Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Leah was out in the walled garden before seven most mornings now with a pair of scissors in her pocket and a basket in her hand.
Somewhere in the hedgerow, a blackbird was going absolutely berserk, and in the field beyond the gate, Edith's lambs were doing the sideways bouncing thing that made Leah laugh every single time. If the destructive little monsters weren’t such a handful, she almost thought about getting some of her own.
But then they ate the flowers, and she decided that was a bad idea.
The daffodils had been blooming for three weeks. Rows and rows of yellow and white were there where the old vegetable beds used to be. The tulips were just coming on, fat buds in rows she'd planted on her knees in November with frozen fingers while Rowan helped. She couldn’t wait to see them bloom.
She worked down the bed with the scissors, cutting stems long and laying them in the basket in bunches.
The hyacinths were nearly done. The forget-me-nots had colonized every corner.
They were leftovers from her father’s garden.
It felt very appropriate. They weren’t high on the list for bouquets, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them.
The garden had been loved before. She wasn't building something out of nothing. She was bringing something back, including the forget-me-nots.
The greenhouse door was propped open behind her. Rowan had replaced all the glass in February. Inside, the benches were crowded with seed trays. Sweet peas. Cosmos. Zinnias. By July, if everything went the way it was supposed to, she'd have actual summer flowers. Rows of them. Armfuls.
Assuming she didn't kill everything first. There was still plenty of time for that. She loved arranging flowers but was still getting the hang of the growing side of things. Fortunately, Rowan had a green thumb.
She carried the basket into the utility room. She filled one of the buckets with water and placed the cut flower stems down. Bunches that Meg had ordered. A bucket of mixed daffodils and hyacinths for the pub. Six posies in jam jars for the tearoom tables.
The stand had been Rowan's January project. It was possibly her favorite thing anyone had ever made for her. A little wooden stall on wheels, painted cream, with a sloped shelf and a chalkboard. He’d added a roof so she wouldn’t have to worry about her precious flowers being beaten up by the rain.
He'd bolted a small lockbox to the side for the honesty payments.
She wheeled it down to the end of the lane every morning except Sundays, stocked with whatever was blooming, and had a sign she'd painted herself in wobbly green letters.
FRESH FLOWERS. GROWN HERE.
It wasn't a fortune. She was not going to lie to herself about that. Some days she came out at four in the afternoon, and the lockbox held eight pounds. But that wasn’t where the money was going to come from. She’d built a website and was planning to start an actual business.
A girl from the village was getting married in June. She asked Leah to do the flowers. It was a huge job, and it absolutely terrified her, but it was the first step to make real money. She gave the young woman a break because it was her first wedding, and she saw it as free advertising.
Forty guests. Bouquets, table arrangements, something for the church.
It was a start. That's what she kept telling people. It might never be a fortune. But it was hers, and it was growing, and every single flower in every single bucket had come out of the ground she owned, free and clear, with nobody's name on the deed but her own.
She loaded the deliveries into the old wagon she used for now, until she could afford a real vehicle. She walked it down the lane into the village, waving at Dorothy, who was sweeping her front step. She shouted something about the weather finally turning.
At the tearoom, Meg came around the counter and inspected the flowers.
"Pat wants a bunch for her sister's birthday. And Dorothy's asking if you'll have anything blue in May, for her anniversary." Leah was already writing it down.
“I can do that,” Leah said.
She handed Leah a paper bag that smelled divine. “Thank you,” Leah said. “See you tomorrow.”
Leah walked back up the lane eating a teacake, the wagon rattling along behind her. She had a delivery route. A routine. People who expected her. People who noticed when she was late and put the kettle on when she arrived.
She belonged somewhere. Sometimes, that feeling would catch her off guard in the middle of an ordinary day.
She took the long way home through the churchyard.
Her father's grave was on the south side, in the newer section, next to her grandmother Evelyn. The headstone was simple: just his name and dates, nothing more. That was exactly what he had wanted.
It wasn’t until after things were settled with Madeline that she finally visited the grave. Some days she was still angry with him. She’d go to the cemetery and air her grievances. The next day she’d bring flowers and apologize.
Today, she knelt in the grass and plucked at some of the weeds. She told him about the greenhouse and the wedding booking. She told him she'd opened six more of the birthday cards.
The cards were short. They all said roughly the same thing. Happy Birthday, Leah. I hope this year is kind to you. I think of you every day. Every year, the same quiet words. She'd been furious about them for a while. She still wasn’t sure how she felt—she was figuring it out, like everything else.
She walked home, the whole valley glowing.
Rowan was in the kitchen with coffee already made, his boots by the back door where they always were now.
His mug sat on the shelf next to hers. His things had migrated in slowly all winter, one object at a time, neither of them ever formally discussing it.
A toothbrush. A razor. Three shirts in the wardrobe.
Everyone knew about them. No one ever said it outright, but invitations were always meant for both. It didn’t have to be said; it was understood.
"How were sales?" Rowan asked, handing her a mug.
"Meg took everything.”
She was halfway through telling him about the churchyard when she looked out the window and saw a figure coming through the gate at the bottom of the garden.
Gerald.
Rowan followed her gaze and went still beside her. "Want me to tell him to leave?”
She considered it. "No. It's fine."
He touched her shoulder. “I’m going to work on that tiller.”
He went out through the front. She heard him greet Gerald on the path, a few low words she couldn't make out, and then he disappeared toward the shed.
She met Gerald at the door and didn't ask him to come in. It wasn’t out of unkindness. That was just how things were, and they both understood.
"Leah." He had his hat in his hands. He looked older than he had a few months ago. Thinner. But there was something lighter about him. Less tense.
"How can I help you?"
"I wanted to tell you that I know your father would be very pleased with what you’ve done here. I’m glad you stayed.”
She didn't have anything to say to that, so she just nodded.
"I had a letter from Madeline." He turned the hat brim in his hands. "She's decided to stay with her sister a while longer. A few more months. Through the summer, perhaps."
Whatever had driven Madeline Hargrove for forty years, Leah hoped the sea was taking some of it out of her.
“And how are you doing, Gerald?” she asked. “You don’t want to go stay with your wife?”
His lips twitched. “No, I rather enjoy the solitude.”
She didn’t blame him.
Whatever he was feeling, regret or grief or just age, it was his to carry. She'd spent enough of her life carrying other people's loads. She was not doing it anymore. Not for anyone.
"I hope it goes well," he said. "The flowers. All of it."
"Thank you."
He put his hat back on and walked back down the path. She watched him go through the gate and out of sight, and that was that. Not forgiveness, exactly. Not friendship. Just two people who had to deal with the mistakes of the past.
The sun was going down, casting everything in pretty gold. She couldn’t wait to see the place in summer. Warm and humid, but she knew it would be beautiful.
She carried two filled wine glasses out to the garden where Rowan was working.
She handed him his glass. They moved to the bench and sat down. Leah leaned into his side. The garden was peaceful, the birds settling. Flowers grew in neat rows they had tilled a month before.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
She looked at him—the man everyone in the village saw her fall for before she even realized it. "Home. I’m home.”
He kissed her hair. “You’re home, Leah. And now if you want to leave, I’m going to have something to say about it.”
She'd spent forty years being nobody from nowhere.
Not anymore.