Chapter Twelve #2
She looks at me. “He’s been gone for so many years,” she says, her voice now quivering with emotion, “but a moment ago—just a moment ago, it really felt that way—Wesley held my hand as we sat beside that field of lavender, practically bathing in its scent. I can still feel his hand in mine.” She holds out her hand and stares down at it.
“And Wesley looked at me and he said, ‘Delly’ ”—she smiles, suddenly bashful and blushing—“that’s what he called me.
Delly. He said, ‘Delly, no matter what the future holds, some part of us will always remain right here, young and in love in a field of lavender, full of wonder, our hands entwined.’ ” She sighs happily.
“He was very poetic, my Wesley. I should have written his words down so I didn’t forget them. ”
“They’re beautiful,” I tell her. “And you didn’t forget them.”
“You’re right. I didn’t forget. Isn’t that something?” Adele shakes her head in amazement. “Thank you for bringing these beautiful flowers back to life, Lucy. And for the memory.”
I smile. “I’m so glad you came out for a visit.” Really, I can barely contain how happy I am. Stunned, too.
“I came to the garden, but I traveled a lot farther than that, didn’t I?” Adele says, giving me a wink. She turns to Mario. “If I’m going mad, please just let me go—it turns out to be quite fun.”
“Okay,” he says, laughing.
“I think I’ll walk a little more,” Adele says. “I’d like to take it all in.”
“You’d like to… walk?” Mario asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.
Adele tilts her chin, letting the sun wash over her small, lined face. “I would.”
Mario catches my eye and grins. “Well, let’s get going.”
“Will we see you tomorrow, Lucy?” Adele asks as they turn to leave.
I’m caught off guard by the hope, and the friendship, in her voice. “Yes,” I assure her after a moment. “I’ll be here.”
“What was all that nonsense?”
I startle at the low, barbed voice and turn to see that Mr. Fitz is seated on a bench that is tucked against the wall. Gully ambles right up to him before I can stop him.
“Mr. Fitz,” I stammer. “How long have you been there? I didn’t notice you come down.”
Fitz eyes Gully, who is now seated patiently in front of him. Their eyes are nearly in line. “Adele was too busy yammering,” Fitz says, still looking at Gully. “Looked like you found her wind-up key and gave it a good crank.”
I glance after Adele and Mario, but they’re nearing the northern wall and don’t seem to have noticed Fitz’s presence.
Should he really have come out here alone?
I wonder. I feel vaguely, uncharitably annoyed by his sudden presence—I’d have liked to have lingered a bit longer within the surprise and warmth of the moment I just experienced with Adele.
After all these years, I connected someone with the scent of my flowers and it didn’t end in disaster. I still can’t quite believe it.
Nonetheless, Fitz shows no signs of leaving me in peace. As I sigh and walk toward him, his scent, the acrid one that twists as darkly as a guilty conscience, prickles my nostrils.
“Does anyone know you’re out here?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He puts his hand on Gully’s head and closes his eyes. Despite the mean line of his lips and the hardened quality of his face, his body seems slight, fragile. After a few moments of silence, his eyes flick open and he asks me accusingly, “Who is this?”
I sigh. “This is my dog, Gully.”
Fitz purses his lips into a sneer. “That’s his name? Really? Gully?”
I cross my arms. “He was the biggest dog by far at the shelter. He looked like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput.”
Fitz considers this for a moment. “Good dog, bad name. It’s not your fault,” he tells Gully, scratching behind his ears. Gully half closes his eyes against the sun and leans into Fitz’s knee.
My irritation melts slightly. I hadn’t pegged Fitz as a dog person. First Jill, now Fitz. People are full of surprises.
“You’re good with him,” I say, somewhat reluctantly.
Fitz ignores me, looking around instead. He waves his hand in front of him. “Honestly, what’s the point of all of this?” he asks, scowling.
I hesitate, confused. “The point… of the garden?”
“The effort,” he says, not bothering to hide his impatience. “All of this effort for a bunch of plants. It’s extravagant. It’s silly.”
I frown. It takes me a moment to come up with my reply. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate flowers,” I say eventually. “I’d be lost without them.”
I walk away then and resume my work in the flower bed.
Every so often, I steal a glance at Fitz, who carries on innocently petting Gully and looking for all the world like a sweet old man who would never wander outside just to start a fight with a gardener.
Jill’s words about how difficult it is to get old echo through my mind.
I wonder if Fitz has any family, or if anyone ever visits him. He seems so resolutely solitary.
I don’t want to speak with him any more than I already have, but I keep an eye on him, raising my head to look over at him from time to time over the course of the next hour.
I’m not sure he should walk back up that ramp alone.
As long as he remains seated, I figure it’s fine for him to stay outside.
Maybe a bit of time among the flowers will help to improve his mood. It always works for me.
Gully clearly has no problem whatsoever with the man. He rests his giant head on Fitz’s bony thigh as though he’s known and trusted him forever.
“My wife would not have agreed with me, either,” Fitz says loudly, suddenly, as though there hasn’t been an hour-long stretch of silence since he last spoke.
“About gardens,” he clarifies. “She liked flowers. Especially if they were red and had long stems and came wrapped in gold paper tied with a big bow. The more expensive, the better.”
He looks around, and his gaze seems marginally less disdainful than it was an hour earlier. “She would have liked all of these walls and secret nooks,” he says. “The… drama. She liked anything over the top. Costume parties. Fancy restaurants. The theater.”
Clearly there was no love lost between Fitz and his wife. And yet he brought her up.
I hesitate for a moment, weighing my options. Then I get to my feet and walk over to him. “What was her name?” I ask, stretching slightly from side to side, loosening the knots that have formed in my shoulders.
“Millicent. Millie.” He squints at me, his eyes hard. “She had your coloring, but her hair was shorter. This was years ago, when women wore nice dresses and kept their hair neat.”
I laugh, raking my hand through my messy hair. “I take it you don’t like fancy restaurants? The theater?”
“God, no. Millie and I were opposites.” He stares off unseeingly into the distance and flattens his lips, as though he can barely stand to think of her.
And yet, I think again, he brought her up.
“I should have seen ahead when I met her,” he says bitterly. “I’ve played enough chess in my life to know how to think things through. I should have seen all the moves that would come from choosing her.”
“Hmm,” I say. “I’ve never played chess.”
His icy blue eyes snap to meet mine. He looks as though I just told him I’ve never seen the sky.
“Anyway,” I say lightly, “my parents were a lot like you and Millie. They couldn’t have been more different from each other, but they worked.”
Fitz’s eyes flash. When he speaks again, darkness bleeds into his voice, and that acrid scent he carries cuts through the soft aroma of the garden like a knife through cake.
“I suppose it’s like a match striking a stone,” he says, his voice trembling with anger.
“Sometimes there are just sparks. And sometimes there is fire.”
I’m stilled by the darkness in his voice.
I watch, feeling ill at ease, as he attempts to work himself to his feet.
When I move closer to help, he sucks his teeth menacingly, and I leave him to manage on his own.
He gives Gully a final pat and then points his walker in the direction of the home, all the while holding his head so high that he looks to me like a man who is barely managing to keep himself from drowning.
I sigh.
And then I jog after him. Gully lopes along at my side, looking up at me with an amused, curious expression. Fitz must hear us approaching, because he glances over his shoulder and scowls.
“I think I left my trowel on the terrace,” I tell him, but I am a truly terrible liar.
He narrows his eyes. “You should keep a closer eye on your things,” he grumbles, but offers no further complaint as I fall into step beside him.