Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Irun down the hallway, Jeff calling after me.
He sees his reputation in shambles. I see nothing except the two of them, tangled up in each other. And I can’t help the bizarre thought that somehow, I knew.
He always talked about how Clara, with her cool, wild hair and tattoos, was someone he couldn’t tell his parishioners about, but she knew exactly how to do his hair just right.
She’s not anywhere near my type, Maggie. My type is you.
“Bastard!” I scream.
It’s the last word I cry before I smash through the door and back into that rose garden.
I spin around. Where do I go?
The gardener appears in the doorway I just came through. He fills it.
Then Jeff is behind him, yelling. Clara’s nowhere to be seen, of course.
Jeff tries to shove past the big man in his way.
The man doesn’t let him. It’s like he barely notices Jeff’s there.
All his attention is on me. He searches my face, as if asking me what to do. I get the strangest feeling that the man would turn around and clock Jeff if I told him to.
I pause. Then I stalk back to the door. “Don’t come out, Jeff. You stay inside and think about what you did.”
Okay, so my confrontational skills are normally limited to dealing with eight-year-olds drawing mustaches in picture books.
So I tag on “you fuck.”
Well, that felt good.
“Maggie, come on, there’s no need for profanity,” Jeff says. “Let’s talk about this.” He’s still trying to get past the giant in the doorway, which is also very satisfying.
“Oh, I disagree,” I say. “I believe this is the perfect time for profanity.”
I look up at the man.
What do you need? the man’s eyes ask me. He looks at me the way he touched that rose, like I deserve all the care in the world.
I think that’s what makes me crack.
The man stares intently at my face.
Eyes suddenly blurry with tears, I say, “Take me away from him. Somewhere where there are no people. No people at all.”
The man steps forward, which releases Jeff.
Jeff stumbles and falls on his ass on the flagstones.
I would laugh if this was funny.
“Maggie, be reasonable,” he says as he gets up.
He reaches for me, but I put a hand on the big man’s arm. “Now, please.”
The man shoves a hand at Jeff’s chest, keeping him back.
Jeff struggles against him. “What are you doing, asshole? That’s my fiancée.”
“Not anymore,” I say.
Still, Jeff struggles.
Then the man does something I never expected. He lets go of Jeff, but only to make the most wild, deranged face I’ve ever seen. His eyeballs pop, tongue sticks out. He raises his arms up.
Jeff actually yelps.
Now I do laugh, because that was so ridiculous, so perfect. It was the only thing that actually got Jeff to stop struggling.
I look at my fiancé, pointing a finger at his stupid, handsome face. “Don’t follow me, Jeff. If you follow me, I’ll get my friend here to punch you in the balls.” Kick, Maggie. People usually kick people in the balls.
But the man plays along, forming a fist. God, his hand is huge.
Jeff blanches, his hands going over his crotch.
“And if you still don’t listen,” I say, my voice containing a steely quality I don’t recognize as coming from me, “I’ll call everyone and tell them exactly what I saw.”
But it works. Or maybe it’s the giant fist at the gardener’s side. It doesn’t matter. Jeff relents, hanging his head.
“Okay. Okay, Maggie. Just take a minute to cool down. I’ll stay here.”
Like he has a choice.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re getting ready,” he continues. “I—”
“Stop talking, Jeff,” I say with less venom than exhaustion. Then I spin on my heel, ignoring him, and reach for my white knight, the gardener I’m absolutely imposing on in the most insane way.
But he doesn’t seem to care. He points down a path that looks a little less trodden than the rest. Past a sign that says Staff Only.
And then we’re gone.
We walk in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s exactly what I need.
Ten minutes later, we’re at a part of the island I didn’t know existed. After a slight slope through the trees and around a bend, we step into a little glade.
It’s still sheltered from the sea, but it’s got a peekaboo view of it in the distance. There are trees stretching up on all sides—deciduous trees, unlike the evergreens covering the rest of the island. Maples and Dogwoods and Garry Oak, their late spring leaves thick and fluttering in the breeze.
But that’s not what draws my eye. What I’m fixated on is the little cottage perched in the middle of the tiny meadow at the center. It’s wood, painted a soft blue, and two stories high.
If I could paint a picture of the most peaceful, perfect, beautiful place in the world, this would be it. It looks, actually, like what I tried so hard to describe when the therapist Mom sent me to after Dad died asked me to picture a safe place.
