Christmas in Cornwall Page 5

  There was the old smile that I remembered well from our time together, and it made it easier to remember why I had once been attracted to him. The rainy day movies we shared, the waffle lunches at my place on Saturday afternoons...those were better memories of our time together than ones of Dwight's underlying insensitivity towards others.

  “What about the yacht club?” I asked. “You must have hated to leave it for your job transfer.” This was a good, safe subject, even thought it was tied to several disagreements that Dwight and I had over Saturdays spent on his boat, painting or cleaning it, or taking it out for a practice sail on a blazing hot afternoon before an upcoming match.

  “Oh, I can sail over here just as easily,” he replied, breaking a chip in half. “You probably see a lot of that activity in …Kettlegwyn was it?”

  “Ceffylgwyn,” I answered. “And yes. Lots of boats on the water.”

  I hadn't been out to sea yet in Cornwall, not even with the most seasoned of sailors among the village population. I shivered, imagining a cold, choppy sail in the Channel, me huddled in a parka against salt sprays and a cutting wind; then shuddered, thinking of being on the water for the winter storm Matt and I had witnessed.

  “Made a lot of friends there yet?” he asked.

  “A few,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders. “They’ve adopted me into euchre circle and quiz nights, that is.”

  He laughed at this, but not in a bad way, I hoped. I knew quiz nights and card games wouldn't be Dwight’s idea of a burgeoning social life; no doubt he was picturing me surrounded by a lot of little old ladies, hopeless spinsters, and middle-age couples desperate for a night away from the kids. He hadn't even liked our weekly Bunko-and-wine tasting with his two closest friends.

  “Speaking of friends,” I said, “Daphne and Benjamin seemed a little different from your usual choice." They were much younger than Dwight, for starters, and I couldn't imagine him choosing an intern as his closest pal in an office full of mid-level executives with sailboats and golf games. "Have you known them for long?"

  “No, but they’re good kids," he said. "Benjamin has a lot of promise at the company, so we’ll be working together in the future, I'm sure. I just wanted to step in and help, since their big day was at stake. Not to mention their Christmas. ”

  “That’s nice of you,” I said. Aware that my eyes had softened with the words, in response to the sparkle in his own. Maybe the move to London had been good for Dwight after all. Maybe it changed his priorities and his attitudes in a way that our relationship — and breakup — would never have done.

  “Rats, I’m going to be late!" I said, sneaking a peek at my phone's clock. "I have a meeting with someone at four about flower arrangements for the ball.” I wished I was making this up, but I wasn't, since the next train wouldn't get me back to Ceffylgwyn until fifteen past the hour.

  It wasn't just ‘someone’ I was late in meeting, but Matt. And that was enough to hurry me to the station in a London cab traveling faster than my usual comfort speed.

  ***

  “A wedding in London? Isn’t that a bit much to handle, given your work on the charity ball?” asked Matt.

  Matt was in the greenhouse working when I arrived for our meeting that afternoon. A long, glass structure with rows of potted plants, trees, rose bushes, and bulbs, it was heavily infused with the smell of potting soil and wet earth. I found it to be overwhelming at times, but Matt was clearly at home there, from the dirt under his nails to the stains on the knees of his corduroy trousers. At the moment, he was overwintering some flower bulbs that had been deemed too delicate to stay in the ground, moving them into a crate where he layered them with vermiculite.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I answered, thinking of the ease of the meeting that morning, and of making a few simple persuasive phone calls on behalf of Daphne and Benjamin. “Just a few catering issues and some last-minute touches. Nothing your average event planner couldn’t handle in their sleep."

  “I see.” Matt dusted off his clothes, bits of vermiculite clinging to the sleeves of his pullover. “I’m sure you know what you’re comfortable handling — and I’m sure you don’t want to let your friend down, either.”

  There was a pause on my part. Now was the time for complete honesty. “Dwight wasn't exactly a friend," I said. "That is, we sort of dated for a while back in Seattle. Not for very long though — and it’s been over a year ago since I spoke to him even. So you could say ... technically ... he's sort of like my ex-boyfriend."

