David arrived on Friday night exhausted and in an ill temper. However, the fish pie Mrs. Underwood had left for dinner transformed his mood so that when he tucked into the apple and blackberry crumble he was almost jolly. “Darling,” he said, taking her hand. “Things are looking up!”
“I think so,” she agreed. “It feels like home.”
“The fires are lit, dinner is delicious. Gus hasn’t played truant all week.” He sat back in his chair. “This is the life.” He patted his stomach. “Now I’m going to have a bath and turn on the telly. See if there’s anything worth watching.” He left Miranda feeling a mixture of pride and resentment. The house was perfect but he hadn’t asked about her, or about the children. He simply assumed that Gus had behaved himself because she hadn’t told him otherwise. She drained her wineglass and looked at the dishes David had left on the table. Before she indulged in self-pity she remembered the scrapbook smoldering in her study. The mere thought of it caused a frisson of excitement to career up her spine. She wouldn’t tell David. It would be her secret. The thought of holding something back gave her a sense of superiority over her husband. A sliver of control. She’d load the dishwasher and wash up, watch television with him and share his bed but, on Sunday night, when he left, she would have the scrapbook to curl up with and someone else’s love to feast upon.
XII
The pink light of sunset setting the sky aflame
At the end of October the cottage was finished and Jean-Paul returned to Hartington. Miranda had woken in a good mood, deliberated over what to wear, finally deciding on a pair of Rock & Republic skinny jeans tucked into boots, an Anne Fontaine white shirt and an extravagant spray of Jo Malone Lime, Basil & Mandarin scent. She had taken time to wash and blow-dry her hair, leaving it long and shiny down her back. Not that she wanted to look as though she’d taken trouble; after all, he was only the gardener.
He arrived in late afternoon. Gus and Storm were on half term, hanging around the bridge, waiting for the enigmatic Frenchman to appear. Gus pretended he wasn’t interested, throwing sticks into the water, but in fact was curious and putout that Storm had already met him.
When Miranda opened the door her heart stalled a moment; he was even more handsome than she remembered, in a felt hat, sheepskin coat and faded Levis. He stepped into the hall and took off his hat. His graying hair was tousled and he ran a hand through it, casting his eyes about the place, searching for ghosts in the shadows.
“The children are waiting for you at the cottage,” she said. “I’ve filled your fridge so I can offer you a cup of tea down there.”
“Good, then let’s go.”
Miranda followed him onto the gravel. The sky was a deep navy, turning to pink and gold just above the tree line. The air was damp, the ground wet from a heavy shower that morning. Brown and red leaves gathered on the grass, blown about by the wind, and a couple of gray squirrels chased each other up the oak tree. Jean-Paul watched them and, for an instant, was sure he saw three little faces peering out like Red Indians in a tepee. He hesitated, Miranda’s nervous chatter muffled against the sudden eruption of children’s laughter. He squinted and strained his ears, but the laughter blended with the wind and the little faces were swallowed by the dusk. It was just the evening light filtering old memories; the oak tree was dark and empty and silent.
They continued down the path to the bridge where Storm and Gus waited. When she saw him, Storm broke into a run, eager to show off to Gus. “Mummy! Mummy!” she cried. “I’m going to make magic in the garden!” Jean-Paul’s face relaxed into an affectionate smile, the sight of the children putting right all that was wrong about the place. “We’ve tidied the cottage for you,” she said proudly, springing beside him like a kangaroo. Gus remained on the bridge watching Jean-Paul warily from behind a curtain of dark hair. Jean-Paul was Storm’s friend.
Jean-Paul sensed Gus’s suspicion as if it were a miasma of smoke around him. He nodded affably then proceeded towards the cottage. He knew not to force his friendship. The child would come when he was ready. Miranda opened the door with the same rusty key that Ava had used a lifetime ago. They had both been young then; neither knowing that they would forge a love so strong that in all the years that followed she would remain at the very center of his heart like a thorny rose—beautiful but inflicting pain. The house was the same, the gardens remained, though neglected, their cottage barely touched: yet Ava had been the breath that had brought it all to life. Without her, the place was dead.