Sorrel wondered if his parishioners ever guessed at the divine physique that hid beneath Andrew’s cassock.
Sorrel filled everyone in on the garden’s progress over dinner, and after coffee Stella brought out an ice-filled bowl of Italian cherries. Soon stems and pips piled up in front of each place, and everyone’s fingers were stained crimson. Stella swept them into her palm, tossed Wags the last piece of focaccia and announced she was retiring.
Graham and Andrew and Sorrel sat around the table a bit longer. Graham seemed distracted now that the meal had ended or perhaps because Stella was gone. Andrew found himself talking too much, and Sorrel was overcome with exhaustion. When Graham stood abruptly and went up to Stella, there was no reason to stay. Andrew and Sorrel loaded the dishwasher and walked back to the Tithe Barn in the kind of comfortable silence that belonged to friends of many years. They fell into bed; Wags nestled between them and for the first time since their unexpected cleaving, they did not make love. It was a pleasant revelation for them both, this coming together that only led to dreams.
It was no surprise that Andrew didn’t stay with her in the garden on that last planting day, and just as well. It felt right and proper that Sorrel and Gabe finish things together. It felt just so when Sorrel returned to the Tithe Barn after the small grass lawns were mown and the deadheading and tidying done to find Andrew sitting on the sofa with Wags, a pint glass in his hand and a sheaf of papers beside him.
“You are come home to me, your man of letters,” Andrew said. “And also to the glossy meatloaf beside me.”
“I am,” Sorrel said. “I am come home.” She ignored the twinge, the truth of the words, and slid the image of her sisters away.
THE WAXING MOON shed little light on the garden that night. A shiver of movement moved over the plants in a wave. It might have been the wind if there were any, but the air was still. In a far corner the poppies that should have been forming seedpods were still open like shallow bowls to lure bees. As the moon drifted behind the clouds, the poppies drooped and the cowslip folded in on itself. The eglantine rose that Sorrel had planted to scent the air in that corner bent forward, crooked and woody unlike any of the other roses. There was a chill in that corner of the garden, a shadow that did not lift even when the moonlight returned. The garden and her plants around it gathered itself, shying away from the darkness that reached out to them all.
CHAPTER 17
Willow
Graham woke with a start on the day Sorrel had chosen to show the family the Shakespeare Garden. She had hinted at the success of her planting, and Gabe had certainly been far cheerier of late, so Graham pushed his anxiety away and crept quietly down to the kitchen. He found the detritus of Poppy’s arrival in the hall: an open backpack, a duffle, and her clunky boots now in the possession of the dogs. He smiled and allowed himself a moment of undiluted joy. It was true that Poppy had struggled being the oldest. Rupert and Sophia were more like their mother, easy and gracious in their privilege. Poppy had always chafed against the attention and found the responsibility of her family’s position an archaic burden. Her two years off from school, and the Kirkwoods, had begun in anger and rebellion but had mellowed her in the end. It had also given her perspective. Graham knew that she saw him more clearly, for good or ill. He couldn’t bear any more of her harsh judgments, her doubts that age-old entitlement couldn’t be transformed into a greater good. And now, with all that had transpired with Sorrel’s presence, it was nearly impossible to keep a secret from Poppy even when he most wanted to.
With the kettle on Graham sat down with the newspapers in the kitchen. The warmth of the coming day was just a whisper this early, but he knew it would be beautiful and clear by the time the family gathered in the garden. A frisson of fear sidled up to his anticipation, and Graham pulled his dressing gown closer.
When Gabe came in through the larder, Graham startled.
“I forget that you are such an early riser,” he said. “Tea?”
Gabe nodded and got down a cup. He joined Graham at the table and poured from the pot. Gabe rarely spoke; his voice was raspy from disuse, and his words were not so easily understood. But sometimes words were what was needed. Since Graham had known him before he went deaf, he encouraged Gabe not to be silent in his presence. So, even though they could both sign nearly as fast as Andrew, when they were alone, Graham wished for Gabe’s voice. In a way Gabe’s ability to speak was another of his secrets, and he revealed it only when words were the only way to be heard.
“Sorrel has remade the garden,” Graham said. “You see, Gabe, we have broken whatever curse has shadowed us, and we can all stand in the light again.”
“At what cost?” Gabe asked. “What next?”
Graham wanted to snap at Gabe. What cost? He thought, seventy thousand pounds all in, that’s at what cost! But he didn’t say anything.
They drank their tea in silence. Graham kept his eyes on the paper, and Gabe stroked the funny little dog that had become his tail of late. Graham had a vague idea that it was one of their hounds and gave it a pat as he stood.
“I guess I should smarten up, eh?” he said to Gabe, who was in his usual worn trousers and boots.