been really worried about you. Are things okay with you and Neal?”

I see from the way her shoulders tense, from the breath she takes in and holds, I’ve struck a nerve.

“Oh . . . yes.” When she turns round, her face is calm. “We talked. He was angry. We all say things in anger, don’t we? We were both upset. I’m so wrapped up in myself, I forget sometimes that he misses Rosanna just as much as I do. How can I do that?” For a moment, she looks stricken. “I understand why he said it. He feels as guilty as I do. We should have been able to stop it from happening. He didn’t mean to upset me. He’s a remarkable man, Kate.”

It’s what she always says about him. And yes, he is, and he does many good things. And they’re going through about the worst that can happen to any parent. But I can’t help thinking,
What kind of man lets his wife walk out, distressed and tearful, the wife whose heart is broken and who’s just lost their child?

And just this once, I push her on the subject.

“I’m glad, Jo, because you were so upset. I know all this is a nightmare, but even so—”

She doesn’t let me finish. “You know? You can’t know,” she flashes. “Grace’s at school, and she’ll come back. She’ll always come back. Rosanna’s gone
. Gone . . .
Do you really know how that feels?”

She stands there, her body trembling, her cheeks flushed pink, little knowing how agonizingly, painfully aware I am of this every time I see her.

Then the words rip out of her, a long, unbroken string of them.

“It’s hell, Kate. You have no idea.... One minute I think I’m coping, and then the next it’s like I’m falling into the deepest, darkest pit, and there’s no way out. It’s like part of me’s been cut off. . . . It hurts. So much. She’s my daughter. . . .”

I go toward her to offer comforting arms, a shoulder, but she pulls herself upright, and when she speaks again, it’s the flat, cold voice of a total stranger.

“I know you mean well. But I know why you’re here. You think by taking on
my
pain, you’re safeguarding your own family.”

I feel my cheeks cool as the blood drains from my face. Even though I know that this is her grief talking, that it’s targeted at me only because I’m here . . . Is she right? Is what I perceive as supporting, bolstering, caring for her ultimately just selfish?

“I’ll go,” I mumble, leaving the tea, picking up my bag. I know she’s hurting, but I’m out of my depth. I can’t reach her.

At the front door, I pause to look at her. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you, Jo. I only ever wanted to be a friend.”

As I speak, her face seems to change, taking on a desperate, tormented look, as she clutches at her hands.

“
I’m sorry
. . .
,
” she whispers. “I just wish they’d find the person who did this. Please, Kate. I should never have said that to you. You’ve been . . . such a good friend.... Oh God, what have I done?”

I’ve never witnessed such an extreme swing of emotion. There are tears in her eyes as she begs, “Please, don’t go. I need you.”

Her onslaught leaves me battered, but I see it for what it is. She’s lashing out at me because the strain is taking its toll, because her agony’s unbearable, because I’m here. What’s happened to Rosie could have happened to any teenager. Even Grace.

Still could happen. The murderer’s still out there.

 

“You’ve got too sucked in, Kate. Give her some space,” says Angus that evening, when I tell him.

“How can you say that?” Still raw after Jo’s outburst, I can’t bear another stab at me. How can he, when he knows how hard I’ve taken this? And isn’t it a measure of our friendship that Jo can say what she likes, be so honest? The truth can hurt; we all know that. And Jo’s hurting more than anyone can imagine.

“Hey. Don’t be mad. You’ve been a really good friend to her, Kate, but you can’t change anything. It sounds like she’s all over the place—not surprisingly, after what she’s been through. And what she said is true. None of us can really understand how she feels—thank God.”

I sigh. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

I know he’s right, but it’s not that simple. Has Jo’s grief become my grief? Have I somewhere along the way made myself responsible for her?

“Come here.”

I let him pull me close, my head against his shoulder. Maybe I have got too sucked in. Too involved. Maybe, for my sanity, I should step back.

 

A week later, a week during which I avoid any contact with the Andersons, I visit the wholesale nursery where I buy my plants. They’re holding one of their rare open days, displaying fabulous autumnal plants in rich earthy shades, with pots of bulbs and winter flowering shrubs stacked up behind, waiting to follow.

It’s what I need, like visiting an exhibition or going to a musical, only instead of flooding your senses with art or music, it’s about plants, their scents, colors, textures. Yes, I buy, but I enrich my soul and fire my imagination, taking away far more inside my head: images of sumptuousness, planting combinations, the endless possibilities of what time and the seasons can create.