  My ex-boyfriend, whom I don't really like. Will never, ever like again. That's the important part about this, Matt, in case you're wondering, I thought.

  Matt listened without speaking. He looked thoughtful, but not cheerful — I wondered if it had been a big mistake, calling Dwight a 'friend' in the first place, even if we were much more amicable here in Cornwall than in Seattle.

  "You can imagine how surprised I was to see him at Cliffs House," I continued. "Of course, there's absolutely no spark between us now. We're not bitter about breaking up or anything — just, you know, being polite acquaintances."

  Matt's hands rested on the crate of flower bulbs. “It must have been an amicable breakup for you to be helping him in this way,” he said.

  “It was,” I said. It hadn't exactly been a pleasant goodbye between us, but how many actually were? “We were both ready to move on," I continued. "It wasn't a long relationship. We weren’t ever even friends, really. Friendship makes the difference."

  This was how I had chosen over time to interpret that experience, although it wasn't based on anything Dwight and I had said in our split outside a Seattle coffee house.

  “Friendship does make the difference," agreed Matt. In his voice, the familiar spark of playfulness, matching the twinkle in his eye when he looked at me. I felt the pleasant reaction of butterflies released inside me.

  “About the other night, Matt," I said, softly. "I didn’t mean to —”

  “Julianne, don’t feel you have to explain,” he said. “I know that Rosie can be a little too inquisitive. I’m sure that you had good reason for whatever you said, so let’s just forget it, shall we?”

  “I just wish it had gone differently,” I told him. I was not, repeat, not ready to forget about it, not without breaking the final boundary down. “It seemed like it ruined the whole evening for us.”

  “There will be other evenings,” he promised. Smiling as he moved the crate of flower bulbs aside temporarily.

  "For what? Quizzes on American Bandstand and the Presidents?" I asked. "No, that's not what I mean, Matt —"

  "I meant for the two of us to talk about something more important," he answered. "For instance, how we both feel ... and what we both want. If neither of us has doubts about the other, it means something. And it's time we should decide exactly what."

  "Oh." His words had left me speechless. "Oh ... well, that's exactly what I meant."

  We could talk about it here and now, despite the earthy, leaf-mold smell of the hothouse, and the presence of dirt-covered tulip bulbs all over Matt's work table. I took a step towards him, then heard the trill of my phone.

  "Hello?"

  It was Lady Amanda. "Have you talked to Matt about the centerpieces?" she asked. "I've had this lovely idea about little Japanese paper flowers folded in Christmas print —"

  When this conversation was finished, I was fairly sure the moment between me and Matt had passed. At least, Matt's cheerful whistling and genuine interest in inspecting the bulbs' condition didn't leave me with much room for steering the subject back to serious romance.

  "That was Lady Amanda," I said. "Worried about the flowers for the ball."

  “We should discuss those flower selections now, before time slips away and Dinah wonders why your place is empty at the dinner table,” Matt said, setting aside his last box of bulbs.

  “Right,” I said, switching my brain back to work mode. Which was not an easy task with Matt before me, looking handsome in his
faded pullover and trousers, his dark, unruly mane falling across his face as he bent over a sketch, in a way that made me want to brush it back again.

  Normally, we tried to keep things professional at work; but the close quarters of the greenhouse made it difficult, with every accidental touch reminding us of all the purposeful ones we had started to allow in our moments alone together. He caught my eye, and I felt my cheeks burn scarlet. My hand brushed his when I retrieved my sketch, and felt the slightest tremble from his fingers in response.

  But, as always, we kept on with our work. Much to my disappointment.

  I cleared my throat. “I know we agreed on poinsettias alternated with amaryllis, and I still think it’s a perfect combination, but—” and I could see his wry smile appear as he waited for this caveat, “—I’m starting to wonder if we should mix in some white lilies or roses even. Something simple but elegant to provide a nice foil to the bolder shades of red.”

