Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

L uca

After a few days helping Jackson in the garden, my muscles are sore. They were sore after the first day, but I wanted to continue to help, and I wanted to be with him. That I have muscles that can be sore is a marvel to me. I feel a bit stronger. Being in the garden feels good as well, even though I can only manage a couple of hours. Although giving my hands something to do leaves my mind free, it doesn't seem to wander into the dark places so much, and when it does, there's a thread of light leading it back. I'm not sure that it's the physical work, though Jackson swears it's good for the mind—I think it's more Jackson. We haven't spoken about anything much since that day when he gazed into my soul—well, nothing of importance. It's been all about the garden, and the plants he thinks we should put in. I have no experience, so I'm happy to go along with his suggestions. Though I do notice that he's started to put in the plants he brought with him. They're making the garden colourful, and I like sketching them when Jackson's gone home.

I have no idea how to bring up any other subjects. I still don't want to tell him my secrets. My shame. Even if he accepts them—I don't accept them. So this existence is okay, this closeness, but no further. He hugged me again. I was feeling very down that day—I have no explanation why—some days are just like that. The hug was good, and I drank in his earthy, woody, pine scent. I wanted a whole lot more, but the fear of rejection was more than I could handle.

One evening I'm lying on the sofa, listening to music. My shoulders and arms are aching from another few hours in the garden with Jackson. But it's a good ache, like work well done rather than muscles pulled. There's a knock on the door. Jackson went home hours ago. My stomach flips that it might be him, then hollows out when I remember he has a key. It flips again at the thought he's never been at the house at this time in the evening, and might not feel comfortable just walking in. My stomach is flipping so much I start to feel nauseous and I can feel panic rising up—I need to find out who it is.

"Anna!"

"Well, hello Luca. Still with us, I see," her tone is mock icy, but she has a point. I haven't called her for several days, she probably came all the way out here just to check on me. She would do that—she's a good friend. I feel crappy that I haven't called her.

"I'm sorry, I've been busy." She raises an eyebrow at that, like she doesn't believe me. She knows me too well. Most people find Anna like marmite, and most come down on the side of thinking she's too bitter. She has a very sharp wit that many people find too cutting, but she has a heart of gold underneath, and she rarely turns her acid tongue to me. If she does, it's usually because I deserve it.

"I've been . . . er . . . gardening." At that she snorts, and I know there's no way I'm going to tell her about Jackson—not for a while anyway.

She chooses to ignore my ridiculous statement and instead asks, "Have you eaten?"

I haven't. I am trying to get better at eating in the evening, and I have more appetite now, but I haven't bothered tonight.

"Not yet." She gives me a look like she knew I was going to answer exactly that, then says, "Then show me the way to the kitchen, I brought food." Typical Anna. She takes charge in thirty seconds flat, and that's one of the reasons I love her. She's very good at taking charge of me, but I don't want her taking charge of how things are going for me right now—except for the food, of course.

Dinner turns out to be some fresh pasta, a pot of spicy tomato sauce, and garlic flat bread, easily heated and very delicious. More importantly, she brought a bottle of wine. I've had very little alcohol since I've been here. I've been getting grocery deliveries—still having no transport to the village, and not feeling up to walking it—but I haven't bought alcohol. In truth, I know I should stay off it.

There have been times, in the past, when I've become dangerously close to being dependent on it. Usually, I run out before I get too far down that road, and anxiety prevents me from getting more. When I'm feeling alright, I can resist the temptation to buy it, so I find it easier to not have stronger stuff in the house. I'd found an old bottle of whisky in one of the cupboards in the dining room when I arrived, which I drank within a few days. I know Aunt Frances kept wine in the cellar, but that's the one place I haven't been yet—and don't want to go.

The cellar. The last time I ever saw my father. When he found out that I was coming here to Larchdown instead of going home for the holidays. When he found out that my mother had intervened and asked Aunt Frances to help. It was the only time my mother ever stood between my father and what he did to me. Sometimes I hated that she didn't protect me more. But I know she had her own problems, and I don't think her help would have changed much—not for me at least. For her it might have been much worse.

Aunt Frances was out when my father arrived. I hid in the cellar, but he found me. I think the shouting must have alerted her to where we were. She found us when she came back. She said that she was applying for guardianship, and he had better sign it or she would tell the world what he'd done. It was Aunt Frances who'd held me for hours and hours until I stopped crying. I never saw either of my parents again. It was a few months later that I heard they were both dead, but Aunt Frances never told me how they had died, and it was years before I learned the truth—that my father had shot my mother, and then himself. At the time, I felt relieved that he would never be able to affect me again, but he's been affecting me all my life. It is patterns that are formed as children that shape our future. So, the cellar still holds ghosts I don't want to face.

