The French Gardener(48)

“The children are on half term this week. I hope they don’t get in your way,” she said.

“Jean-Paul is going to build us a tree house,” said Gus, trying not to sound too excited in case it didn’t happen. He was used to his father making promises he didn’t keep. “If he’s not too busy,” he added. Jean-Paul looked at him intently. Like “time,” the word “busy” bothered him.

“Your tree house is at the very top of my list of priorities,” he said seriously. “What is a garden without a tree house? What is a garden without magic? We have to build a tree house for the magic to work.” Storm giggled. Gus stared at Jean-Paul, not knowing what to make of him. He had never come across an adult who put his desires first. Jean-Paul turned his attention to Miranda. “I will walk around the garden tomorrow and see what we can salvage, what needs to be cut back, what needs to be replanted. Already I can see the wild garden needs to be replanted so that it flowers in the spring.”

“Whatever you suggest.” Miranda didn’t want to know the details. She just wanted it done.

“Is there a vegetable garden?” he asked, blinking away the sudden vision of Archie, Angus and Poppy dancing around the bonfire that autumn evening after roasting marshmallows on the flames.

“Yes, it’s a mess.”

He turned to the children. “How would you like to help me plant the vegetable garden in the spring?”

“Me, me!” Storm volunteered immediately. “What shall we plant?”

Jean-Paul rubbed his chin in thought. “Marrows, pumpkins, rhubarb, raspberries, strawberries, potatoes, carrots…”

“You’re going to plant all those?” said Gus.

“Of course. With your help. After all, you’re going to eat them.”

Gus screwed up his nose. “I hate rhubarb.”

“You won’t hate our rhubarb.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” enthused Miranda. “You’ll meet Mrs. Underwood. She cooks for us. There’s nothing she likes more than fresh vegetables. There’s a farmers’ market in town on a Saturday, though I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been yet. I’ve barely had a moment.”

“Then, what we don’t eat we will sell.” Gus’s eyes lit up. “And you, Gus, can take a cut of the money.” Jean-Paul looked at Miranda for approval. She nodded. She could tell Gus was warming to Jean-Paul, in spite of himself. He was an independent child. He didn’t need attention like his sister, or at least he didn’t want to look as if he needed it. She put that down to his age. He was just beginning to flex his wings. He had never been one of those needy children who wanted his parents around. She watched him assessing the new arrival with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. There was something compelling about Jean-Paul, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with his magic flute.

They finished tea and Miranda felt it wasn’t fair to linger longer than necessary. “I’m sure you want to unpack and settle in,” she said, standing up. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I will assess the garden and let you know what is needed. Then we have work to do, no?” He spoke to the children.

“Our tree house,” said Storm happily. Gus said nothing. His head was buzzing with conflicting thoughts. He followed his mother outside where a bright moon turned the river silver, yearning to give in to excitement but too afraid. The number of times his hopes had been reduced to disappointment were too many to count.

Jean-Paul stood in the doorway, watching them go, remembering the sight of Ava on the bridge watching the rainbow. Alone, in France, he’d search for the pink in every rainbow, as if she were a pot of gold at the foot, but he had never found it. Years had passed, rainbows had come and gone, pink had always eluded him. He wondered whether it really did exist, hidden there between green and blue, or whether it was a colorful figment of Ava’s lively imagination.

Where is she now? He was too afraid to inquire. He didn’t think he would have the will to go on if she had stopped loving him. There were many possibilities too horrendous to contemplate. He wasn’t ready for those. Time might have dulled her memory of him, the years stolen the intensity of feeling she once had. He had come back for her, but she had gone. Perhaps that was a sign. If she still loved him she would have waited. She would have kept their garden alive, not let it shrivel and die in the hands of strangers. There was no use searching for her, she obviously didn’t want to be found. She would only repeat what she had said to him in that kitchen twenty-six years ago and he never wanted to hear those words again.