The Unfinished Garden (10 page)

Rowena added another flower, then another to her daisy chain.
Finally, she closed up the link. “Oh, Haddy. You’re so wrong.”

No, you’re the one who’s wrong.

Sebastian strolled toward the blanket, trailing whining
children. “That’s it!” he declared. “Too much for an old geezer like me.”

“Good timing, Sophie.” Rowena held out the daisy chain.

“For me?” Sophie skipped toward Rowena. “Thank you.”

Isaac bounded up. “Wanna go make a hideout?” he asked
Archie.

Archie shrugged, but there was an eagerness in his eyes that
Tilly recognized.

Sophie could have been anyone’s daughter, with her round face
and bouncy blonde curls. And Tilly could look at Sophie and feel nothing but
admiration for her flare of defiance at lunch, when Archie had attempted to
bully his younger sister into giving up her chair. But looking at Archie,
Tilly’s breath caught in her throat. She saw Sebastian’s expressions, his
stance, his features. The only difference between father and son was eye color.
Archie’s eyes were the dark blue of her favorite salvia.

“Hey, Soph.” Isaac beamed at Sophie. “Wanna join us?”

Sophie nodded vigorously.

“He’s good with younger children.” Sebastian watched the kids
trundle off.

“The power of Montessori,” Tilly said. “He’s in a lower
elementary class, with first, second and third grades mixed together.”

Sebastian frowned slightly. Obviously, he had no idea what she
meant, but what were the chances he would ask her to translate the American
grade system? Zero, since he had deflected every remark she’d addressed to him
at lunch with minimum words.

Rowena laughed. “I hate to break this to you, chaps, but I
think your daughter, Sebastian, has a crush on your son, Tilly.”

Oh God, Sophie was prancing along beside Isaac, her hand tucked
into his. This—Tilly tugged on the edge of the blanket—was too weird.

“Rowena.” Sebastian sighed. “Sophie’s six. She adores any older
child who notices her. Christ, that sun feels good.” He rested back on his
elbows and crossed his ankles. “No doubt you’ve forgotten how we suffer from sun
deprivation on this side of the pond.”

So, he had finally directed an entire sentence at her. And it
was about the weather. Tilly preferred the notion of him sleeping with
Rowena.

“Ro, can we make a hideout in here?” Isaac’s voice came from
behind a huge Jerusalem sage, three times the size of the one Tilly had planted
five years ago. Gardener envy—finally, an emotion she could handle.

“Coming, dear heart!” Rowena called out. “Best go check on the
little pests.” She flipped over so that she was resting on all fours, then
wagged a finger covered in thin silver rings. “You two play nice, you hear?”

Tilly had a clear view down Rowena’s purple lace camisole into
her cleavage. And, given Sebastian’s strained cough, so did he. Rowena leaped up
and twirled toward the children, the sun highlighting her long, russet hair.

“She’s one of those women who becomes more beautiful with age,
isn’t she?” Tilly said, but Sebastian didn’t reply. He was staring toward the
kissing gate that led into The Chase, the ancient woodland dating back seven
hundred years. Which ghosts was he invoking? Those of two teenagers who sought
refuge and privacy in the ruined Dower House on the far side of the woods? Or
was he remembering the fourteen-and the sixteen-year-old who met at the bus
station on a damp November Sunday? A gang of local boys was teasing her when
this beautiful guy intervened. Of course, it was nothing she couldn’t handle,
but Sebastian became her savior that day, her protector. And here he was,
twenty-three years later, back in her life.

Dear God, he could have been a male model. An almost-forty
urban professional who had stepped from the pages of a Boden catalog. His skin
was smooth, blemish-free and golden-brown. Unlike Tilly, whose face turned pink
and broke out in a rash of freckles at the hint of sunshine, Sebastian tanned
easily and evenly. How did a blond manage that?

His eyebrows were still a shade darker than his hair and
neither too thick nor too thin. If Tilly hadn’t known him at sixteen, she might
have assumed he hired salon help to achieve eyebrows so impeccably arched. And
of course, he had that straight, sized-to-perfection nose, those cute lips,
those eyes that changed color with his mood….

“We need to talk,” Tilly said.

“You never used to be so blunt.” Sebastian gave his lopsided
smile, but it didn’t stay in place. “What happened?”

