Early morning, summer sun fills the study with peaceful yellow light. Already at my desk, reading emails, inhaling strong coffee, pondering a suitable response to the solicitor, hopefully one of the last I will ever need to write. Unravelling a life, my life; the journey through a tunnel of a thousand emotional miles is nearly complete. Finally I am beginning to see light, have a sense of a future, wonder what might be next.
As if on cue my laptop emits a soft PING, it’s his publisher announcing his latest work. My chest tightens. A beautifully lit publicity photo stares at me from the screen and in an instant the mornings’ peace is swept away on a tide of jumbled memories, dark and light, good and bad.
I close the laptop and look out of the window towards the garden.
The sight of the new gardener, Oscar, distracts me. He is on his knees, preparing to replace a rare but aggressive rose, a rose whose thorns had pricked me too many times and, finally, had been removed the previous week. A rose that reminded me of other more painful but less visible injuries, ones not so easily resolved. I am relieved it is gone.
Earlier, when my usual gardener, Lee, introduced me to Oscar I observed a nice-looking older man in clothing neater than necessary for standard gardening work. It was a cool morning so his lightweight sweater and jeans were not out of place although next to Lee in his sleeveless vest and cargo shorts he appeared to be dressed for a different experience.
Mid-morning I made tea and brought both of them a mug. Oscar stood up, brushing the dirt from his jeans before taking the mug from my hand.
‘Thank you.’ he said simply and blew on the milky tea before taking a sip. He nodded his head towards the patch of ground he’d been clearing, ‘Mint is especially hard to remove,’ he observed somewhat apologetically, his soft northern accent a little unexpected.
There was something indefinable about him and as he spoke I became aware of just how good looking he was. His greyish shaggy hair, indigo-blue eyes and muscular frame had an earthy appeal. Was he about my age? Younger? I realised I was staring. I felt heat rise up my neck and my face flush; the proximity of this attractive man unexpectedly provoking.
It had been a while.
Oscar, seemingly oblivious of his impact, smiled as he stretched out his hand to pass me the last of the salvageable mint.
‘How nice,’ I said, and smiled in return, taking the mint, our fingers briefly touching.
A touch, a smile, perhaps a signal? At that moment I remembered I was in disguise. I could see him but realised that, despite standing directly in front of him, I knew he could not see me. He would only have seen the client, a woman of a certain age, holding a clump of mint, looking a little distracted.
It is what it is. Age. It obscures, diminishes, limits. An exterior that belies an up-for-anything interior. The woman that would have, when younger, invited Oscar to return later that evening to collect a jar of freshly made mint jelly with no expectation of marriage. That woman was real to me but invisible to him.
I slowly walked back to the kitchen, aware of the scent of mint on my fingers.
Of course these illicit thoughts about my new gardener will remain unsaid. That is, until I repeat them later to my long-time friend Victoria, an ocean away, during our weekly FaceTime meet-up. We were trading confidences and talking about death. Specifically, about not being dead. Yet.
Our shared experience of being single at a certain age was a frequent focus of conversation.
‘The only thing limiting you is you.’ Her expression is kind but stern. ‘You look great. It’s not your age,’ she pauses for emphasis, ‘it’s your attitude.’
She avoids teasing about the gardener although cannot resist suggesting her favourite dating site. Again. ‘Make better choices this time,’ she admonishes.
I hear frustration in her voice, she thinks I do not listen to her advice.
Victoria believes it is time for me to ‘get back out there.’ She means well but underestimates the toll of years spent navigating an intense, complicated love. One she never approved.
Her warning that ‘all writers are liars’ had fallen on deaf ears. Harsh and bitter, I knew this damming label came from her trove of personal experience. I ignored her. Besides, there is no voice of reason louder than the explosion of igniting passion. I heard only the siren call of desire and followed it into the fire – and got burned.
Victoria, a good friend, never said ‘I-told-you-so.’
The rest of the day passes without event although I have caught myself thinking of Oscar several times. It is now early evening, I award myself a rare glass of wine and as I pour I hear a light tap at the kitchen door.
I am surprised to find Lee, ‘Hello,’ he said in his usual friendly manner, ‘I was passing so I thought I’d drop this off,’ he smiled and handed me his monthly invoice. ‘And also,’ he paused, ‘Oscar asked me to give you this’.
He hands me a small paper bag; it feels heavy. I reach inside and pull out a jar of freshly made mint jelly.
I close the door and put the jar on the kitchen table and look at it as if expecting it to speak.
The kitchen is eerily quiet except for the sound of my breathing and an inner Greek chorus of insistent, cautioning voices.
The gardener?
Tonight I listen.
Then I reach for my phone. If I hurry I might just catch Victoria before she leaves for yoga.
I need her to give me the name of that dating site.