The Runaway Bridesmaid (14 page)

She had waited all her life for a suitable man to cross her radar, and here were two within the space of a couple of days. Perhaps her decision to stay in Devon did have benefits after all.

Chapter Seventeen

Rosie dragged her bones from the sagging single bed. Her head felt like a colony of ants had taken up residence in the apertures where her brain cells should be. She couldn’t think straight, and knew it was because she had no plan, no itinerary to follow. She was like a ship that had weighed anchor but had left the nautical maps behind in the harbour. She wrapped her aunt’s fluffy robe around her shoulders and performed her daily struggle with the Aga to elicit some of its warmth into the kitchen as she brewed a pot of English Breakfast tea.

She stared out of the kitchen window to another of her life’s landscapes, this one strewn with the detritus of botanical disarray. Chaos reigned out there too, where, like her life in Manhattan, once there had been meticulous order – so much so that Bernice had been able to open her garden to the critical eyes of the paying public, as well as the more appreciative visits of gardening enthusiasts who understood the level of commitment required to produce such horticultural splendour.

The For Sale sign was where she’d left it, slung by the back door like a drunken flamingo. It reminded her of the telephone call she had made to Austin the previous day to inform him she had removed the board and wished to delay any sale until she’d smartened up the garden.

He’d told her he had a potential purchaser interested already who was happy to take the cottage in its current condition so she was wasting her time and energy. But their conversation had moved swiftly on to more personal matters now he knew she intended to stay in Devon, culminating in him asking her out on a date! Despite his request being something she had fantasised about since she had left the throw-back solicitors’ offices, she’d been so caught off-guard she had stuttered her acceptance – which had made her sound like a naïve school girl.

An intimate French restaurant had been suggested and Rosie was unsure whether she was excited about the date scheduled for next Friday or terrified. Austin was attractive and he
was
the type of guy she usually dated. They had many aspects of their lives in common despite the separation of the Atlantic: their educational background, their career trajectory, their intellect. Perfect! Yet an inconvenient niggle in the back of her mind warned her that he did exude a similar charismatic aura as Giles had, but she quickly quashed her misgivings.

A coil of excitement twisted in her chest as she hugged the china mug and sipped her tea. Dating in the UK had not been on her agenda, but she couldn’t deny that rumble of attraction as she recalled his broad shoulders, his cobalt eyes and the way he dangled the arm of his glasses from his corner of his full, sensual lips.

However, her anticipation was nothing compared to Emily’s reaction when she had casually mentioned their date to her. She was already planning their wedding at St Peter’s Parish Church. Rosie wouldn’t have been surprised if she had even put a provisional call in to Reverend Hartley.

To divert her circular thoughts from her evening with Austin, Rosie determined that a day of hard physical labour was called for. She glanced at her night attire and across to her stilettos waiting patiently by the back door and realised she possessed not one item of clothing that would be conducive to a full day’s toil in the soil. Stupidly, when she had left for the UK, it seemed she had packed for a night out at a Manhattan soiree rather than Devonshire countryside pursuits.

With some trepidation she rummaged through Bernice’s huge oak wardrobe, a chore she had avoided to date as too emotional. She managed to unearth a hand-knitted Aran sweater that would do the job perfectly, coupled with her own black jeans, the Hunter boots and her aunt’s old Barbour to complete the ensemble. She plonked the straw hat onto her bushy locks and strode to the rear of the garden. The early morning sunlight glanced from the sprinkles of diamond dewdrops as she made her way to the ancient summerhouse where Bernice stored her myriad garden implements.

The wooden door was jammed tight. After some exertion with her shoulder to the door, it shot forward, its rusted handle detaching in her hand, and Rosie was sent flying into its cobwebby interior. Her entry had been prevented by an ancient green lawnmower and an even more elderly silver bicycle, complete with greying wicker basket up front, which her aunt had used for her village errands and daily trips to Susan’s shop and the Post Office in Carnleigh. Rosie wasn’t altogether sure she could remember how to ride a bicycle.

She could, however, recall teaching Freya to ride her bike; a pink Barbie cycle with its trainer wheels removed. She smiled at the memory of her beloved mum chasing them down the beach, her short auburn curls streaming in the breeze as Freya, who had immediately grasped the technique, shot off towards the ocean. Freya had always been a fast learner.