“Widowhood.” She reached for the bottle of champagne. “I have
no intention of doing this sober. You might want to follow my example.”

He picked up Rowena’s empty glass and held it out. Champagne
fizzed and gurgled into the glass flute as tiny bubbles exploded, releasing a
delicate, floral aroma that tickled the back of Tilly’s throat. But the
sensation was out of place. What, if anything, did she and Sebastian have to
celebrate? They were together but alone, abandoned by death or desertion.
Goodness, and she’d accused Rowena of being maudlin.
Pick
up your thoughts, Tilly, put them elsewhere.

“Let’s walk.” Tilly stood and so did Sebastian, but not before
he had ignored her outstretched hand.

* * *

Tilly paid no attention to where they were heading.
Neither, it seemed, did Sebastian.

“I heard you and Ro whispering in the car. About something you
need to tell me?” Still barefoot, Tilly kept her head down as she sidestepped
clumps of clover filled with bumblebees.

They had reached the edge of the lawn where it dipped into
acres of parkland sprinkled with grazing sheep and guarded by majestic sentinels
of oak and chestnut. This was the countryside of her childhood. And when it was
wrapped in the halcyon light of the English summer sun, nothing could compare. A
pheasant coughed, a yellowhammer sang
little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese,
and Tilly’s heart flipped with
pleasure.

A black-faced ewe waddled over to the rusted fence and bleated
at them.

“
Baa
to you, too,” Tilly
replied.

“My wife’s pregnant,” Sebastian said, and walked away.

Jealousy, an irrational response, winded her. Tilly grabbed the
wire in front of her and it shimmied frantically, startling the sheep. Why
couldn’t she find traction with Sebastian? Why was she hurtling down this
helter-skelter of overblown emotions—first hatred, now jealousy? This wasn’t
Tilly. She wasn’t mean, she wasn’t possessive and she wasn’t thoughtless. Was
she? How had she become the person who forced a man to make peace with an
adolescent romp when he was lost in the turmoil of his marriage? Of course the
poor man still loved his wife! Any nutter could see that. Blimey, she so needed
to get out from under herself.

Tilly ran after him. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? For a
reconciliation?”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Crap. You love her? Fight for her.”

Tilly linked her arm through Sebastian’s and they strolled on,
drifting nowhere. She expected him to stiffen or shy away. After all, public
affection horrified Sebastian. Once, when she tried to canoodle with him on a
street corner, he accused her of exhibitionism. But today he appeared
anesthetized to her touch.

They passed a latticework of clipped hedges and towering
topiaries, sloping banks of lavender, and massive stone urns half-filled with
gray soil, their decorations chipped away by decades of frost. Empty flowerpots
in midsummer were the absolute worst seasonal anachronism. Would Ro let her
plant some red, spiky cordylines or maybe a pair of lemon trees? Tilly felt a
tingle at the back of her throat, the gardener’s equivalent of a foodie
salivating over a Jamie Oliver recipe. God, she so needed to garden.

She was shocked to realize that Sebastian was talking. After
all, his silences could stretch across days. “I wanted more children. Fiona
didn’t,” he said. “I had a vasectomy after Sophie was born.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.” He gave his crooked smile. “My wife has not,
apparently, demanded a vasectomy of my former squash partner.”

“That’s good. Keep that righteous indignation. Then go tell her
how you feel.”

“I can’t have a rational conversation with her, Tilly. Her
hormones are raging.”

“Who said it had to be rational? Scream at her. Make her
understand how you feel!” What a ridiculous thing to say. Sebastian? Scream?

“Archie and Sophie have already heard too much.” His voice was
cold. “A clean break is best for them.”

“And what’s best for you?”

He removed her arm from his. “How is that relevant?”

They had reached the wrought-iron gate of the walled
garden.

“Let’s sit for a while,” Tilly said. “Enjoy Lady Roxton’s
garden.”

Tilly thrust her hip against the gate. It yielded with a groan,
and Sebastian followed her inside, his hand still gripping the champagne flute
he had yet to drink from. His boots crunched across the pea gravel as he
threaded his way through the garden, but Tilly froze. Behind once-symmetrical
borders—now a sprawling mishmash of anarchy—espalier-trained fruit trees reached
out as if holding up their arms in defeat. And who could blame them? Roses and
clematis strangled each other and clutched at heirloom perennials; self-seeded
annuals jostled with marauding weeds; ground elder choked blobs of thyme, sage
and rue.

