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“Yeah. They’re my favourite ones I think.” I remembered playing with a button on her cardigan as we talked—a big brown button that she’d sewn on herself to replace one that had broken off.
“Mine too,” she’d whispered and kissed my cheek. “I have something for you, Lo.”
“For my birthday?” I’d asked as I watched her reach into her pocket.
“For your birthday. You can open your other presents after dinner, but these ones are special between us and you need to promise to take good care of them,” she’d said and I’d nodded my head furiously. The first item she’d pulled out of her pocket was small, square-shaped, and wrapped in pale pink tissue paper. I’d opened it and could remember the happiness at finding such a pretty, grown up item inside. My presents for previous birthdays had been toys, crafting supplies, and things that played at being a woman—glitter beauty kits and clip-on earrings. But this was a grown-up present.
I’d held that necklace in my tiny palm like it was worth the earth, and for the first time I’d stroked my thumb over the glass that contained the white, heart-shaped bloom.
“Do you know what the white bleeding hearts mean?” she’d asked, and I’d shaken my head. Not because I didn’t know, she’dhad told me a hundred times already, but because I wanted her to tell me again. “Well, we can find out in your second present.” She reached into her pocket, retrieving a small rectangular item wrapped in the same pink tissue paper. I unravelled it and found something that was as familiar to me as my own face.
“It’s your book!” I’d said, holding the old, dog-eared book carefully in my small hands.
“That’s right.The Language of Flowers. It belonged to your gran, and to her mother and then her mother before her. A long time ago, when men wanted to be romantic, they would send the lady they liked a posey of flowers, and the ladies would take this book and with they would look up the flowers they’d been sent and discover their meaning, though whether the men had bothered to look up the meaning of the flower beforehand, who knows!” She’d laughed, such a bright, sweet sound. That moment, that single freeze-frame, was the one that came to me most often. She held me in her arms, surrounded by her favourite flowers, and I looked up into her smiling face. Her blue eyes shone and the sun sat behind her, giving her pale blond hair an angelic hue.
In the present, I gripped my necklace tighter and begged her ghost to help me in some way, to guide me. In the past, my mum opened her precious book that she was passing onto me.
“This has been mine since I was very little and I’ve added to it in some places, see?” She flicked to a page where she’d added in a sketch for cabbage roses and written their meaning neatly underneath. She didn’t need to show me. I’d seen these sketches a thousand times.
“And now it’s yours, to add to and to keep safe.” I’d nodded very seriously and made a promise of some kind, then I’d flipped through the pages myself to find the bleeding hearts sketches, added in by her own hand. I nestled in close as she began to read quietly, as if the words were for my ears and mine alone.
“The pink bleeding heart symbolizes unconditional love and can be gifted to anyone who represents the world to you. The red bleeding heart is a symbol of passion, power, and strength. This flower can be gifted to your partner or a friend.” She’d paused then and pulled me in closer before she continued. “The white bleeding heart is rare and a beautiful gift. You should give this flower to anyone whom you love more than anything else in the world.” When she’d finished, she’d closed the book gently and looked down at me. “Do you see? The garden you create is a living, breathing embodiment of you, of how you feel, of what you are. It’s like a child in that way. A child is made from their parents and you, my little Lo, are all the best parts of me. You’re everything I feel and the best thing I ever made.” She’d enclosed her hand around my own that held the necklace tight.
“This is my love, frozen in glass, eternal proof that I love you more than anything in the world. If the day ever comes when I’m not here to say it, let this speak for me. Look at these flowers and see that my love is in every root, stem, and bloom.” I’d turned my face up to be kissed the same way that Ryan had done to me only hours ago. I could still feel that kiss, warm and soft and wrapped in a love so deep and pure that it could never be replicated.
I held onto the memory for as long as I could until it slowly faded away and I returned to the present, where all that remained of her was the small bloom between glass and her ashes under the earth.
But her words didn’t leave me. They repeated as if she was trying to make me understand something I hadn’t before. I turned them over and over and then something clicked inside me. There were many things that I didn’t have answers to, many worries that I couldn’t settle, but just then, an idea began to form that could solve one problem. I began to tingle with the thrill of the places my imagination was about to take me.
I turned and rested my forehead against the trunk of the wedding cake tree, wiping the tears from my cheeks and breathing a silent thank you to my mum for once more giving me her guidance. I let myself out of my memory garden and tiptoed back to the house, then upstairs to my room. There, in pride of place on top of my bookshelf, was my mum’s book,The Language of Flowers.
I settled on my bed and opened the book that had acted as my bedtime story throughout my childhood. The edges were old and frayed, the ink fading. I turned the pages, my fingertips tracing my mum’s sketches and the names and meanings written underneath in her neat handwriting that bore no resemblance to my erratic scrawl. The original entries were there too and just looking at them was like stepping back in time. I could imagine a lady, clutching a posey and pouring through the book to find out their meaning and discover the message sent from her lover. A red tulip would declare love, a poppy would bring the painful news that the sender was not free to love.
It was an odd moment for Bradley to appear in my mind, but his wise words echoed to me all the same.‘It doesn’t need to be complex to be spectacular. Gardens, plants, flowers, they’re supposed to say something, so think about what it is you want to say and then pick the plants that speak for you.’
What did I want to say? I thought of Alfie. I thought of everything I needed to tell him, but more than that, I thought of everything he needed to know.
I pulled my sketch pad out from under my bed and flipped to the basic plans I’d already drawn up that were waiting to be filled with life. Using my mum’s book as my guide, I began imprinting on the page all the pieces of my heart and the name that was already carved there.
Fifty-One
Iworked for hours, sketching, erasing, and sketching again. I created hard evidence, a garden that would be a solid promise that whether I left with him or not, my heart was with him. If I was a musician I’d have written a song, or a poem if I’d been a wordsmith, but this was the best I could do and I had to hope it was enough to bring him the security he needed. I worked until finally sleep came for me and I slumped, my pencil still in my hand and Alfie’s face in my dreams.
I awoke amidst a sea of sketches and discarded pencils, my mum’s tattered old book clutched in my hand. I groaned and stretched, trying to work all the kinks out of my muscles. My eyes were gritty and my mouth tasted like a foot, but I was humming with excitement.
I changed quickly and headed into the office even though I didn’t need to be there for another hour. I wanted time to finish my plans before the day started. By the time I heard Rosie pull in at 9am, I had my designs for the Harrington Garden finished and placed in a rich, black leather file. A nervous ball settled in my stomach and before I could chicken out I called Riley and arranged to meet him at Harrington that afternoon. There was no going back now. In this file was the very essence of my heart,and Riley Fitzpatrick was going to decide whether or not it was good enough. But did it really matter? If I chose to go with Alfie, would it really matter how well this meeting went? Yes. It mattered. If this was the only work I ever did, it mattered.
Mark arrived and I hid the file containing my plans out of sight–like hell would I be asking for his opinion on them.
Five hours later I pulled up at Harrington, fidgeting with nerves. Somehow, Harrington House seemed more intimidating than usual today. I remembered the first time I ever came here and almost laughed at how oblivious I’d been to the insanity that was about to hit my life. Alfie Tell had turned everything upside down.
I’d arranged to meet Riley on the roof and was just about to hop out of my van when my phone buzzed. Of course it was from Alfie.
What are you doing at Harrington?
A.
God damned GPS. I wondered if he got an alert every time I was on the move, then I decided that it was probably better if I didn’t know.