Page 17

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They usually preferred to spend their time in the garden, but when the skies opened up and a downpour came down hard and fast, like it did now, Rose and Hart gathered up what they could and ran for shelter.

They barged into the house using the back door, trailing wet tracks onto the marble kitchen floor tiles. Hart set down Rose’s easel, and she placed her poster-sized sketchbook on it. When the storm began, Rose had been in the middle of a wet-on-dry watercolor portrait of Hart, but in the time it took them to get to the house, it had turned into a wet-on-very-wet portrait. The Hart on the page, rendered in shades of reds, purples, and blues, now resembled a slab of raw meat. Hart tilted his head as he examined his likeness, watching the paint run off the paper and drip onto the floor.

“It’s garbage,” Rose said.

“It’s me ,” Hart corrected.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have used it as an umbrella.”

“You could have used the back of the sketchbook as an umbrella,” Hart said, which triggered spitty noises from Rose as she tried to hold in her laughter. “But you made the choice to point my face straight up to the sky.” And now the floodgates opened up and Rose’s laughter erupted out of her, folding her in half. She reached to rip the page out of the sketchbook, but Hart held her back, locking his damp arms around her and pulling her hand away from the paper. “No way,” he laughed in her hair. “I’m framing that!”

Then a voice came from deeper within the house that made both of them stop.

“Is that you, Hart?”

The voice belonged to a man, and the way Hart’s body tensed, going from a weighted blanket to a plaster cast around her, Rose had a sense of who it was. Hart’s fingers found hers and he gently tugged, but not in the direction of the voice. He took a step toward the back staircase. Rose held fast, though, her eyes silently asking him why he wanted to go to the second floor, and she pulled him toward the front of the house. Hart relented and let himself be led. Just as they reached the living room, they could see the back of a man’s head over the top of the couch.

“Dad,” Hart said, by way of greeting.

Mr. Hargrove looked over the back of the sofa, and though he’d turned for his son, his eyes settled on Rose. Mr. Hargrove regarded her with slight surprise at first, and then with a look Rose couldn’t read as he stood and came over. “Hello, Rose,” he said.

She echoed a hello back, surprised that he already seemed to know who she was, even though they’d never met. And it struck Rose that not only was this the first time she was meeting her boyfriend’s father, but it was also the first time she was seeing him at all. There were framed photos scattered around the house, but Mr. Hargrove didn’t appear in any of them.

He looked like Hart. Or like a version of what Hart would look like in the future, if he cared about pressed shirts and expensive watches. It was clear to Rose that for Mr. Hargrove, relaxation in his own house boiled down to an unbuttoned shirt collar. He had a full head of neatly trimmed brown hair, graying at the temples. And though his mouth was fixed in a smile, there wasn’t any warmth radiating from it. He made Rose feel uneasy. Maybe it had something to do with the way Hart’s fingers gripped hers tightly.

“What are you doing here?” Hart asked.

It was only then that Mr. Hargrove looked over at his son. “Is that any way to greet your father?” he asked.

“I thought you were in in LA.”

“And now I’m back,” Mr. Hargrove said. “Only for the night, I’m afraid.”

“A warning would’ve been nice.”

Mr. Hargrove folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the back of the couch, a rueful smile twisting his lips. “A warning?” he repeated, then flashed a look at Rose that said, Can you believe this kid? “Like I’m a hurricane?”

Hart shrugged and held Rose’s hand closer to him. “The wreckage is about the same.”

The temperature in the room seemed to rise like steam on a desert road, so thick you could almost see it, and Rose’s instinct was to take a step back from whatever was simmering between father and son, lest she get burned. But instead she did the opposite. Either because she felt protective of Hart, or as a way to tamp down the tension, she smiled up at Mr. Hargrove and said, “It’s really nice to meet you. Hart has told me… so much about you.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t,” Mr. Hargrove said casually. “I heard you’ve spent a lot of time in the garden this summer.”

Rose wondered who’d told him that. It didn’t seem like Hart updated his father on the goings-on of his life. Maybe it was Heather. Maybe the housekeepers. Whoever it was, it put Rose on edge, the thought that Mr. Hargrove knew something about her and how she spent her time. That he had eyes everywhere, despite never really being here. “It’s a beautiful place,” she said.

