“Is the garden center at Codswallop open today?” she asked.
“Middle Wallop.” Andrew laughed. “Yes, I’m sure it is but not for an hour at least.”
“Where’s Gabe?” she asked.
Gabe rounded the corner just then, and a great grin spread across his face at the sight of Sorrel. He approached, and Sorrel reached out with both arms. Gabe rocked her in a hug as Andrew stood by beaming.
“We’ll have to get back at it,” Sorrel said to Gabe.
He nodded and led her over to the greenhouse. Just inside it were flats and flats of plants. Not just seedlings this time but some strong, nearly full-grown specimens as well. There were trellised pots of sweet peas, already out of season but somehow bursting, seven peony bushes lined up like frivolous soldiers, their blossoms heavy and round, golf-ball-sized buds bobbing in the breeze, and a cluster of rose bushes, sparkling in the sun, the soil in their containers deep and dark and damp from Gabe’s hose. A pallet of herbs and low-growing ground cover sat beside a small lilac tree, and a long row of boxwood marched tidily along in blue-green splendor.
“How, when, where . . .?” Sorrel darted between the plants, brushing her hand across each one, cooing and laughing, the damp flicking sand and soil up her calves.
“I kept some plants back,” Gabe signed. “I had the nursery open early for us.”
“You wonderful elf, you!” Sorrel sang. “Come on, then. Let’s get started. It’s going to be a hot one.”
Gabe and Sorrel began loading the barrow, happily up to their elbows in dirt and leaves. Today, reckless in their joy, neither wore gloves. Sorrel, adrenaline high, would not notice her fatigue until she paused at the end of the day.
Andrew left them to their work and drifted off to the chapel. He hadn’t even glanced at the plans for the solstice service, and now he’d have to buckle down if he wanted to serve Anna as well. It was cool in the chapel as Andrew went to find the sponge pole. He remembered that he’d left it with Gabe. He’d have to jury-rig something to check the water level. Andrew walked to the altar and stood looking out over the small nave. He pictured the pews full of family and friends and wished that there were an organ for service instead of the piano borrowed from the primary school. The altar cloth Delphine had made was beautiful, Andrew could see that now. It seemed like yesterday and a hundred years ago that Stella had tried to catch his interest by pointing out the intricate embroidery, the flowers and herbs scattered across it as if an unseen gardener had left a drift of nature’s finery to honor the chapel. He bent closer, almost certain he could smell the scents of the garden in the cloth itself. He ran his finger over the stitches and found, at the hem, a tiny fairy house sewn into the ribbon trim. Andrew smiled and understood that Delphine, too, had found a resolution in the garden and in this soon-to-be-sacred house.
As he stood, Andrew began to settle into the idea of making this church his own. He felt, for the first time in months, the swell of love and gratitude that formed the base of his faith, the bedrock of his confidence. His certainty grew, like the garden, until there was no room for doubt. Andrew would make this little chapel a place of comfort and joy. He would shape the primary school in the village after his beloved Chelsea school, and he would ensure that the old and young in this village always knew they could come to him in sorrow and in celebration. With Sorrel by his side, at least for some weeks to come, Andrew would answer God’s call to minister with a resounding yes.
ANDREW SPENT THE rest of the day at the Tithe Barn working on the consecration service while Sorrel and Gabe dug and planted with single-minded devotion to the garden. It seemed that every able-bodied soul was engaged in the work of life at last. Sorrel was shaky but determined. Her shorts were soon splattered with mud, and she’d tossed her straw hat away because it threw shade over her work. Her sunburn returned, but the heat felt fine as she worked. Gabe mopped his face, handed her bottles of water, and followed behind her tamping down the soil with his hands, spreading mulch and manure around each fresh plant. They missed lunch without missing food so that by three o’clock when clouds rolled in and a hint of rain nudged at their bent backs, Gabe and Sorrel were ready to stop for the day.
THIS IS HOW it went for them all: hard work followed by rest followed by more hard work. Andrew found a wellspring of hope and purpose as he readied the chapel and himself. Each afternoon he came home to Sorrel in the Tithe Barn. They made love and laughed and scattered soil and scented herbs around them as they tumbled across the sheets. Wags was easily distracted with a chewy treat while her master wove his love around Sorrel until she couldn’t think, only feel.
In the evenings the family gathered at Kirkwood Hall. Sometimes Andrew cooked, sometimes Delphine. There was a bounty of vegetables from the kitchen garden: tiny pattypan squash, radishes both peppery and sweet, beets striped deep magenta and white, golden and green, butter lettuce and spinach and peas, zucchini blossoms stuffed with Graham’s mozzarella and salty anchovies. Delphine whipped eggs from the chickens into soufflés. Chicken—from the chickens, sadly—were roasted in a Dutch oven or grilled under a brick. Plump strawberries from the fields and minuscule wild ones from the forest were served with a drizzle of balsamic syrup or a billow of whipped cream. Delphine’s baking provided custardy tarts, flaky pastries, and deep, dark chocolate cake. She’d recently begun experimenting with ice cream, to Poppy’s huge satisfaction, and Stella, a benevolent smile wreathing her face, sat regally, drinking in the happiness. Those days were an idyll that they all deserved but still could not entirely trust. Perhaps that is what made it so very sweet.