“Morning, Dan.” I wave at the familiar figure coming toward me. I’ve known Dan for about ten years, soaking up the snippets of knowledge he imparts when the mood takes him. “You’ve outdone yourselves again! I love all of it!”

“Cheers, Kate.” He looks pleased. He and his team work tirelessly to put this on, but it’s good for business, and over the years, word has spread, drawing designers from miles around. “I’ve got some new bulbs you might like. You got time to take a look?”

“Definitely.” Excitement flickers inside me. In past seasons, Dan’s new varieties have set trends. He keeps a close eye on changing fashions. They also sell out extremely quickly.

“They’re in here.”

I follow him into a poly tunnel marked
STAFF ONLY,
honored to be one of his chosen few allowed behind the scenes on hallowed soil. Just then, his mobile rings.

“Sorry, Kate. Won’t be a minute.”

Breathing in the familiar earthy smell, I wander over and examine the large board where a picture of each flower is displayed. There are tulips, narcissi, amaryllis, hyacinths—in shades I’ve never seen before. My thrilled gardener’s heart skips a beat.

“Sorry, love.” Dan joins me. “I’m needed elsewhere. Take your time and have a look. If you want to order anything, talk to Alex over there.”

He’s looking at the young man at the far end of the tunnel, his back to us, methodically pricking out seedlings.

Then he turns to me and nods his head toward the door, gesturing me outside. Mystified, I follow him.

“Just so you know, he worked at that house where the young girl went missing. I’m only mentioning it because I know they’re just up the road from you. Don’t say anything, though. Hit him rather hard, I think.” He says it quietly, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

Dan knows where I live. In the past, he’s delivered to me. With every word, my curiosity builds, because I know, with certainty, I’ve found Jo’s mysterious gardener, and no way can I leave without talking to him.

But I’ve work to do first. I’m taking my time, studying the plants, mentally constructing what I want to create and noting down quantities. It’s not long before I hear footsteps coming toward me.

“Do you need any help?”

Looking up, I get my first close look at Alex. He’s taller than me and, I’d guess, in his early twenties, dark haired, with a gardener’s tan from days spent working outside. Striking looking, but with wary eyes and an aloofness in his manner, which means I don’t warm to him.

“I think I’m done,” I tell him. “Here.”

I pass him my list, and he reads through it, then nods slowly. “They’re good together,” he says. “I sketched something earlier based on the same varieties. If you hang on, I’ll try and find it.”

I watch him rummage on the tabletop, from which he produces an A4 sheet, and I’m surprised to see that as well as designing gardens, he can draw, far better than I can. He’s sketched a winter flower bed to die for, in a drawing that would look great in a frame, hung on a wall.

“White narcissi, with gaultheria in the foreground,” he points out. “Then by the time the narcissi go over, you’ve got burnt-orange tulips and green viburnum taking center stage. I’ve put in other colors, too, just here and there. A bit of hot pink and that black one. Thought it looked better kept simple.”

“It’s stunning,” I tell him.

Alex shrugs. “It’s not groundbreaking. People think they like the unusual, but when it comes to their own garden, mostly they like things a bit traditional.”

It’s exactly what I find. There will always be the odd client with a taste for the avant-garde, but mostly people like English-garden flowers that they know the names of, the same ones that have been around for years.

“That’s exactly it. But if you’re a designer, what are you doing working for Dan?” Trying not to appear overly interested, but I can’t help wondering if those dark, impassive eyes that tell me nothing might be hiding something.

Alex frowns, and I feel his eyes boring into me.

I’m suddenly uncomfortable. “Dan mentioned you used to work for the Andersons. But only because he knows I live nearby.”

He just shrugs.

“Actually, I’m glad I’ve met you. I’m really impressed with their garden. I love the borders.” Trying to defuse his obvious hostility and strike a more friendly tone, watching the expression on his face remain unchanged.

“It’s always easy when your client throws money at it.” He sounds bitter, as though he resents them. “They didn’t mind what I spent as long as it looked ‘impressive,’ I think the brief was. ‘Expensive’ may have been in there, too.”

I nod.
Impressive
and
expensive
describe everything about the Andersons’ house, but then why not? They can clearly afford it.

“I think they miss you. Or the garden does. . . .” It’s meant harmlessly. Humorously, even. I’m not expecting the look like thunder that crosses his face.

