CHAPTER 11
Lillian sat on the bench listening to the splash of water from the fountain in what she always considered to be Helen’s garden, her face shaded by the large brim of her straw hat.
The morning sun was hot, but not yet hot enough to have evaporated the morning dew that clung to the closed marble petals of the moonflowers that dangled from the stone fountain.
She sensed the girl’s presence before she spotted her by the garden gate, hovering there as if unsure she should proceed now that she realized she wasn’t alone.
Their new tenant was past girlhood, Lillian knew, but there was something so vulnerable and fragile in Earlene’s eyes, and in the way that she stood with her shoulders down, that reminded Lillian of her motherless great-granddaughters.
It was as though she’d found life disappointing and had managed to retreat to the point in her life where the burdens of growing up had not yet found her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Earlene turn from the gate as if to leave.
“Would you like to join me?” Lillian called out.
She wasn’t sure why. She’d come to the garden to be alone.
Maybe it was because Earlene had needed to be alone, too, and had chosen Helen’s garden.
Most people would have chosen to stay in bed at this early hour, wrestling with jumbled thoughts behind closed blinds.
But Earlene had sought the garden, and the fragrant blooms that Lillian had once been told by an old friend represented the hand of God on earth.
“Only if I’m not intruding.”
Lillian moved over on the bench as an invitation for Earlene to sit, then tilted back her head so her hat brim wouldn’t obscure the view. “Not at all. My gardens have always been meant for sharing.”
Lillian studied the younger woman as she approached, her limp less pronounced in the flowing calf-length skirt she wore.
She was very pretty, Lillian thought, and could be prettier with more attention to cosmetics and maybe a softer hairstyle other than the low ponytail she always wore.
But her skin was smooth and fine, her delicate eyebrows giving her face an almost angelic quality.
It was her eyes, though, that commanded attention.
They were light brown and outlined with long, dark lashes and stared out at the world like those of a wounded animal.
But there was something more, too—a light that simmered beneath her defeatist attitude, but a light nevertheless.
Lillian couldn’t help but compare Earlene to the damaged horses Tucker rescued, and wondered if she’d be like the ones that somehow managed to regain their spirit.
Earlene sat and Lillian continued to stare, too tempted to get a close-up view to care about politeness.
The young woman seemed so familiar to her, reminding her of someone she couldn’t yet place.
But maybe it was that familiarity that had made Lillian pat the seat next to her, to want to share this corner of her garden with a stranger.
Earlene gave her a tentative smile. “When I left the house last night, I smelled the garden and Tucker invited me to come see it in the daylight. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything quite like it, except maybe for the garden at my house in Savannah.
I recognized the gardenias. And the moonflowers. ”
Earlene cupped her hands, one inside the other, and rested them on her skirt.
Lillian studied them, the neatly clipped nails and the fading calluses on the outside of her ring fingers.
Lillian smiled to herself. Yes, it was true you could stop riding horses.
But there would always be something left behind to remind you of what it was like.
Lillian smiled. “Not many people recognize the scent of the moonflowers when there are gardenias nearby. Gardenias are like the bullies of the garden, always muscling out the scents of the other flowers.”
Earlene leaned forward and touched the folded-up moonflower bloom. “But these are my favorite. I think I’d recognize their scent anywhere.”
“Your favorite? But they only bloom at night and during the day they look like wet tissue paper.” Lillian’s voice sounded sharper than she’d wanted it to.
But she’d always considered the moonflower a sentimental bloom, favored by those who took a childish delight in surprises.
Annabelle had been like that, and she’d learned the hard way that it was best to take things at face value.
Moonflowers had been Annabelle’s favorite flower, too.
Earlene’s shoulders went back in a defensive gesture at odds with the placid demeanor she normally showed the world.
“True. But I like to think of them as courageous flowers. I mean, how many people would keep a flower in their garden that looked like this if they didn’t know what happens to them at night?
