The French Gardener Part 35

"Did you get the phone?" Miranda asked.

"No. I don't like to answer your private line. Besides, there's an answering machine, isn't there?" Miranda nodded and pressed 1571. There was no message. "Are you all right, Miranda?" Mrs. Underwood looked concerned.

"I'm fine. I hoped it would be David."

Mrs. Underwood nodded knowingly. "You can always telephone him."

"Yes." She sounded distracted. "You're sweet to have cooked for them this weekend. I can't thank you enough."

"They ate like kings. David needs fattening up, though. He's got very thin recently. Works too hard I should imagine."

"Yes." Miranda felt exhausted and drained. She could barely muster the energy to talk to Mrs. Underwood. "I think I'll eat and go straight to bed," she said.

"I'll be going then," said Mrs. Underwood, untying her ap.r.o.n.

"Thanks again, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Better than you think, I'm sure." She smiled sympathetically and left Miranda alone.

After Mrs. Underwood had left, Miranda ran upstairs to kiss the children. They slept contentedly in their cozy rooms, their heads snuggled into their pillows. She inhaled the sleepy scent of them, nuzzling her nose into their hair, and silently thanked G.o.d for the gift of children and the blessing of love.

She ate in her bedroom after wallowing in a hot, pine-scented bath. Mrs. Underwood had made her a delicious vegetable soup with b.u.t.ternut squash and sweet potato. She lay in bed watching television, finding a repeat episode of Seinfeld that she had seen before. She needed to forget the sc.r.a.pbook and Jean-Paul and turn her mind to neutral. She finished her soup, watched the end of Seinfeld then switched off the light to go to sleep. The telephone rang.

"I love you, Miranda." It was David. Miranda felt a surge of relief.

"I love you, too," she replied huskily. David was taken aback. He had expected a greater battle.

"You do? I don't deserve it."

"Let's start again," she said. "Forget what's done and begin again from here."

"I'll never forgive myself for hurting you."

"But I can forgive you and I will. I want to move on."

"I realize now that only you and the children matter. Nothing should put our family at risk. It's all we have."

"We have to spend more time together, David."

"Well, I've been thinking...I'm going to quit the City."

"You are?" Miranda was astonished. She sat up, suddenly wide awake. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Write the life cycle of the flea? The City is a money-spinner, but it's no life. I've done my bit. I've worked hard. It's time to reap my reward, by that I mean you, Gus and Storm. I've had time to think these past few weeks. We should take a long family holiday. I don't want to send the children to boarding school. I want them at home where I can enjoy them. What's the point of having them if all we do is send them away?"

"You have done a lot of thinking." Miranda was impressed. "Gus'll be pleased."

"He was. I told him. We had a man to man, you know."

"Did you?" Miranda felt her stomach fizz. David sounded like the old David she had fallen in love with.

"We understand each other now."

"Come home, darling. I've missed you."

He sighed heavily. There was a long pause as he gathered himself together. "Those are the sweetest words I've ever heard."

The following morning, Miranda awoke with a strange knot in her stomach. She looked out the window. The sky was gray, the clouds thick and heavy, a melancholy light hanging over the gardens. There was no breeze. Something was missing. Something was wrong. Hurriedly she dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. The children were in the kitchen helping themselves to cereal, cheerily making plans for the day. "I'll be back in a minute," she shouted, as she ran through the hall. Gus frowned at his sister, who shrugged in resignation. Their parents were very odd.

Miranda sprinted across the gravel and through the wildflower meadow. It was just beginning to drizzle, light feathery drops that fell softly on her face. To her relief Jean-Paul hadn't left, but was standing on the bridge, gazing into the water. When he saw her, he didn't smile, but looked at her with weary red eyes, his skin gray.

"Are you all right?" she asked, standing beside him, catching her breath.

"I have read the book," he told her.

"The whole book?" Miranda was amazed. It had taken her months.

"I haven't slept." He shook his head and ran a rough hand through his long hair. Miranda noticed the silver stubble on his face. "I had to finish it. I think I always knew in my heart that she was dead. That is why I didn't look for her. I was afraid."

"What are you going to do?" She dreaded his answer, but she knew it before he spoke.

"Return to France."

"What about Peach?" she asked softly.

He shrugged. "I don't know." He seemed confused. "Ava always put her children first. I must do the same."

"You mean, you won't contact her?"

"I cannot. She may not know."

"But you're her father. You said yourself, 'a part of you and a part of me.'" For the first time since she had met Jean-Paul, he seemed unsure of himself.

They both became aware of someone standing on the riverbank. She approached, dressed in pale blue dungarees, white T-s.h.i.+rt, her long curly hair the color of summer hay. Jean-Paul caught his breath. "Ava," he gasped. "It can't be." The young woman smiled and waved tentatively.