"So gardening, eh?" I know Anna is teasing, but she's also fishing for information.

"I have." I pull up the arms of the long-sleeved t-shirt I'd put on after my shower, to show her my slightly tanned arms and the beginnings of some muscles. She looks suitably impressed.

"It looks like country life is suiting you."

I shrug as casually as I can and take a sip of wine. "Maybe it is."

Anna just gives me an assessing look. She's too sharp sometimes. I decide a change of topic is needed.

"How's London?" It sounds oblique, but she knows I mean our circle of friends, the social scene, her work.

She proceeds to tell me all the gossip and goings on—well, almost all—she neatly doesn't say anything about Claude, which I thank her for. His influence has no effect on me anymore, but I love that she wants to protect me from that.

"There's another reason I came to see you," she announces out of the blue.

"Oh, yes?"

"I've been offered a job—on a film production."

"That's great!" I know this has been a dream of hers for a while.

"It's in the States."

I only hesitate for a second. "That's big time, huh? Congratulations! You deserve it."

"I wanted to see if you'd be okay, you know, without me to look after you?"

"I'll be fine," I huff good naturedly. Anna assesses me for a minute.

"You do look well Lu. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting it."

"I am fine. Honestly, you go to America. I'm pleased for you." There was a time that I wouldn't have been fine and would probably have gone with her—if she had gone at all, that is.

"Thank you, that's a weight off my mind." She looks relieved.

"Sorry to be a burden." This is an old speech pattern between us, and is said with the freedom only old friends can have with each other.

"Love you, millstone."

"Love you too, witch." I get up to wash the dishes, while Anna fills her glass with wine again and wanders off to explore the house.

‘Um, Luca?' Anna is calling me from somewhere in the house. I dry my hands and follow her call.

"Where are you?"

"In here."

"In here" turns out to be the study. Damn, I thought I'd locked that door. I stand in the doorway.

Anna is gesturing to the pictures stuck on the wall and laid across the surfaces. Pictures I've sketched of the garden. But she isn't looking at the pictures of the garden, she's looking at the pictures of Jackson—there are a lot of them. I sketched him in the garden, working and doing jobs, sitting with his coffee, or in the kitchen. Also head shots, with a range of expressions. I've done most of them from memory, but I think I have every aspect of his gorgeous face etched into my brain. Of course, he doesn't know I've drawn them. No one has known until Anna stumbled in.

"Been gardening, eh?" Anna's eyes are full of mirth and excitement. "I bet you have."

"It's not like that," I snap, and Anna frowns at me. "He's straight."

"When has that ever stopped you?"

"This is different." I really don't want to talk about Jackson to Anna. I don't even know what to think myself half the time. But Anna is all too perceptive.

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

"There's nothing to tell." I know that sounds weak, even by my standards.

"You have a devastatingly handsome man in your garden—who you claim you haven't made a move on—and yet he's managed to get you out in said garden, and inspired you to draw again. I take it that this is his doing?"

I nod silently.

"And you don't think to mention it to me, your oldest and best friend?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what to say. It's all such a mess."

"A mess? But you want him, don't you?"

I give her a withering look. I mean, she might not have seen him in person, but she has seen his picture. She tilts her head in a nod, a concession that it was a stupid question.

"Of course I do, but I don't want to mess it up with him. He's really nice, and kind. What if I frighten him away? What if he is not up for trying something different, or even worse, homophobic?"

"Has he given you any indication that he is?" Anna looks worried, her protective expression falling into place.

"No. He . . . er . . . hugs me."

"Hugs you?" Now she looks confused. "Why does he hug you?"

"Once, I was about to have a panic attack and I said hugging helps, and now, he hugs me."

"Let me get this straight. You have a super hot guy in your garden, who has helped you get your mojo back, and if you have panic attacks, he hugs you?"

"Yes, he is pretty awesome."

"Sounds like he's a fucking unicorn." She won't let it lie though, "And you weren't going to tell me?"

I shrug. "You can meet him tomorrow."

"What's his name?"

"Jackson Blake."

"Oh, that is a manly name. Nope, I've changed my mind. You have no chance of turning a guy with a name like that." I know when she's gone back to teasing me that we're all good again and I'm no longer in trouble for not telling her.