Tilly bent down and tugged up a handful of groundsel. Rowena
had retained one full-time gardener, a hedges-and-edges man who seemed to spend
his life mowing, but still. How could Ro condone such neglect? Her mother would
be devastated. Or was that the point? Really, it was heartbreaking that a mother
and daughter had missed every signal of love to become family members who shared
nothing but a name. Tilly measured her happiness by Isaac’s. Most days she could
hardly contain her love for him, physically ached for him when they were apart.
She would never let hate or distrust come between them. She had failed him once
by not fighting for his father’s life. That single lesson, never to be repeated,
had taught her everything she needed to know about mistakes and regret.

Sebastian stopped by the bench under Lady Roxton’s beloved
Peace rose and threw himself down with one swift movement. He landed with his
legs crossed carelessly and an arm dangling over the back of the bench. Tilly
ditched the groundsel and joined him.

“If you don’t tell Fiona how you feel, you’ll never forgive
yourself,” Tilly said. “Best-case scenario, she still loves you. Worst case? You
move on. What have you got to lose?”

He dragged his arm forward to grip the champagne glass with
both hands. “Christ. You’ve become philosophical, too?”

“I would give the world for one last conversation with David.
To ask him—” But why follow that thought? The dead couldn’t forgive. “His last
day—I didn’t say goodbye. Trust me, closure matters.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “How Americans love their therapy
jargon.”

“That was uncalled for and you know it. You’re wallowing.” And
she wasn’t? She used to be good at this—finding words to comfort. Even in middle
school she was an emotional fixer, an average student who never made an awards
shortlist or the naughty roll, but who had one talent: listening. She could sit
next to a stranger on a bus and know her life story within fifteen minutes. When
had that stopped? Maybe she should take on James Nealy, teach him the joy only a
garden could give. Maybe it would be therapy for both of them.

“Wallowing gets you nowhere,” she said. “I should know.”

“Tilly, I’m done. I’ve agreed to talk with a solicitor. All I’m
asking for is a guarantee that I can see my children whenever I want.”

“You mean you won’t put them through the tug-of-war your father
inflicted on you?” Bugger, she’d said too much. It still upset her, though, the
fact of a parent choosing one of his children over the others as if he were
placing a take-out order from a restaurant. But that’s exactly what Sebastian’s
father had done by fighting for custody of his son and not his daughters.

Sebastian’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, and
the bones of his knuckles gleamed through his skin. “I’d prefer you not mention
my father. Especially not in front of the children.” His mouth twitched
slightly, an involuntary tic she remembered from his adolescence, a hint of
anger he would never release.

“Sebastian, you have to let go.”

“Why? Do you?”

“No, but I’m a widow, which means I can do whatever I please
and someone, somewhere, will criticize. I grieve too much…I don’t grieve enough.
I moved on too fast…I’m not moving on at all. I’ve stopped listening. Although
my mother thinks I’ve tuned myself out completely. I like to think that Isaac
and I stumble along in our own little fug.”

She laid her fingers on his forearm, just for a second, hoping
to reach the old Sebastian with the carefree giggle. “I thought you and Rowena
were having an affair.”

“Christ. Why would you think that?” He glared at the place
where her hand had been as if expecting his skin to blister. Was that how he saw
her—as a disease he could catch and never be cured of?

“Rowena’s car outside Manor Farm all night. Remember?”

“Oh.” He glanced up warily. “That.”

“That.”

“She turned up with some of her sloe gin as a housewarming
present. It’s good, by the way, although I don’t recommend drinking an entire
bottle in one night, as I did. Fiona had just called with her news when Rowena
bounded in like a stray puppy.

“I don’t remember much after the third glass,” Sebastian
continued. “I woke up the next morning, fully clothed, tucked up in my duvet.
When the room stopped spinning, I saw Rowena asleep in an armchair next to me,
wrapped up in the old dog blanket from her car. Christ, that thing stinks. One
whiff and I was puking for England. I’m not sure which was more impressive: that
she’d hauled me upstairs by herself—although, given the bruises I think she
dragged me—or that she held me over the lavatory for so long.” He shivered. So,
he was still frightened of throwing up, still remembered nearly choking on vomit
as a child with whooping cough.