"Jean-Paul," muttered Miranda, marveling at how beautifully his smile translated a woman's face. "That's Peach."

She reached them and her smile dissolved into diffidence. "Jean-Paul," she said. "You don't know me but..."

"I know you," he said. "I recognize your mother in you."

"And you in me, too," she said with an embarra.s.sed laugh.

"You have your mother's directness," he observed, running his eyes over her features, impatient to take her all in.

She turned to Miranda. "You must be Miranda."

"Yes. You don't know how good it is to see you." They embraced as if they were old friends.

"I tried to telephone you over the weekend, but no one answered. I hope it's okay that I just turned up." She gazed around. "Nothing's changed. It looks wonderful."

"Come inside," Jean-Paul suggested. "It's about to pour."

"I think I'd better get back to my children," said Miranda, backing away.

"You're welcome to join us," Jean-Paul said. Miranda noticed the color had returned to his face. He looked handsome again, the irresistible twinkle in his eyes restored.

"I'd love to, because I'm curious. But I think it's right that I leave you together. You've got a lot to catch up on. Maybe, when you're done, I can show you the gardens. It's all credit to Jean-Paul, but they're stunning."

"Yes, please," said Peach. "I'd love that. My mother would be so happy to see them resurrected. It was her life's work. I want to thank you, Miranda."

"Whatever for?"

"For making this possible."

Miranda felt her spirits leap. "Did I?"

"Of course, I never thought I'd find Mr. Frenchman. Thanks to you, I have." She looked at Jean-Paul and grinned. He struggled to find the words. She was so like her mother. So direct, so open; it wasn't as if she were meeting a stranger, but as if she had known him all her life. "Don't be alarmed," she said, sensing his astonishment. "I've had some time to get used to this."

Miranda walked up the garden to the house. Around her the gardens radiated their magic and inside she felt complete. She belonged. She looked forward to playing with the children. Perhaps they'd go to the old castle and have a picnic. Maybe she'd invite a few of their friends for tea. She reached the house. Storm and Gus tumbled out onto the porch as a taxi drew up on the gravel. She turned to see David stepping out with a suitcase. He wasn't in his suit, but in jeans and a green s.h.i.+rt, looking thin but handsome. Miranda smiled back, but she had to wait her turn for he opened his arms and the children flew in. They belonged there, too, she thought contentedly; at last.

Inside the cottage, Jean-Paul put the kettle on. The two of them sat at the kitchen table as Ava and Jean-Paul had done twenty-six years before. But this time it was not to say good-bye but to begin a whole new life together. "There is so much I have to tell you," said Peach, her green eyes glittering with emotion. "I don't know where to begin."

"Tell me about your mother. How did she die?"

"Let's go back a bit further, or I'll lose track. Darling Daddy-Phillip-had a stroke about four years ago and for a while we all continued to live here in spite of his slow recovery. Mummy looked after him like a nurse. She refused to seek help. You know what she's like. It was a full-time job, but he deteriorated. The stairs were a big problem. Everyone told her we had to move. Of course, she was torn between what she knew was right for Phillip, and what was right for her. She loved this place and the gardens, and I know now that the reason for her determination to hold on to them was because of you. She must have hoped that one day you'd come back and get her. We were all grown up. Poppy lives in London, is married with children of her own; Archie married a Chilean and lives in Valparaiso. Angus is a bit of a bohemian. He hasn't married. He's a successful historian. You wouldn't believe it."

"And you?"

"I've never flown the nest. I'm a gardener." She grinned proudly.

"I am not surprised," he mused, shaking his head at the miracle of her. Her fingernails were short and ragged, the palms of her hands rough like bark. He was sure she smelled of damp gra.s.s and hay. "Go on with your story," he said, anxious to hear more.

"Well, she stayed on here long after she should have gone. Finally, she was left no choice. She discovered a lump in her stomach. It turned out to be malignant. We moved to Cornwall because Mummy had always loved the sea. She put the house on the market at such an exorbitant price so no one would buy it. It caused her such pain to let it go. Maybe she hoped it wouldn't sell and she could one day move back. While Daddy recovered, Mummy got worse. It all happened very quickly. She didn't have much time. Now I've read the sc.r.a.pbook, I think the tumor was a manifestation of the heartbreak she suffered after you left. Her grief was so deep it was unspeakable. She kept it secret all those years. She never told me and I was closer to her than the others, being the youngest." She hesitated, then added shyly: "And being yours." They looked at each other as the rain rattled against the windowpanes, and realized that in spite of the fact that they were strangers, the reality of their shared blood and their mutual love for Ava gave them an immediate sense of unity.