11

November

A
nother week goes by, the tenth since Rosie went missing, a week in which autumn eventually takes a hold and, after the summer we’ve had, brings a year’s worth of leaves down almost overnight. It’s another week in which I don’t see Jo, nor do I hear from her. It’s only by chance, when I’m driving home after work one afternoon, that I see Delphine.

It’s her hair that catches my eye. Rosie’s hair, only longer and clipped back off her face. She’s walking along the pavement in small, precise steps, looking straight ahead, until I slow down and pull over.

“Delphine? It’s me. Kate. Your mum’s friend. Would you like a lift?”

Alarm, then a flicker of recognition cross her face. Does she wonder at every passerby? If
that man
who looks like someone’s father, or
that woman
with the fair hair, who looks completely innocent but might not be, could they have killed her sister?

She climbs into the passenger seat. “Thank you,” is all she says.

I wait for the click of her seat belt, then drive on.

“How is school?”

“Fine, thank you.” Her voice is girlish, but then she’s twelve. So young—far too young to know this kind of grief.

“I haven’t seen your mum for a while,” I say. “How is she?”

“She’s okay.”

“Is she at home, do you know?” It’s the perfect excuse to just pop in and say hello to her.

Delphine hesitates. “She might be. I don’t know.”

When I pull up outside their house, she doesn’t meet my eyes, just gets out and picks up her bag.

“Thank you for giving me a lift.”

“You’re welcome.” I frown. Both Neal and Jo’s cars are parked in the drive. “You know, I haven’t seen her for a while,” I repeat. “I might just go in and say hello.”

But Delphine says nothing as she walks toward the door, then pushes it open, leaving it ajar for me to follow.

I stop just inside. “Hello? Jo? It’s me. Kate . . .”

I hesitate, thinking perhaps she’s still mad at me, but as I turn to go, I hear a man’s voice.

“Kate? Thank you for dropping Delphine back. It’s good of you.”

Neal’s coming toward me, in jeans and an open-necked shirt.

“It was no problem. I was driving right by. I hoped I might see Jo.”

“Ah.” He glances away, slightly guarded. “When did you last see her?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” I shrug, making light of it. “I just wondered how she was, that’s all.”

He nods. “It’s good of you. Look, she has one or two things going on at the moment. She’s gone away. Just for a while.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’ll be fine.” Then he studies me. “Actually, do you have a minute?”

When I come away half an hour later, I’ve learned that Neal cares deeply for his wife and that, not surprisingly, Jo is struggling more than she lets on, as he told me.

“She’s gone away . . . to rest, mostly. She’s been working too hard—for me, I’m afraid—as well as everything else. I’m hoping it’ll do her good, just getting away from here.”

We’re sitting across the kitchen table from each other, Neal leaning on his elbows, hands clasped, his eyes trained on them.

“Poor Jo. I had no idea things were still so difficult.” Realizing too late the crassness of my words, because how could they not be? Thinking,
If I’d lost Grace
. . .

He pauses, frowning at the table, considering something. Then he looks up. “Has she told you she’s been ill?”

It’s the first I’ve heard about an illness. I shake my head. “No. She hasn’t.”

“Joanna . . .” He hesitates. “Her life hasn’t always been easy. She had a breakdown, Kate. A lot of stuff caught up with her. From the past. Stuff she’d buried for a long time. But that’s what happens. And it’s always just when you think life’s going your way. . . .” He breaks off. “She’s very good at hiding things. You must have noticed. Particularly since Rosanna
died
. . .”

His voice cracks, and then I get it, that every second of every day, for Neal and Jo, in this house, surrounded by their memories, there will never be any escape from what’s happened.

“I didn’t know, but she’s surprised me,” I say honestly. “Just the way she’s kept going. If it was me, I don’t think I’d be capable of anything.”

“The thing is . . .” He trails off. “It’s hard to put into words, but you keep going because you have to, but it’s always there. Guilt. You can’t stop thinking about it.... And as soon as you forget, even for a few seconds, you feel guilty, Kate.
So guilty
. . . Guilty that it happened and we couldn’t do something. Guilty that we’re here and she isn’t.” He slumps, defeated. “That’s where we are, I guess. Both of us.”

Wishing in some small way I could help them all, my heart reaches out to him, because he’s clearly hurting just as much as Jo is, and to add to it, he has to prop her up, too. I feel an overwhelming sadness at how unfair it is that one person must bear so much alone.

I come away knowing that in spite of the blowup, his outburst at Jo, Neal’s a good man.

It occurs to me only much later that I’ve forgotten to tell him I met Alex.