“The property has been in my family since practically the birth of this nation,” Mr. Hargrove said. And then more seriously added, “And I’m sure you know there are parts of this garden that are strictly for family only.”

It sounded like a warning, not just to Rose, but to Hart as well. But before she could make sense of it, Hart was already tugging on her hand again, heading back from where they’d come. “We should go,” he muttered.

Rose looked back briefly at Mr. Hargrove, confused by their first meeting and feeling guilty for leaving so abruptly. But Hart’s grip on her hand was determined. She thought Hart was taking her upstairs, but in the kitchen he made a beeline for the glass doors.

“It’s pouring,” Rose said.

“We’re already wet.” Hart opened the door, and as soon they stepped outside, the rain soaked them. Rose had no idea where they were going, but Hart didn’t let go of her hand as they traversed the stone terrace, sidestepping the wrought-iron patio furniture. They skipped down the steps that led to the pool, then around the edge of it, past the pool house, and up a new set of stairs on a hill.

In all her time in the garden, Rose hadn’t been this way before. But then, the garden was so large that she was sure there were still more areas of it that she’d yet to explore. Maybe she’d never been up this way because this technically wasn’t the garden. They were still close to the main house, and she could hear a car speeding by on the street just beyond the driveway gates.

There were so many buildings and structures around the property, they were hard to keep track of, and easy to be surprised by. The greenhouses (Hart’s, and the larger one used by the gardeners), potting and utility sheds, pool house, follies, pavilions, the building nestled between the chicken coop and vegetable garden simply known as “the barn,” which was more of an all-purpose office space for the maintenance crew. There was even the colonial cabin, with its own porch and rocking chair, where Rose once saw one of the housekeepers taking a break, munching on a white-bread sandwich. Now the rain and darkening clouds gave way to a building Rose had known from a distance, its turret roof peeking up over the trees. She’d assumed it was a neighbor’s house, but as she climbed the stone steps to its double doors, she realized this belonged to the Hargroves as well.

Was this the private part of the garden Mr. Hargrove had been talking about? No, Rose instinctively knew it wasn’t. He was talking about the other thing, embedded beyond the Rose Garden. And although Rose wanted to ask more questions about it, all thoughts of the hedge maze melted away as Hart pushed through the unlocked door of this new place and flipped the light switch. Rose walked inside and stopped, a puddle forming around her feet as she looked around. The vaulted ceiling and aged wood beams made the place feel holy. Beneath it, the open floor plan consisted of a dining room, living room, and kitchen stocked with pots and food on the pantry shelves. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Rose said, mostly just to see if her voice would echo. It did.

The comment made Hart—distracted and pulling his shoes off—look up at Rose, and then at the house itself, seeing it through her eyes. “Oh, right. This is the guesthouse.”

Rose always felt like Alice around here, discovering new places down the rabbit hole, and this new corner of Hemlock Hill felt like a secret she wanted to keep. Every surface gleamed, inviting and untouched. She could live here. They could live here, inside this gingerbread house inside the magical garden. But when she looked back at Hart, she saw how miserable he was. He peeled off a slick sock and flung it across the room. It hit the wall like an undercooked noodle, and he slumped onto the couch’s rolled armrest, staring at the sock, defeated.

Rose came over and pushed his hair away from his forehead. Hart refocused his gaze on her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“That’s not how I wanted to introduce you to my father,” he said. “But I guess there’s never going to be a good way to introduce you to my dad, because I can’t really be in the same room with him.” Hart pushed off the couch and slipped his head away from Rose’s fingers. He busied himself with taking off his flannel shirt. His white undershirt was wet, too, and he reached back to pull it over his head until he was in nothing but jeans.

Rose toed off her wet shoes and nodded. Hating a parent was something she was familiar with. But Hart never talked about his dad. She’d never seen him this upset. And though it was hard to see him like this, she wanted to know more. To understand him better. “You guys don’t get along?”

Hart tensed in subtle ways all over; his jaw, his shoulders. “It’d be one thing if we butted heads all the time. But it’s not even that. We just don’t have a relationship at all.”

Rose thought of her own mother. How on some days she’d give anything to have a mom she could argue with, or get annoyed with, or disappoint. But all she could do was wrestle with the acute anguish of having a parent who didn’t care enough about her to want to see her in person. It hurt. And it wasn’t something easily explained, especially to someone who’d never experienced it. But Hart understood. The two of them shared that.