Rosie experienced a sharp wave of melancholy and had to struggle to force her emotions back into their tightly-sealed box. This day was about physical labour, not psychological introspection.

The garden outhouse was a veritable horticultural Aladdin’s cave. A menagerie of implements – the use of some Rosie was unable to fathom – hung from all four walls, the majority dating back to Bernice’s father’s era. In the gloom, with hedge cutters, pitchforks and numerous vicious-looking scythes, the shed looked more like a scene from one of the
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
movies than an old lady’s storage hut.

She located a wide wicker cloche, a pair of gardening gloves stiffened with age, and what looked like a digging implement, and confirmed her previous decision. If she did nothing else in the tangled emerald chaos, she would finish the restoration of her aunt’s favourite part of the garden: the three-metre square plot of herbs located just below the kitchen window. Each metre square was intersected by raised grassy paths separating the differing varieties. A profusion of weeds choked at the plants, coiling their insistent tendrils around the herbs’ stems, but Rosie felt confident she could distinguish the real thing from the interlopers.

Shafts of light, laced with early May sunshine, broke through the whispering canopy of the cherry tree as she commenced her chosen chore. After what seemed like hours of meditative monotony, she sat back on her heels to survey the painfully slow progress. She removed her straw hat to wipe the perspiration rolling down her cheeks with her forearm, dragging a smear of mud across the bridge of her nose. Clouds scudded through the turquoise sky and the intermittent bursts of sweet rosemary, camomile and fresh lavender lifted her spirits as she anticipated moving on to the next section containing the coriander, parsley and the lemon mint.

She rotated her shoulders and twisted her neck before once again raising her buttocks into the warm midday air to resume her weeding, enjoying the repetitive but therapeutic work. The physicality of the toil transported her to another, more comforting world. When she shuffled on her knees to the next section, the tang of coriander floated up to her nostrils. She was wondering which recipes called for fresh coriander but would also meet her standard of culinary expertise – basic – when she felt a splat on her shoulder and glanced to her left.

Yuck. A white splodge of bird poo had landed on the arm of her Barbour, and she was surprised to find tears smart at her eyes. That just said it all, really. A metaphor for her life – even the birds dropped their garbage on her. Was there to be no relief from the onslaught?

‘It’s good luck, that is,’ an amused voice offered from behind her, its suddenness sending a bolt of surprise through Rosie’s chest.

‘What’s so good about having a bird defecate on your shoulder?’ she responded grumpily as she struggled to her feet to face the owner of the questionable opinion who’d taken a swift step back at her sharp retort.

Rosie saw the flicker of alarm on the old man’s face, took in the faded brown cords and ancient leather brogues, his tweed jacket with patches at the elbows, and neatly barbered silver hair parted at the centre and kept in place with a slick of Brylcreem. ‘Sorry, sorry, ignore my inexcusable rudeness. I’ve been slaving in the soil all morning and I should take a break. What can I do for you, Mr…?’

‘I’m Ollie Bradshaw. I work over at Tiverton Meadows Garden Centre. Miss Marshall usually supplies us with a selection of plants from her herb garden in late spring. I, erm, I help her out with the heavy work in her garden over the summer months, too.’ He allowed his glance to sweep over the neglected plot and raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she around?’

Rosie met his puzzled expression, his tanned forehead creased into parallel lines, his hands shoved deep in his pockets for fear they would run away, and her heart softened. ‘I’m Rosie Hamilton, Bernice Marshall’s niece.’ She stuck out her muddy glove, realised her error and grabbed the fingers to remove it and offer him her naked palm.

Ollie glanced at her outstretched hand in alarm, but rallied and managed to grasp her fingertips for a weak acknowledgement. No firm ‘New York grip’ here.

‘I’m so sorry, Ollie. I’m surprised no one has contacted you, but my aunt passed away three weeks ago. I’m over from the US for a couple of months, attempting to smarten up the garden and the cottage for its eventual sale.’

‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Your aunt was a great lady, Miss Hamilton. Knowledgeable and so passionate about her plants and flowers, but most especially her herb garden.’ His crinkled eyes rested with concern on the square Rosie had managed to clear. Everything about his face was manly; square jawline, strong, well-defined eyebrows, perfectly proportioned nose. Clearly he’d been very handsome when he was young, was still handsome with his all-year-round tan. Even his deeply-etched wrinkles added charm. ‘I’ll miss her expert advice as well as her speciality – her lavender macaroons were to die for. Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t mean...’

He couldn’t meet Rosie’s eyes so continued to run them over the garden, now drenched in spring sunshine, his gaze finally coming to rest on the two over-sized wicker cloches heaped with what Rosie thought were weeds.

‘Big job you’ve taken on.’ At last, Ollie allowed a smile to lift his lips, transforming his features into animated enquiry. ‘Do you know anything about gardening?’

‘Sure I do.’

Ollie sized her up, apparently calculating the likelihood of this elegant woman possessing anything in the realm of horticultural talents.

Rosie wished she had a camera to capture the look he’d thrown in her direction. His smirk told her he didn’t believe her lame assurance. He lowered himself onto his haunches and selected a weed from the basket, holding it between his thumb and index finger, its bulb and roots dangling free.

‘This, for instance, is
Crocus Sativus
, more commonly known as saffron; a particularly testing plant to cultivate in an English garden, but which, under your aunt’s nurture and guidance, has thrived. Did you know saffron is worth more than its weight in gold? And this is…’

‘Okay, okay. I have no idea what I’m doing.’ She brushed her long frizzy fringe from her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. ‘It’s all seems so overwhelming.’

Ollie laughed. ‘It’s not that bad. No need to dust off my degree in extreme survivalism just yet. I’m still available on Sundays if you want me to continue with the arrangement I had with your aunt. I’m sad to hear the lodge is being sold, though. I hope you find a buyer who appreciates the time and hard work that has gone into making this one of the most spectacular gardens in North Devon, as well as the rarity value of many of its plants which your aunt sourced from all four corners of the world. It’s a twenty-four-seven job to maintain it the way your aunt did; not many people are prepared to put in that level of commitment.’

‘I know, I know, but its sale is really the only solution, Ollie. I live in New York, my sister is recently married and will settle in Brooklyn, and my father owns a hardware store out in Connecticut. We can’t maintain this place or visit often enough to make its retention viable. You said yourself it takes a full-time commitment. I’m sorry. The lawyer handling Bernice’s estate already thinks he has an interested buyer, so maybe it won’t be long. I’m just keen to sort out the herb garden really, as a sort of tribute to my aunt – it was her favourite part of the garden.’

‘I know, and the sketches she did! They are truly amazing. A very talented lady, your aunt. I loved spending time in her company. Her passion for all things horticultural certainly shined through. Did you know she opened her garden to the public every year under the National Gardens Scheme?’

‘Yes, I did know that. Unfortunately, I won’t be following in that family tradition. Look Ollie, can I offer you a cup of tea? I’m parched.’

‘Okay, a cuppa would be great. I love gardens,’ Ollie continued as he sat at the pine table in the kitchen, ‘never happier than when I’m hunting down some long-forgotten exotic variety of plant for a particularly discerning customer at the garden centre. More fascinated by botanical varieties than human diversity, that’s me.’

Rosie noticed Ollie’s fingers were those of a talented musician, sparse and deft with which to nip and tease each bud and shoot towards the height of its perfection. But his serious demeanour could benefit from an occasional smile.

‘There’s no way you’d have found me chained to an office desk all day, staring out of a tenth floor window like a demented bee trapped in a hive. I adore my part-time job at the garden centre – every day is different; every month my working landscape changes. I get to spend my life outside in the fresh air, away from the recycled bugs and germs that circulate in those hermetically-sealed glass cubes they call offices. My body sustains bruises from physical exertion, not internal trauma from stress and anxiety of where the next bonus is coming from. No need for the crutches of alcohol and tobacco that office workers succumb to, and I get to meet really interesting and passionate people – like your aunt. ‘It’s not a career for the young, though. They want to be footballers or minor TV celebrities these days, like that young man up at the Manor. Unfortunately, girls don’t find shrubs and trees sexy like cooking, but where would those chefs be without the ingredients people like me source?’