Love Like Rosemary's Page 4

  Sam squeezed Marianne’s hand. “I’ll confess it now -- I wouldn’t have given up medicine to marry you,” he said, teasingly, as she gave his arm a push.

  “Of course, he had the job at the match factory,” said Marianne. “He spent years managing the place. Traveling a little during the summer, but no big plans ever again.”

  “Everybody called it the ‘love curse’,” laughed Harold. “I mean, there was Edwin, in line–”

  “–in line to be his brother’s vice president,” interrupted Sam, “and when this girl tells him she’s leaving, he hops on the next train and takes off after her. When the train arrives in Montana–”

  “–he sends a telegram to Father, reading: Won’t be at work tomorrow, getting married,” quotes Grady’s mother. “They don’t hear from him again for almost two months.” Several family members are laughing in response to this story.

  Sam shook his head. “Nobody ever understood what came over him. But he had Lou and that was all he cared about. Even when the last of his savings were gone, all he did was talk about what an amazing woman he married.”

  “By then, he was living in a travel trailer in a little park near Butte, cooking meals over a little stove on a picnic bench.” Marianne stabbed into her pile of risotto with her fork. “But Lou was all he talked about, a big picture of her right inside the door.”

  Harold sighed. “Lucky guy,” he said. From the expression on his face, it was evident he meant what he said. A few family members nodded in response, strange smiles visible on the faces of Grady’s relatives. Grady’s mother stirred and glanced in the direction of the bread platter.

  “More garlic toast, anyone?” she asked.

  After dinner, Grady wandered upstairs to his former room, where Seth was seated as he reviewed their mother’s investment portfolio. The postcards of Edwin’s adventures were pinned on the walls above the desk, the one Grady had noticed the other night still lying atop the desk.

  “Hey, Seth,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Mom’s retirement funds?” Nodding towards the paperwork.

  “Umm, her charity funds, actually,” he answered. Glancing up after a moment to give his brother a smile. “Everything okay?” Seth asked. “You seem a little quiet tonight.”

  Grady shrugged. “I was thinking,” he answered. “Listening to them at dinner, talking about Uncle Edwin’s life. It seems weird, the way he gave up everything for a girl he barely knew.”

  His brother shifted aside a few pages of the portfolio. “Edwin was an eccentric; he did what he wanted to do, that’s all.”

  Grady sank down on the sofa. “So what was so great about Aunt Lou?” he asked. “Why did he give up everything for her?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Seth, scribbling something on the pad at his elbow.

  “Come on, it must have been something,” Grady argued. “Her smile, her laugh, her love of poetry...”

  “Uncle Edwin never said,” Seth replied. “Her pictures aren’t exactly supermodel quality, so it must have been something other than looks.”

  “What did the rest of the family think it was?” Grady asked, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Who knows? Nobody ever met Aunt Lou.” Sensing the puzzled expression on Grady’s face, he looked up again. “Uncle Edwin married her in Montana; she died seven years later in a flu epidemic.” He flipped the portfolio closed. “All we have is Uncle Edwin’s word.”

  With a smile, he rose and thumped Grady on the shoulder with his folder. “Mom would be proud,” he said. “You sound like the sensible side of the McGales instead of the dreamers.” With that, he went downstairs, leaving his brother alone in the study.

  The breeze from the open window stirred the postcards, images of Montana’s parks and deserts of the West. In Grady’s mind, a younger version of his great-uncle linked arms with the plump, beaming figure he recalled from Marianne’s photos of Aunt Lou.

  Reaching into his pocket, he drew out Rosemary’s card. Holding it between his fingers as he read the address for her greenhouse printed on the front.

  *****

  The driveway to Rosemary’s greenhouse ended with a gravel lot, where a small cottage and large greenhouse were visible. Both were covered in climbing vines, a tangle of wild roses and passion fruit that draped over the benches and clay pots in front of both buildings.

  Grady climbed out of the driver’s seat, glancing around at the place with curiosity as he popped open his trunk. Inside, the newly-repaired blue Schwinn bike, as promised by Wiley. Tucking his briefcase beneath his arm, he pulled the bike out and wheeled it up the pathway.

