The French Gardener(130)
He turned and searched among a shelf of old gray files all neatly labeled alphabetically. When he found the right one, he pulled it down and opened it. Miranda’s heart thudded at the anticipation of getting closer to the woman whose love story had so fascinated her. At last he found it. “She lives in Cornwall, somewhere called Pendrift. Shall I write it down for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“There’s a telephone number, too. They were a very charming couple. We didn’t see much of Mr. Lightly after he fell ill, but Mrs. Lightly came in regularly to send letters and buy the odd thing she’d forgotten at the supermarket.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” said Miranda, taking the piece of paper.
“Oh, you’ll enjoy her, she’s very funny.”
Miranda couldn’t wait to telephone Ava. Suddenly the scrapbook was coming to life, the characters materializing before her like resurrected ghosts, the love story leaping off the page. Once at home she listened to her messages. There was one from Lottie confirming that David was coming down for the weekend to see the children. She wondered what he was going to do with them for two days and decided to book Mrs. Underwood to cook and put Jean-Paul on standby in case he slunk off to watch telly and left them on their own. Fatima was in the hall, cleaning the floor; Mr. Underwood stood in the doorway enjoying a long coffee break, telling her about the sudden plague of moles that was ruining the lawn. The sunshine lit up the terrace and thyme walk like a beautiful stage and Miranda stopped for a moment to admire it as she walked through the hall to her study.
She closed the door and sat at her desk, deliberating what she was going to say. She decided to introduce herself and invite Ava to see the gardens. The plan was to get her to Hartington where she would find Jean-Paul. She would give him the scrapbook and admit that she had taken it without knowing why it had been put there in the first place. Confidently she dialed the number. It rang for a while. Just before she hung up in disappointment, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Hello?” Miranda plunged in.
“Hello, am I speaking to Mrs. Lightly?”
There was a long pause. Miranda looked down at the piece of paper and wondered whether, in her excitement, she had dialed the wrong number. “Who’s speaking?”
“My name is Miranda Claybourne, I live at Hartington House…”
The woman’s voice softened. “I’m afraid my mother died two years ago.”
Miranda was shocked. “Ava Lightly is dead?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Lightly?”
“My father’s getting on a bit, but he’s well, thank you.”
“Am I speaking to Poppy?”
“No, I’m her sister, Peach.”
Miranda’s mouth went dry and she frantically tried to think of something to say. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Peach. I’ve heard so much about her, I feel I know her. She was so popular here in Hartington. When we moved all anyone could talk about were her incredible gardens.”
“They were her passion. It was very hard for her to leave.”
“Forgive me for asking, but I’ve been so curious. Why did she go?”
“Dad had a stroke and couldn’t cope with the stairs. She looked after him single-handedly. She had no choice. I think it broke her heart.”
“I’m sure it did. You see, I’ve brought the gardens back to life. I wanted to do that for her. When we moved in they had gone to seed. They needed a lot of work. I felt it was my duty to bring them back to their former glory, for her.”
“That’s so sweet of you. She’d have loved that.”
“I didn’t do it on my own. I enlisted the help of this wonderful Frenchman called Jean-Paul de la Grandière.” As Ava expected, there was a long pause. “He seemed to know what I wanted. I rather left it to him, actually. Anyway, they’re really wonderful now. If you’re able I’d love you to see them. You can always come and stay. After all, it was your home.”
“It was my home for twenty-three years,” she said hesitantly. “I loved it, too.”
“Please come.”
“I don’t know…” Miranda heard a man’s voice in the background. “That’s my dad. I’ll tell him you called. He’ll be grateful. We all loved Hartington House.”
Miranda put down the telephone and sat back in her chair. So, Ava Lightly was dead. She felt as sad as if she had really known Ava. The disappointment was overwhelming. For almost a year she had lived Ava’s story while her own had unraveled around her. Ava had kept her going. Now there was nothing left but ashes. Her heart bled for Jean-Paul, blindly groping through those ashes, wondering why they felt so cold.