“My mother died, what—six months ago?” Hart said. “And I can count on my hands how many times he’s been home.” Hart folded his arms over his bare chest and stared down at the hardwood. “Not that I even want to see him. It’s more for Heather. She really could’ve used her one remaining living parent, because Heather’s a…” He sighed, like he didn’t want to say, but was resigned to saying it anyway. “Heather’s a mess. But it’s not like Dad was ever really around when my mother was alive, either. Not for us. Not for her.”

“They didn’t have a good relationship?”

Hart shook his head, eyes still on the floor. “He cheated on her. Kind of a lot. Pretty much everyone knew.” Hart cupped his chin, rubbing it nearly raw before dropping his hand again. “And then she was gone and my dad bolted a few days after the funeral. ‘Business.’ It’s the same excuse that’s worked for him for years, so I don’t know why I’m surprised he used it again.”

Hart looked around the room, but his gaze remained distant, like he was trying to see beyond the walls. “I think this place… made my dad feel trapped.” His eyes finally came to meet Rose’s. “I know that doesn’t make any sense—”

“It makes sense,” Rose said. “I think my mom felt trapped at home, too, for a long time. And now she’s free, gallivanting around London with her new boyfriend, and honestly, I’m happy for her.”

But Hart saw through Rose’s words, and his fingertips found the soft underside of her chin, tilting her face up to him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Hart had enough on his plate, and Rose suddenly felt so callous for how long it’d taken her to realize that. He’d just lost his mom, and with his father never around, he’d basically taken on the role of head of house. Because he was always so at peace in the garden and with Rose, she’d never questioned what it was like for him outside of the little bubble they’d built around each other. All she had seen were Hart’s flowers, without ever considering his roots.

But she was here for all of it. No matter how awkward things got with his father, or how strained things became with his sister. “You can talk to me,” Rose said. “About anything, you know?” She swept her hands lightly over Hart’s bare shoulders, as if she could help with the weight on them.

“Your hands are cold,” Hart said. “You must be freezing.”

Rose followed his gaze down to her shirt. It clung to her. “I’m wet.” She bit down on her smile.

Hart’s gaze fell to her mouth and he whispered, gruffly, “Let me help you.”

He slipped his fingers under the hem of her shirt, and when he dragged the sodden fabric up her torso, she lifted her arms above her head to make it easier for him. He pulled her shirt off and dropped it like a used rag. Rose shook her hair out of her face, and he helped move a few strands behind her ear so he could kiss her lips with nothing in the way. They pressed against each other—lips, stomachs—and the rainfall outside thundered like applause, encouraging them. Rose grabbed tufts of Hart’s hair and thought: The only good thing about having parents who were never around—

Hart’s hands snaked along Rose’s ribs like ivy on stone, blindly reaching for the clasp of her bra. Rose tried to retrace her thoughts. The only good thing about having parents who were never around—

The clasp came undone and Hart slid the strap off one shoulder, while Rose shrugged the other strap off and tried to finish her train of thought, but she could barely hear herself think over the sound of the rain and her own heartbeat. It was hard to hold anything in mind as Hart’s cold hand cupped her breast. She shivered and sighed and tried to grasp onto the flyaway thought, but it was fading fast.

The only good thing , Rose thought, as she hooked her fingers into the waist of Hart’s jeans and worked at the fly. The only good thing , she thought, as he kissed her neck and she finally got it open—

The only good thing was Hart.

A ringtone detonated, right from the jeans that Rose was struggling to rip down Hart’s hips. The explosion was enough to tear the two of them apart, and through the haze of her own breaths and booming pulse, Rose listened to the strange song and lyrics chirping from Hart’s phone.

Betting on the bullllll in the heather…

Her eyes flicked up to Hart’s, her gaze asking if he was going to answer that. And Hart’s own gaze responding silently, apologetically. He pulled his pants up and the phone out of his pocket, his breathless voice replacing the ringtone. “Hello?”

Rose bent to pick her bra up off the floor. Behind her she could hear the resignation in Hart’s voice. “Where are you?” he asked into the phone. Rose yanked her shirt back on, colder now than she’d been before. “I’ll be right there,” came Hart’s voice.