When the sun finally came back out, it was for a brief and fleeting moment on the third day. The ground had become so saturated that the grass squelched under my galoshes as I trekked from the cottage to the main house and back again.
Raindrops glistened on the leaves, and the specks of blue sky reflected in the puddles like mirrors. I was over near the vegetable garden, checking in on the watermelons that had ballooned over the last few days with all the water, and picked off a few tomatoes that had exploded out of their skin from all the rain. The sun felt nice on my face, and the birds called to each other with their evening songs. There was a crow being especially vocal somewhere near the Moon Bridge.
And then, shattering the reverie, came the sound of Oliver and Eula from an open window. Curious, I sat back on my heels and tilted my ear up toward the sound of their voices. I hadn’t heard Eula—or Oliver—so angry before.
“Lala, that’s not . . . you can’t walk the Hedges yet. You’re not well enough—”
“Says you!”
“Can you juststopfor a minute? I want to talk to you about—”
Eula kept cutting him off. “Don’t forget to sign on the dotted line, dear. He said—”
Then Oliver exploded. “I don’tcarewhat he said!” he cried, frustrated. “I don’t care about the inheritance. About the will, about whateverhethinks is going to be easiest.” He sounded frustrated. “I don’tcareabout this estate, about the money. I care aboutyou.”
“I need to make sure Lilymoor is in good hands—”
“It’s just a place!” Oliver cried, aggravated. “Uncle Henry isn’thereanymore!”
“Yes, he is!”
I gathered my shears and my shovel, and I quickly left the kitchen garden before someone caught me listening. Their frustration and hurt rattled me all the way back to the shed, where I poured myself a glass of Wykofski’s lemonade and drank it down. Even that couldn’t wash away the sourness that had crept onto my tongue.
Because Oliver was right—Henry was no longer here, only the memory of him, but when you buried yourself in grief it was sometimes impossible to tell the difference between the wind and someone you missed so much you thought you could hear their voice.
But the truth was they were long, long gone.
31
jijivisha
I took a deep breath and pushed open the garden door.
To my surprise, the garden had transformed very little over the last few days I’d been gone. The flowers that had bloomed around the gazebo had barely spread, and the creeping thyme was still patchy in a few places. While Rus had come a long way with his side of the plan, the garden itself had stalled. The gazebo was done and the flower beds were hedged and the trees trimmed, but it all felt a little stagnant, as if the garden wasn’t quite sure of itself anymore.
Rus was tending to a small flower bed on the west side of the garden when I found him. He slowly stood from where he was kneeling, gently laying seeds in the ground, and dusted the dirt off his knees. This time, it was more evident than ever that he was surprised to see me again, but he didn’t say it. That made the relief on his face all the less palatable. He really thought I would abandon him? The idea—my own actions—repulsed me so much that I was ashamed that he doubted me for even a moment.
I deserve it, I thought, but on the other hand—
“It’s been raining,” I said softly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a few days . . .”
“Only a few hours,” he corrected gently, picking a dandelion weed out of a bed. Then he swallowed hard, twisting the stem around his finger. “If I did anything to upset you, Sophie, I won’t do it ever again—”
“No!” I said, the quickness of it surprising even me. I reeled myself in, clearing my throat. “No, you didn’t. It wasn’t you. You’re … you’re perfect.”
Perfect.While I was falling so fast and so terribly recklessly, I felt like a plant that had been deprived of the sun for so long that when I finally found it again, I wanted to burn up in it.
He studied me, his gaze unsure. Then he pulled off his glasses and stuck them into the collar of his shirt, as if he couldn’t bear to actually see me in sharp focus as he asked, “Then why did you leave?”
Because any longer, and I’d have wanted to stay. But the more I rolled that answer around on my teeth, the less true that seemed because Ialreadywanted to stay. I think I had wanted to stay from the moment I set foot in Lilymoor, but I was scared that if I admitted that, time would start moving again, because time never stayed still, and I was afraid to lose this soft, eternal summer where the hours stretched like days and for a moment, if I closed my eyes and listened to the garden, I could pretend that Harrie was sitting beside me.
I think that was what Eula loved about Lilymoor, too. She could still see Henry sitting with the flowers. It was a place where grief—for the smallest of moments—felt tender and soft and warm.
Cyrus waited for my answer with all the patience of a gardener.
It was a fair question.
I was just ashamed of the answer.