"When did she die?" he asked.

"In spring. May the fifth."

"I so hoped to see her again."

"We buried her in a little church overlooking the sea. She should have been buried here, but she said she didn't want that. I think she felt it inappropriate. Tactless, perhaps, considering Daddy."

"She always put her family first."

"She did. But she left me the sc.r.a.pbook, not in her will, but in a letter of wishes. She had hidden it in the house, beneath a loose floorboard."

"So it was you who put the book in the cottage?"

"Yes. I read it all. I understood why she never told me about you. What good would have come of it? I love Phillip as my father, and he will always be my father. Think how lucky I am to have two."

"She never told you?"

"No. Maybe she felt guilty for not telling us both. Perhaps she couldn't speak of it to anyone, not even to me. But dying people always want to tie up loose ends and I suppose it is my right to know who made me. I decided to put the sc.r.a.pbook in here so that if you returned you would find it and know that she had never stopped loving you. I didn't know where to find you and I didn't want to ask my father. At that stage I didn't even know whether I wanted to find you. It's not an easy thing to learn that the man you believe is your father is not."

"Does Phillip know?"

"Goodness, no. And he never will. It would be wrong of me to tell him. Besides, my mother gave her life to him. Maybe she would have left had he not fallen ill. He needed her. Who knows?"

"Why did you come today?"

"Because I feel the time is right. It's what Mummy would have wanted. You both longed for a child so badly, it's only right that you should know." She smiled again and Jean-Paul saw his own face mirrored in hers. He felt his stomach lurch at the sight of it. She blushed. "I was also captivated by the sc.r.a.pbook and the romance of my mother's secret love affair. She never stopped loving you, or hoping that you would one day be reunited. When Miranda telephoned, I knew it was my chance."

"Why didn't she tell me she was dying?"

"I've wondered about that, too. I can only imagine, knowing my mother as I do, that she wouldn't have wanted you to see her like that. Her hair fell out. She aged terribly. She was very sick. I would imagine she wanted you to remember her the way she was."

"But she knew I loved her."

Peach's eyes filled with tears. Once again she could smell the scent of orange blossom. It crept around her like a familiar blanket and invaded her senses, demanding to be noticed. She looked at Jean-Paul. He lifted his chin, aware of it, too.

"Yes, she did," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "You can smell her, too?" Jean-Paul closed his eyes. How often he had dismissed her perfume as wishful dreaming.

The room filled with suns.h.i.+ne. It was bright and twinkling as it caught the little specks of dust and lit them up like fireflies. Father and daughter opened their eyes to see that the clouds had parted to let the sun s.h.i.+ne through. Jean-Paul stood up hastily. "Come," he said, taking her hand. Peach followed him outside, into the rain. There, in a dazzling arc above them, stood a magnificent rainbow.

"It's beautiful," she said in wonder. "Un arc-en-ciel."

"Un arc-en-ciel," he repeated, knowing that Ava was up there somewhere in the midst of all those colors. Then he laughed, for there, between green and blue, was the most splendid color of all.

"Can you see pink?" He pointed to the vibrating light, the color of a perfect summer rose.

"I see it!" she said, her face wet with tears. "I see it! The elusive pink."

"She's there," said Jean-Paul, squeezing her hand. "She's there. I know she is."

x.x.xVIII.

The day of Henrietta and Jeremy's wedding could not have been more beautiful. The sky dazzled with suns.h.i.+ne, a cold breeze whipped in off the sea, swirling through the red and gold leaves, breathing autumn on the final remains of summer, and yet the sun was warm. Birdsong rang out from the treetops and squirrels paused their nut collecting to watch the baffling human world below them. But love is an instinct understood by all creation and it was as if the whole of nature conspired to make their day magnificent.

Troy sat in the front pew with Henrietta's mother and sister. He had put the bride's hair up in a glossy bun encircled with purple roses and wiped her tears away himself when she had seen how beautiful she looked. On the other side of the aisle Jeremy waited nervously, his large hands trembling as he fidgeted with the service sheet, exchanging looks with David, whom he had asked to be best man. He took a deep breath, barely daring to acknowledge his incredible fortune, in case he jinxed it and Henrietta did not appear.

Miranda sat behind David with Cate and Nigel, whose coldness sat between them like a corpse. She thought of Jean-Paul and Peach: he had lost his lover but gained a daughter. Ava had said that love was all she had to give him, but that was no longer true; she had given him Peach. Miranda thought of them both in France, at Les Lucioles. He would show her the gardens he had cultivated for her mother and together they would share memories, building a bridge to span the years that separated them.