The Last Garden in England(15)

She froze. “What?”

“They’re looking for a head of conservancy.”

“Okay,” she said slowly.

“You’d be good at it.”

“Why would I need a job? I have Turning Back Thyme,” she said sharply.

He held his hands up. “Hey, hey, I just thought it would be a good fit for you.”

“I’ve spent six years building this business.”

“Come on. Don’t pretend like you haven’t had days where you want to pack it all in. I know you get stressed. I know you don’t usually love the client side of the business,” he said.

Or logistics or personnel or taxes or… the list could go on and on.

“I love our clients,” she said firmly.

Almost on cue, her mobile began to ring. She pulled it out of her back pocket and made a face. “Will Frayn.”

“The influencer’s husband?” Charlie asked. “Didn’t he call last week?”

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. “Turning Back Thyme, this is Emma.”

“Emma,” boomed Will’s voice. “Gillian’s here, too. Let me put you on speaker.”

“Emma,” Gillian cooed into the phone, “we miss you.”

“What can I help with, Gillian?” she asked.

“There’s a problem with the garden,” Gillian said.

The garden consisted of a series of traditional English borders planted to create an ombré effect, going from deep purple to lilac to pale white, all connected by a weaving path of switchbacks that ended in a redwood deck surrounded by cherry trees. It would look good this spring, but it would be truly stunning in a few years when everything had a chance to grow in.

“Did your gardeners have trouble with the handoff notes I left?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Gillian said.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“Nothing’s blooming!”

“It’s a real problem,” Will jumped in. “Gilly has a shoot tomorrow, and there isn’t a single flower.”

Emma pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “It’s February. Nothing in that garden is going to bloom until at least April, but the trees will start budding out soon.”

“But, Emma, what’s the point of having a garden without flowers?” Gillian asked.

“Gardens have cycles. You need to work with the seasons, which is why I suggested succession planting. Then you would have had something interesting to look at most of the year,” she said.

A few feet off, Charlie snorted.

“What do we have?” Will asked.

“A lot of late-spring- and early-summer-blooming plants. It will look incredible in June.” She’d warned the Frayns about this very thing. However, when they heard that succession planting would have meant staggering the flowers’ blooms throughout the season, slightly reducing the impact of having full beds in flower all at once, they’d pushed back. Since they were paying the bills, Emma had been forced to acquiesce.

“I need it to look great now. We’ve sold an ad campaign around this,” said Gillian, panic starting to enter into her voice.

“What’s the company?” Emma asked.

“It’s an organic meal subscription box,” said Gillian.

“Talk about how gardens have seasons and so do vegetables. If you eat what is in season, you lower your carbon impact. If they’re organic, they’ll love the idea of seasonable and sustainable food,” she said.

Whispers on the other end. Finally, Gillian said, “We can do that.”

“Good luck with the shoot,” said Emma.

When she turned around again, Charlie burst out laughing.

“I’m going to get ‘Gardens aren’t just about flowers’ tattooed on my forehead one of these days,” she muttered.

“I bet the Royal Botanical Heritage Society doesn’t have to deal with Gillian Frayn.” When she shot him a dirty look, he shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, let’s go mark out the long border.”

“You got it, boss.”





? STELLA ?


FEBRUARY 1944

Stella slammed the door of the larder so hard the clock on the wall trembled and threatened to fall to the floor.

“Mrs. George,” she barked at Highbury House Hospital’s head cook. “This is the second time in as many weeks that you’ve made off with my milk.”

“Miss Adderton, please,” Mrs. Dibble, Highbury House’s housekeeper and a member of the regular staff like Stella herself, said with a gasp.

Mrs. George, that miscreant in blue serge and white linen, slowly wiped her hands on her apron while the two junior cooks who reported to her watched in wide-eyed fascination, a potato and a knife frozen in each of their hands.

“Miss Adderton, think of what you’re saying. Are you really accusing me of stealing?” asked Mrs. George.

“I’m sure Miss Adderton wouldn’t—”

“I’m not accusing you,” Stella cut off Mrs. Dibble. “I’m telling you that I know you stole the milk from the larder again. And eggs. There were six in the green bowl this morning. Now there are just four.”