Page 105 of The Attic on Queen Street
I stopped only long enough to survey the damage before running upstairs to Jack’s room, knowing what I’d see before I spotted the neatly made bed, the empty closet, and all traces of him removed. I wanted to lie down on the bed and press my face into the pillow. But that was the old Melanie. The new Melanie backed out of the room and walked calmly down the hallway, returning a moment later to shut the door.
I left Mrs.Houlihan in the parlor to fret about how the clock was ruining the antique rug and worrying about cleaning the bloodstains, and joined my father in the garden. He sat on the bench, staring at the remains of all of his hard work. His grin told me he was already planning the reconstruction in his head, eager to start over and get his hands in the dirt.
I sat down next to him and rested my head on his shoulder, narrowing my eyes to blur my vision, hoping to see what he was seeing. He clasped my hand in his, allowing them to rest on the bench between us.
“I think I’m going to start all over and redesign your garden as a classic Romantic Garden.”
“I’ve never heard of that. What are they?”
I heard the smile in his voice. “They’re also called Extravagant Liars.”
I lifted my head to look at him. “I’ve never heard of those, either. Why are they called that?”
His chest swelled as he took a deep breath, and I saw he was in his element, sharing his love for gardens with me, and I felt that connection with him, one that I had once thought irrevocably broken.
“So,” he said, “Romantic Gardens became popular during the Industrial Revolution as a kind of nod toward the empowerment of the common man. When he came home from working in the factories, he wanted a completely different scene to make him forget about the dreary realities of his workday. There’s no symmetry, or plan, with a surprise around every corner. Sometimes there are small vignettes tucked away into little alcoves, and meandering paths that lead nowhere. The gardens are meant to bring the viewer where emotion takes precedence over reason, and appeal directly to the soul.”
Sitting back, I stared in front of us at the swath of fake grass stretched over the cistern and the plastic flowers used for the film production. “And you can see beyond this mess to envision it?”
He nodded slowly. “To a point. I’ll have to sketch it out, but that’s part of the joy for me. Not to always know what’s next, but to trust that I’ll figure it out as I go along, changing things as needed. Just because I start with a plan doesn’t mean I can’t stray from it if my heart pulls me in another direction.”
An unexpected thickness filled my throat and it was a moment before I could speak. “I just don’t know how you do it. I see only a complete wreck of all your hard work, and if it were me, I would rather go inside and forget the entire backyard exists than start all over.”
He squeezed my hand. “Sure. Me, too. But then you lick your wounds, pull yourself up, and get to work fixing things because it’s not in us to live with a mess. We know that no matter how bad things look, we always figure out how we can fix them.” I rested my head on hisshoulder again and he kissed the top of my head. “You inherited that bullheadedness from both your mother and me, so you got a double dose. And I consider that a good thing. The world is full of people who are either afraid to fail or too afraid to try again once they do. The rest of the people are like us—too bullheaded to throw in the towel.”
I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Jack left.”
“I know. I had a few words with him when he came to kiss the twins good-bye.”
I grinned against his shirt, imagining that exchange. “Thanks, Dad. I’m glad you have my back.”
“Of course I do. We all do. I just wish I knew what was going on in Jack’s head, but he wouldn’t tell me. I just think...” He stopped. “Never mind. I don’t want to butt in where I’m not needed.”
“I’m really out of options here, Dad, so if you want to butt in, please do.”
He hesitated a moment before speaking. “Like I said, your mother and I are both pretty bullheaded—or strong-willed, depending on whose point of view it is.” He grinned down at me. “Since meeting Ginny, I have never been under the illusion that women are the weaker sex. Some men—and Jack is one of them—appreciate strong women. But sometimes, when their male ego gets bruised, it knocks them down and makes them feel as if they need to prove their worth.”
“You make Jack sound like a caveman going off to find the biggest woolly mammoth to drag home for dinner.”
Dad chuckled, his shoulder rumbling under my cheek. “Well, it’s pretty much the same thing. I don’t know what he’s up to, but my bet is on him trying to prove himself to you. To make himself worthy of you, if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t. But I’m willing to try to understand it, because I don’t really have a choice. I’m just so angry with him right now for not telling me what’s going on. But I refuse to wallow. I’ve got my children, my career, a baby shower to prepare for, and a broken antique grandfather clock in my parlor that I have to deal with. I’ve got work to do and I don’t have time to wallow.”
“Exactly. And he knows that’s what you’re going to do because that’s what strong women do.”
“It just hurts so much,” I said, unable to hide the tears in my voice.
He squeezed my shoulders, holding me tight while he kissed the top of my head. “I know, peanut. I know.”
We sat like that for a long time, staring at what was left of the garden, both of us imagining possibilities. I eventually sat up and wiped my eyes with a clean tissue my father handed me.
“Feel better?” he asked.
I nodded. “A little. Thank you.”
Smiling, he asked, “Did you girls have a productive meeting with Rebecca?”
My heart warmed at “you girls,” the mere words illustrating how far we had all come in a few short years in our relationships with one another. “Yes and no. We learned that we actually have very little planning to do for the shower because Rebecca was kind enough to provide me with a folder of her ideas, caterer selections, and places to shop where she has already put items on hold for me to pick up. And pay for, of course.”