  Rapping on the cottage’s door, he felt it yield beneath the pressure of his touch.

  “Hello?” he called. The door swung open on its own, revealing a wood floor covered by a woven rug, walls painted a soft blue. A series of colorful prints and drawings were pinned to the surface instead of framed and hung for display. Most of them were flowers, although some featured garden sites in Europe.

  Across Rosemary’s desk, brochures for Great Britain were spread, featuring herb gardens and farmer’s markets in Scarborough Fair. For a paperweight, a brass cat with emerald eyes. He propped the bike against the desk, his briefcase sliding to the floor as he gazed at the pile of fluttering papers.

  “Hello?” A female voice interrupted his curiosity. Behind him, Rosemary stood in the doorway, wearing a stained gardening apron and gloves. Her golden hair spilled from a loose ponytail tied with a stream of ribbons.

  “Hey, I brought your bike back,” he said. “Good as new, Wiley said. Although I’m pretty sure he thinks I owe you more than the price of repair.” He wheeled it towards her as Rosemary reached for it, almost crooning with relief.

  “I missed you,” she said, in a way that made him wish she was referring to him instead of her bike. “Just in time for my two o’ clock deliveries.” She wrapped her fingers around the handles, inspecting the new bar and straightened front axel with interest.

  “So, can I make you a cup of tea for your trouble?” she asked. “Or would you like something else–a plant, maybe? Let’s say a sprig of thyme, a chamomile plant, a cutting from my sage...”

  “That sounds great,” he said. “My mom loves kitchen herbs.” It sounded like the perfect means of getting a glimpse of Rosemary at work; perhaps he would see a little of the magic from the marketplace the day he first saw her.

  “Then follow me,” she answered. “I have the perfect thing.”

  Rosemary’s greenhouse was filled with rows of green herbs. Chicory, lavender, mints of all flavors, along with pots of wildflowers and domestic blossoms. A large table in the middle was covered with cuttings and pots for transplant.

  The smell of green life and warm, moist soil. Grady filled his lungs, aware of the difference between this life and the sidewalks and cement plazas of his own existence.

  “How did you end up in a place like this?” he asked. Touching a sign in German, its rotten planks proving it had hung on the glass wall for many years. A twining chocolate vine had engulfed one end in its quest to reach the ceiling.

  “I inherited it,” she answered. “From my father and his business partner.” She lifted a pot from a rack on one of the tables. “This is lemon thyme,” she said. “Something a little different, if your Mom likes to cook as much as you say she does.” She wrapped the bottom of the pot in newspaper, its green leaves quivering above with the movement.

  “I know a little something about inherited success,” Grady chuckled. She turned towards him, a quizzical look on my face.

  “I mean, my family has–has kind of a history of going into the same business,” he said. “Financial, investment, mathematical. Heads for numbers, I guess.” He was thinking of his grandfather, whose solemn portrait still hung in the CEO’s office of his now-public company.

  “All of them?” she asked. Tying a piece of twine around the newspaper.

  “Not all of them,” he answered, although Uncle Edwin was a rare exception. �
��But I did. After my brother started his climb up the corporate ladder.”

  She laughed. “So I guess you’re not in the family business?” she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It all depends on how you look at it.”

  Rosemary handed him the plant, her fingers brushing his own. “Is that what you want to be doing?” she asked. “It doesn’t matter, if it’s what you really want.” The touch made his skin tingle, despite the perfectly normal atmosphere around them. No golden light, no magic dust– no details from the surreal scene in the marketplace, except Rosemary’s presence.

  “I don’t know.” This was his answer, after a moment’s silence. “I never thought about it before. What I am was ... what I always expected to be. Somehow it never occurred to me to think of anything else, even when I was a kid.”

  “All kids have other dreams,” she laughed. “You imagined something else once, you just forgot it.” She withdrew her hands, turning her attention to the cuttings on the table.