And when we walk around to the other side?
My jaw drops. Sun filters through the trees onto a wide back deck lined with trellises.
On the trellises grow huge, mature roses somehow even more beautiful than the ones in the hotel garden.
The deck has a wrought-iron table and chairs and two plush outdoor chairs.
I follow the man onto the deck, not once thinking I shouldn’t be here.
Because, strangely, this feels like the only place in the world I should be.
The man sweeps his hand to the chairs, and I sit on the end of one of the loungers.
I close my eyes and inhale, taking in all the smells and sounds.
Roses are the predominant scent. But I smell grass, too, probably from the little meadow on the other side of the trellises. I hear the faint babble of water.
That’s when I start to cry.
I bury my face in my hands, sobbing like an absolute fool.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, crying—wailing, actually—as I bury my face in my flouncy lap.
It must be a while, because when I finally look up again, snuffling, I’m alone.
I feel better for having let loose some of those feelings, though I still feel a little unlike myself. Like I’ve floated here on some kind of fairy bubble, landing in a safe and imaginary place where I’ll be looked after, free from harm or suffering.
I take a breath and stand up, looking around. There’s a box of tissues on the little patio table, as well as a glass of water.
He’s giving me space.
I’m so touched by the man’s thoughtfulness, I almost cry again. Whenever I had feelings with Jeff, he’d pat me on the knee and say something about Jesus. Which, frankly, I never really found helpful. Sorry, Jesus. I think it was because it never felt like Jeff really listened.
The man who brought me here—he listened. He did exactly what I needed. No questions asked.
I gulp down the water, feeling semi-human again.
Grounded.
And finally, a little self-conscious.
I look around for the man. “Hello?”
No response.
I try again, a little louder.
Still nothing. Only the sound of a bird warbling in a nearby tree and that soft gurgle of water. In the distance, I can hear the ocean, too—the crash of water against rock.
Okay, he really gave me space. Maybe he went back to work. Should I leave?
I really, really don’t want to leave. Not yet.
So, instead, I walk over to the trellis directly across from me.
An enormous rose is blooming, the flower so heavy it tilts forward. It’s a coral color, closer to pink than orange, but pale. It’s stunning, and I can smell it even before I cup my hands gently around it, feeling the delicate petals, butter-soft against my fingers.
I inhale, long and deep, feeling the scent calm me all the way to my toes.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever smelled. Or seen. Or touched.
I lift my face away, smiling.
That’s when I see the man. He’s now standing next to the French door leading into the house, his hands clasped around some kind of book in front of him.
Oh God. Maybe it’s a bible. Maybe he knows Jeff somehow.
But that doesn’t make sense. Not with the way he spoke to Jeff.
Actually, he didn’t speak. Just acted. That’s all Jeff needed.
The man’s staring at me in a way that makes me feel exposed. Not in a bad way. More like he’s really seeing me for me. I guess it’s a little harder to be a wallflower, given the circumstances.
“Hi,” I say.
He lifts a hand in a little wave.
“What’s this one called?” I point to the gorgeous coral rose I’ve just been smelling. “I know from my mom’s garden that they all have ridiculous names. She had one called Gardener’s Opus. And another one called John’s Timepiece. Or clock, or something.” I laugh, remembering.
The man is silent.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry, I guess I should go. I—”
But the gardener shakes his head, ducking it.
And comes over to me.
As he approaches, I take him in for the first time. He’s big—I already ascertained that. But he’s, like, really big. Six-five, maybe. Or six. Thick across the chest. The kind of body that looks like he’s used to hard work.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded forearms dusted in light hair.
His face is slightly downturned. But I can see it’s not handsome, necessarily—at least not in the conventional sense.
He has strong features: a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once; a firm, clean-shaven jawline; heavy brows.
His ears stick out a little, and his messy, unkempt brown hair looks like it hasn’t been trimmed in a long while.
But when he looks up again, I find my breath hitching.
Those eyes. They’re blue, but dark. Stormy, almost, if it weren’t for the kindness etched into the set of them. I can’t quite describe it, but there’s something beautiful about all of his features together, even if, aside from the eyes, there’s nothing remarkable about any one of them.
He blinks, and I realize he’s holding the book up, wanting me to see.
I look down and read, in neat, slashed writing, A Rare Beauty.
For a moment, I’m thoroughly confused.
Then he points to the rose.