The French Gardener(137)

She ate in her bedroom after wallowing in a hot, pine-scented bath. Mrs. Underwood had made her a delicious vegetable soup with butternut 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 scrapbook 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-shirt, 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…”