  “Hello, hello!” Someone rapped on the door frame, causing the two of them to turn at the sound. A man in a delivery uniform stood there, a crate of plants tucked beneath his arm. Shaggy white hair pinned beneath a baseball cap with “Warner Family Farms” printed across the front.

  “Herman!” Rosemary motioned him in. “Come and meet Grady–you remember me mentioning him, the guy who ran over me the other day.” Casting a teasing glance in Grady’s direction as Herman bustled into the greenhouse.

  “So this is the young man,” he boomed. “Please to meet you. Herman Warner. Sorry about the bike, but I had the car that day and my wife Heidi was hauling trees in our truck.”

  “Do you have my hibiscus?” asked Rosemary. “You do, don’t you? That’s why you’re late today!” She moved to the greenhouse door eagerly, trotting across the gravel parking lot outside as the two men followed.

  A vintage Mercedes was parked out front, gleaming black and silver despite the obvious signs of wear on its bumper and fenders. Green branches protruded from the rear windows and passenger side from the plants lined up in the car’s interior.

  Rosemary popped open the door and dragged a large pot from the back seat, its dark leaves shielding large buds in shades of cream and maroon.

  “Look at it, isn’t it beautiful?” she moaned. “I’ve been wanting this for months, Herman. It’ll look perfect in front of the house.”

  She tried to lift the heavy pot as Grady rushed to help her. His fingers were brushing against her again as they each lifted a side, almost as if their hands were intertwined. He glanced up into her dark eyes, the frame of golden corkscrew thickened by the humidity from the greenhouse.

  “I also brought your Meyer lemon tree,” Herman answered. “Are those new herbs ready for me to take back? Heidi’s got customers practically demanding them when they stop by the nursery.” He lifted a potted tree from the passenger seat, pushing the door closed carefully with his foot.

  “Beautiful car,” grunted Grady, as they lifted the pot across the greenhouse threshold.

  “Isn’t it?” answered Rosemary. “It was his grandfather’s. After his family finally got a taste of business success in America, he sent all the way to Germany for it. After the war started, they sided with the Allies–” she shoved the pot into a corner by the table “–so it was the last German car they ever owned.”

  Grady straightened up, one hand pressed against his back. “Are the Warners your business partners?” he asked, confused.

  “No, but their grandfather was,” she answered. “He was my father’s original investment partner. It was an interesting combination–a British herb gardener and a German nursery owner–but they were perfect business partners. After Dad bought the Warners out, we kept on providing the herbs for their nursery.”

  Outside, Herman was busy maneuvering the potted tree into a sunny spot beside the greenhouse, next to a tree covered in decorative miniature oranges. He plucked one off and polished it on his uniform.

  “These are getting too ripe, Rosemary,” he called. “Better pick them and make that marmalade your Dad was always raving about.”

  She laughed. “I forgot about the marmalade.” Lifting a tray of miniature plants in pots, she glanced at Grady. “Would you mind?” she asked, a slightly coaxing tone as she nodded towards a second tray.

  “I’d love to,” he answered. The cardboard flat sagged a little beneath his lift, the scent of crushed mint leaves invading his nostrils. A whiff of lemon and chocolate, like an exotic dessert.

  “Where do we put them?” he asked, following her into the sunshine again. “Is there room in Herman’s car?” He could only imagine what the truck looked like, rambling along with Mrs. Warner behind the wheel. Probably an old-fashioned Ford straight from Norman Rockwell’s pictures, the bed packed with orange and lemon trees swaying in rhythm to the road.

  “Just stick ‘em in the passenger seat,” answered Herman. “One in the floor, too– won’t bother me when I’m driving.” He climbed behind the wheel again.

  “Rosemary, I left a package in your tea shed. A little blend that Heidi’s mom thought up.” He shifted the truck into gear and waved to her as he turned the wheel to exit the driveway.

  “What did he mean by that?” asked Grady.

