Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and I kiss him, not caring that we may be making poor Benson nauseous.
“Thank you. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He looks like he wants to do more than kiss but at that moment, a small boy about seven years old peeks out from the back door.
“Jack!” Patty admonishes from the inside and he scurries back.
“It’s all right, Jack, we’re ready,” Aiden says but he takes a few steps back, closer to the wall.
Patty waddles out, dragging a big sack of dirt, Jack behind her with a shovel.
“What will you name it, dear?” Patty asks.
“I get to name it?” I squeal in astonishment.
“Oh yes, we have a rose registry. You better pick a good one. It’ll be here a long time.”
There is only one name beautiful enough for this.
“Lady Clare.”
Aiden pulls me against him and kisses my hair. He knows I just gave my mother the title she could not have had in life. Patty scribbles it on a register while Jack looks at Aiden and squares his shoulders in imitation.
“Do you need help planting, Mr. Hale?” says Patty.
“No, thank you. We know the spot.”
He picks up the sack of dirt and hoists it over his shoulder. Jack hands him the shovel, standing straight like Aiden. Patty gives us some thick, green gloves, reeling off instructions on how to turn on the sprinklers.
“Benson? The rose, please,” Aiden says with a smirk. Benson smirks back but picks up the bucket. We troop out of the shop, Patty waving and telling us to come back for the Rose Festival.
“I think Jack wants to be you when he grows up,” I say to Aiden. He chuckles and takes the path to the Shakespeare Garden. I don’t let go of his ever-tense waist. Benson follows us, emanating stay-away vibes despite the rose he is carrying.
The Shakespeare Garden is empty except for an elderly couple with canes, sitting on a wrought-iron bench. We wait outside the rose hedges until they leave. Then, Benson plants himself under the arched entryway while we step inside.
Instantly, Aiden’s eyes lighten as he remembers the same thing I do. Our first night together.
“I thought this would be a good place for it,” he says.
“It is. It’s what I would have picked.”
“By centifolia or by La France?”
I know what he means. By Lady Cecilia or by me? “By La France.” I point.
He smiles brilliantly. “I agree but I want to know why.”
I shrug. “It makes sense, I suppose. Life with life, death with death.” My voice trails off. Would I ever have been able to make this choice if I had never met him?
For a few heartbeats, he says nothing. Then he grabs the shovel and starts digging. When I offer to help, he protests that I’ll ruin another dress. I ignore him and kneel by his side. For an immeasurable moment, we dig and scoop. I focus only on our gloved hands as they till the earth, the smell of dirt, roses and Aiden, and the vital sound of our breathing. His fingers work fast, eager, as though they are finding catharsis in movement. His shoulders are a bit more relaxed. He must sense my gaze because he looks up and smiles.
“Enjoying the show, Elisa?”
“Every molecule.”
We don’t stop until the hole is deep enough. Then, carefully, with the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth, Aiden lowers Lady Clare into the ground. We cover her roots—a handful of dirt from me, a handful from him. Until in the end, she blooms just like Mum did in life.
“Lady Clare, Genius Peter and Mona Isa,” Aiden whispers.
I absorb the sight he paints, the sight of family, absent and present in every way. “Now we need to plant something for you,” I say.
“How about a cactus?”
I laugh and flick a pinch of dirt at him. “You have little in common with cacti other than a nice prick.”
His booming laugh startles an Admiral butterfly across the garden. He scoops up some dirt and flicks it back at me. Our joined laughter is higher, louder, and for a moment, we’re Aiden and Elisa without pasts. Dirt flies everywhere—hair, clothes, faces—until Aiden tackles me on the grass, kissing me soundly on the mouth.
“Aiden! Benson is out there,” I whisper against his lips. “And people!”
He pulls back, the dimple higher and deeper than ever. “I know.”
Ah! Exactly like he said this morning. I bring him back to my lips, wanting nothing else but to make his simple wish true.
“Gardening seems to have a very beneficial effect on you,” he muses, his shining eyes speculative.
“And on you.”
He sits up, hauling me over his lap. His hair is messy, bits of bark in the strands, his white shirt stained with dirt and grass. He’s never looked more beautiful.
“You know, Elisa, I have about ten acres of hill behind my house. I’ve never done anything with it. You seem to love gardening. Maybe it’s time you have your own piece of land to do it?”
My hand flies to my mouth but when I taste the dirt, I drop it. “My own land?”
He nods. “If you like. Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
I can’t speak but the tears in my eyes say it all. Even when I can finally form the words, they are whispers.
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
His smile disappears and the faithful V cracks between his eyebrows. The tectonic plates shift so abruptly that I almost hear them rotate and lock.
“Come, Elisa.” His voice is low as he stands and lifts me to my feet.
Bloody hell! What did I say? If he won’t accept even this, how will he ever accept that I love him?
He turns on the sprinkler by Lady Clare and wraps his arm around me in silence. He’s made of titanium again. We start strolling Shakespeare’s circle, retracing our first steps precisely. Floribunda, La France. With each step, his eyes are withdrawing. The brief respite his shoulders had while planting is over.
“Aiden, baby, what’s wrong? Should we go home?” I cup his face.
For an instant, I don’t think he will answer. But he pauses by centifolia where that first bloom has wilted and another is opening. Something breaks on his face. His forehead contorts and his jaw locks. He shuts his eyes, his hand clawing deep at my waist. Every muscle band is expanding and quivering. My heart starts pounding. What is this? What’s happening?
He opens his eyes. They’re no longer turquoise or even sapphire. They’re midnight blue.
“Elisa,” his voice is rough. “I think it’s time you know the truth.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Semper Fidelis
“The truth about what?” I whisper.
“About me… You’ve been wanting to know what I’ve done to deserve this.”
I clutch his arm. “I don’t need to know if it will hurt you.”
“Yes, you do. Because you see, from our second evening together, I’ve lied to you.”
My hand loosens on his arm and drops. “Lied to me? About what?”
“About what happened twelve years and eighteen days ago.”
I stop my gasp on the way out because I don’t want to push him at all one way or another. “Are you sure?”
He nods and extends his hand to me, palm up, as though uncertain whether I will take it. I grip it with all my strength. He tucks my hand at the crook of his arm and treads to the bench where the elderly couple sat earlier. His eyes fix on my jawline and throat. Then, he begins in a low, halting voice.
“We’d been stationed at Camp Volturno outside of Fallujah for two weeks. Three hundred Marines strung out on testosterone and adrenaline, armed to their teeth with weapons. Our mission was U.S. presence and raids against insurgents and militia. Tropical vacation after our thunder runs in Baghdad. No mortar fire, no muddy rain, at least two hours of sleep per night. It felt like we were winning.
“I remember lying in my cot on May first, awake at zero three hundred—writing a letter, thinking, ‘This can’t be it. Where are the suicide bombs, the al-Qaeda ties?’ Then Marshall ducked into our tent, sand blowing in.