  “It might be possible,” said Matt. “Let me take an inventory on the lilies again, see if there’s enough promising blossoms to make it work. Roses, I’m afraid, are out of the question. As you can see, most of them have already bloomed once this December, and those that haven’t are just now starting their first buds." He gestured towards the hothouse's collection, all enjoying their warm environment. "I wouldn’t trust myself to coax enough of them into healthy blossoms in time for your big event. You'd need a florist's help for that.”

  I could see the various roses potted along the wall behind him, both climbers and beautiful tea roses. Green, healthy canes were a lovely sight, even without colorful blossoms to adorn them.

  "Which one is your special patient?" I asked. "The one Lord William discovered languishing on its own?"

  "Ah, that one," said Matt. With a fond smile, he pointed out the rose we'd been speaking of at dinner a few nights ago.

  My attention zoned in on the rare antique one Matt had rescued from neglect and certain death. It was smaller than the others, and its bare canes were struggling to put on new growth.

  “Look how beautiful it is now." I bent down to study the delicate buds that were forming in shades of pinkish red. Leaf buds, I noticed — but maybe one or two were actual roses. “Will it be scarlet when it blooms? Or is it a shade of pink when its buds finally open?”

  “It will have to be a surprise,” he replied, crouching beside me to admire the plant in its newfound health. "I'm not entirely sure what breed we're dealing with — I can only hazard a guess. And one this delicate —" he touched one of the limbs, lightly, near what I felt sure was an actual flower bud, " — it needs all the help it can get if we want to see its colors."

  I glanced at his face as he spoke, seeing the pride and satisfaction for the fruit of his labors. The rose that hadn’t bloomed for decades was going to make its comeback in time for Christmas, maybe even with blooms. A tiny miracle of gardening that Matt had somehow orchestrated, thanks to his brilliant skills in botany and horticulture.

  “You should document its progress for your lecture in the spring,” I teased, rising to my feet. "Give a lecture on rescuing stray roses to the Ivy League students." We were back at Matthew’s work table, its surface crowded with bags of potting soil and empty plant containers.

  A funny look crossed Matt’s face, and my smile dimmed in response. “What is it, Matt?" I asked. "Did something happen with the lecture?”

  “Not exactly,” Matt answered. He looked slightly hesitant, picking up a spool of garden twine from the table, winding the loose cord around it. “Truthfully, I heard from the university again this week. It seems you're a bit psychic, Julianne. They’ve had a last-minute opening in their botany department, and they’ve offered me a teaching position for the spring term.”

  A teaching job in Massachusetts. I shouldn't be surprised, but I was — as if the conversation we had at dinner a few nights ago had summoned this into being. I wasn't sure what to say.

  “That’s wise of them," I said. "They definitely have excellent judgment when it comes to choosing faculty. They must regret letting you slip away before.”

  So maybe Matt's conversation about our future would be different than I pictured it. The hazards of long-distance relationships loomed before us, suddenly, and I wasn't sure I was prepared for it. If I thought about it very long, I felt as if the breath would be sucked from my lungs.

  He shook his head. “They were simply surprised I hadn’t been employed by another university somewhere in England," he said. "And, no, they hadn't been thrilled when I left before, of course. It was sudden, to say the least. And in their eyes — and mine, until Petal's departure — it had been going extremely well."

  “What did you tell them?” I asked. My heart was hammering in my ears as I waited for his answer to emerge. I watched Matt standing across from me in the glass house of plants, while the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the panes above us. Suddenly I was imagining I might not see him like this again for a long time. Maybe not ever again.

  Stop being silly. He hasn't said 'yes' yet. And even if he does, that won't mean the end of everything, will it?

  “I told them I would have to think about it,” he said. He glanced at me, as if trying to gauge what I was thinking.

  "You should," I said. "Of course. It's a great opportunity. And I'll bet you were great at it before." I knew he was probably a brilliant professor. I imagined his students probably loved him — and probably half the girls in his classes had crushes on him.