  “He means Heidi’s mom came up with an herbal tea blend,” she explained. “From my dried herbs; I have tons of them, you know. Do you like tea?” She switched subjects abruptly, glancing at him with curiosity. “If so, I’d be happy to give you a sample. A package of my house blend, if you will.” With a mischievous grin as she made her way towards the path leading behind the greenhouse. He followed, feeling drawn along by an invisible string.

  Behind the greenhouse was a wooden shed sporting racks of herbs drying, more bundles tied and dangling from the rafters in faded shades of purple and yellow, whites faded to soft brown above curling leaves like paper. The supplies for Rosemary’s seasonings and tea blends.

  “Pick out anything you like,” she said. “There are paper cartons in here.” She pushed open the door to a smaller, semi-dilapidated greenhouse, its surface almost buried in green leaves.

  Setting aside a branch of dried roses, he followed her. Inside was a room overgrown with tangled green things, vines and climbing flowers, sprays of miniature blossoms creeping across the stone floor and tumbling from clay pots. The glass ceiling overhead was draped in a net of morning glories and sweet peas, a creeping ivy of five leaves that trailed down the exterior walls like a curtain.

  Stacks of paper boxes lined the metal table in the center, along with a long roll of white paper on a rack. Dozens of spools of ribbon were stacked like a pyramid at the opposite end.

  He reached for a box, glancing in Rosemary’s direction as he did so. She was watering the pile of clay pots near the back, a small metal can in hand. Through the glass panes above not yet covered by plants, sunlight streamed below, bathing her in a golden pink glow.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes dark pools in a surface of cream and freckles. Grady’s heart seemed to float away within his chest, as if it were a balloon on a string slipping from his fingers.

  “Do you need something else?” she asked. He stepped closer, into the warm mist from the overhead pipes, the air heavy with spices from dried leaves and petals. A shadow passed over him, birds moving through the plants to where straw nests protruded from the tangled vines.

  “Yes,” he answered, drawing a deep breath as he stood before her. His gaze locked on the tangled frizz of gold, the warm brown of her sweater beneath the garden apron.

  “Would you have coffee with me. Sometime?” The words seem to tumble out on their own, without asking his brain permission to leave first. He stared at her, aware that it was rude, bizarre–and completely uncontrollable at this moment.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Sometime.” Her smile was warm, her eyes meeting his own with a boldness that took his breath away.

  Now this was the magic he remembered
from the marketplace. The shower of sunlight from above, the beautiful girl below with her dark eyes and secret smile. The kind of fascination that his great-uncle Edwin must have seen when he first glimpsed his darling Lou.

  *****

  “We’re so glad you could have dinner with us, Emily.” Grady’s mother beamed at the girl across from her. At their guest’s elbow, Grady’s father poured a glass of wine, doing his best to imitate a pleasant smile.

  Grady suspected his parents had an argument about their son’s privacy versus the family’s future relationship. Clearly, his mother had won.

  “It was no problem, Mrs. Hillerman.” Emily unfolded her napkin. “I usually go over the marketing reports after seven, so my evenings are free. And your invitation was so touching–” This, with a smile in Grady’s direction.

  “So, where did you and Emily meet?” asked Seth. “Was it one of those mixers, maybe the company ball?” His fork pushed aside a few sliced radishes in his salad.

  “Actually, we were introduced by a couple of people who thought we might click,” said Emily, before Grady could speak. “We had coffee together with some friends. That’s how we got where we are now.”

  “Which is?” asked Grady’s father, with a good-humored smile. Emily looked confused.

  “It’s ... like everyone else,” she answered. “You know. Spending time together, sharing some of our ideas.” She touched Grady’s arm. “Your son is incredibly intuitive when it comes to investment portfolios. Just the other day, we were talking about college investment funds --”

  “So, Mom, did you see the article in the paper about the art gallery show?” asked Grady. “Emily here is a huge art fan.” In her apartment, the only personal possessions that caught his attention were two framed prints of Picasso paintings.

  “Really? In what form?” his mother asked. “Once upon I time, I dabbled in watercolors, until the boys came along and made sure I was too busy.” With a gentle poke at Seth’s shoulder.