It’s like the flowers like the risk of being yanked out of a garden, holding on to the thrill that some lucky gardener will discover them at night. ”
Despite herself, Lillian grinned. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” She ducked her head, hiding her eyes under the brim of her hat. “I used to have a friend who gave the flowers personalities, too. It used to annoy me.”
She looked up to see Earlene watching her steadily. “Was she a good friend?”
“The very best. She was like a sister to me.”
“Are you still friends?”
Lillian shook her head. “She died recently. But we’d had a falling-out a long time ago, so we hadn’t kept in touch. It was a . . . misunderstanding.”
Earlene was silent for a moment, staring at the drooping moonflowers, their glorious blooms hidden until nightfall. “Do you regret not mending the misunderstanding before she died?”
Lillian closed her eyes, the heady mixture of the gardenias and ginger lilies making her feel faint. If she’d ever allowed herself to feel regret, it would have left her paralyzed—afraid and unable to move forward. No, regret was an indulgence she wouldn’t allow.
“I don’t believe in regret. I’ve always thought that regret is as useful as trying to stop a flooding river with your hands.
It’ll keep you busy, but you’ll still drown.
” Lillian sat back, letting her ramrod-straight spine touch the sun-heated back of the bench.
“I’ve always thought that regret was just another word for fear, and I’ve got no patience for that, either. ”
Lillian felt Earlene bristle next to her.
She hadn’t meant to alienate another person, although it had become apparent to her recently that she’d become incredibly good at it.
She supposed old age really did have its perks, after all.
But not Earlene. Earlene was a mystery Lillian needed to figure out.
And she loved Lillian’s garden, especially the silly moonflowers.
Earlene clasped her hands tightly together. “I think you’re wrong. I think regret is a way to atone for past sins.”
“Nonsense. Go plant a tree or adopt a puppy if you want atonement. But regret is just another way of saying ‘I quit.’ ”
Earlene turned to Lillian, her brows drawn together and perspiration dotting her nose. “Then you must have led a very boring life with little to regret.”
Her earnestness and fire surprised Lillian; she’d been wondering if what she thought was glimpses of personality hiding behind the wounded victim persona was just in her imagination, and it was almost gratifying to see that it really did exist. But her words brought memories back to her—memories of Annabelle, and Josie, and Charlie.
And Freddie. The grief that always seemed to float around the periphery of her vision shimmered for a moment, tightening around her heart until she thought she couldn’t breathe.
She pressed her fingers around the angel charm and let it work its soothing magic.
“No,” she said softly, facing Earlene to look her in the eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. I just choose to live my life in the present.”
Earlene’s mouth formed a perfect “o” of indignation. They stared at each other for a long time before Earlene stood. “I’ve intruded on your morning long enough and I need to get to work.”
“Oh, don’t leave in a huff. Why don’t you sit back down so we can agree to disagree for now, and we can talk about my beautiful flowers? Maybe you can tell me more about why you like the moonflowers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a reason to like them.”
“I doubt it,” Earlene said, almost out of hearing. But she sat down anyway, her chin jutting out with a mixture of stubbornness and indignation.
Lillian ducked her head, hiding her face under the brim of her hat so Earlene couldn’t see her smile.
I sat on the bench next to Lillian in the garden for a long time as we talked about the merits of each of the flowering blooms, all placed according to their scent and color scheme to create a feast for all the senses.
Lillian appeared to enjoy argument, always playing devil’s advocate when I’d question her as to why she didn’t use a particular plant and chose another one instead.
“Because I learned from a gardening master. The friend I was telling you about before. When I was about thirteen I got very sick and couldn’t leave my house for a long time.
As I was slowly getting better, she dragged me out of my bed and warm blankets and brought me out here to where the gardeners had a boring English boxwood garden.
She helped me recuperate by refocusing my attention on getting things to grow, and showing me how to plan and choose.
I don’t know if it was the distraction or fresh air that made me better, but my friend had taught me an important lesson. ”