  “Of course, it’s not as if I could actually accept it, not with such last-minute notice. But I could hardly tell them ‘no’ right away either, without giving it thorough consideration. It’s a matter of courtesy, I guess.”

  His laugh was slight for this explanation. I sensed he was uncomfortable, sharing this truth. He didn't have to tell me that a part of him wanted to do it, at least a little.

  If that's what he wanted, I wanted it for him. But the thought of losing him stung deeply. Distance made relationships hard. An ocean would separate the two of us, who had never even said the three magic words that would keep us together. And what made it worse was the fact that I was actually in love with him now, whether he knew it or not.

  But I couldn’t live with myself if he made his choice for any reason other than his happiness. Even for mine.

  “Don't dismiss this so quickly,” I said. “Take your time. Because if you want to go back, you don't want to regret missing your chance.” I bit my lip, but managed to force my expression into a smile a second later. Please don’t regret saying that, Julianne.

  I touched his hand as I spoke, stroking the skin browned by the summer's sun. I felt his fingers cover mine for a moment, squeezing them tightly. The strength of it surprised me, given how mild our conversation was about his leaving and me staying behind.

  He released my hand, and set aside the roll of twine inside a box of gardening tools. “Perhaps so," he said "But it would be difficult for me to go now, you realize. Leaving Cornwall behind with all her beauty. Leaving everything behind that has come to mean so much. Other sources of beauty.” His smile flickered to life again, his glance meeting mine for a moment. I knew he wasn't thinking of the Heligan Garden's Mud Maiden with these words.

  “You’ve done it before,” I said. "And you've come back. Everything was fine."

  “That’s true,” he answered. “That I have done it before. But that was before I knew you, Julianne Morgen.”

  The warmth in his voice and his eyes was almost too much for me. I could kiss him right now, I decided — if only I felt it wasn't so horribly out of place while we were talking about being apart for months. Maybe a year, even.

  Everything will be fine. Just keep telling yourself that, Julianne. He might not leave. Any worries or doubts might be for nothing a few short days from now.

  “You don’t want me to leave, do you?" he asked, quietly.

  "No." My voice was slightly above a whisper, forcing me to make it stronger. "Of course not
. But I want you to be happy ... and I don't want you to languish with only one antique rose's fate to keep you busy." This part was a little more joking than I really felt, but we needed to cut the tension of this moment. At least while Matthew's decision was just that — a decision.

  "So you're willing to shove me off to Massachusetts now this bloke from your past has shown up?” Matt asked. He, too, was trying to joke; but I thought I detected a shred of snark in the question.

  Was he a little jealous of Dwight? I felt a little pleased by this, even though I didn't want anything to come between Matt and myself. As if there was anything to fear from the presence of an ex who had the indecency to call me two weeks after breaking up to see if I'd return his rental DVDs for him, while I was still in my alone-and-pouting phase of recovery.

  “No, of course not," I retorted. "If I wanted to be rid of you, I could find much more creative ways than that. Shove you off the cliffs ... or flirt with Ned at the pub one too many times.”

  “Would you now?”

  “Not ever," I answered, shaking my head and laughing. “But promise me you’ll think about what you want." My voice grew serious again. “I mean that. It’s important for you to be happy.” Even if it means I’m not quite so happy as I have been these last few months.

  “I will," he said. "And you'll be the first to know my decision. I promise.”

  “Good,” I said. But I could feel unhappiness welling up inside my chest. And when Matt laid his hand over mine again, I found myself leaning against him for a moment, my eyes closed. I felt his arms around me in a gentle hug. His arms tightened around me as I returned his embrace, and we stayed like that several minutes before he released me.

  “Now then, what else can I do for you?” asked Matt, softly. “More last-minute flower requests for elaborate manor house events?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “Though you do owe me a plant. The one you promised to give me over a week ago? Something hearty and hard to kill, as you'll recall.”