Page 11 of Putting Down Roots

“They’re bedding plants—lobelias, fuchsia, salvia, geraniums, petunias—they’re all I have left.”

“Have left?”

“From my divorce. My wife took everything else.”Fuck, he’s straight.But the sadness that crosses his face makes me want to help him somehow.

“Um, would you like a coffee?” His face breaks out into a beautiful smile. It’s criminal that straight guys can be so damn good looking.

“Yes, please, I would like that.”

We start walking towards the house, taking the route around the blocked paths. I see Jackson looking round, taking it all in.

“You seem to know a lot about plants.”

“I’m a gardener—well I was—and I hope to be again when my plants have grown. I’m hoping to start my own nursery.”

“In Larchdown?”

“No, but that’s a whole other story.” He clams up then, and I don’t push. We reach the back door, and I usher him into the kitchen and head to the coffee machine. I pop in a pod and grab a couple of mugs, glad that I spent some time yesterday cleaning the kitchen.

“Umm, thank you.” He actually closes his eyes when he takes his first mouthful. When he opens them, he catches me staring, and I look away, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’ve missed coffee this good,” he says. “So, are you an artist?”

That catches me off guard. He’s been paying attention then.

“Used to be.” I shrug. That’s all I’m prepared to give. I’ve always been wary around straight guys, until I know them and what they think about gay men. He seems friendly enough, but in truth, I don’t know him. I want to know him more though, evenif we could just be friends. I want more—a whole lot more—but that isn’t possible, as he’s straight. Friends it will have to be then. Apart from Anna, I don’t have any friends. He finishes his coffee and goes to wash the cup in the sink. Tidy, I like that.

He thanks me again for the coffee and the use of the greenhouse before he leaves. I watch him walk down the path, looking out of the window long after he disappears from view.

CHAPTER 7

Jackson

Well,shit, this is weird.I was sure the house was empty. The gate was padlocked. Except, I didn’t notice this morning that the gates were open—my observation skills are rubbish. I’d make a very poor burglar. But getting caught? That was pretty embarrassing. Luca was nice about it though—he could have ordered me out. I can’t believe I’ve been wandering round the gardens of Frances Winterton. I thought they looked familiar, though I’ve only seen them in books and magazines. I did a project on garden design at college and used the gardens at Larchdown House as inspiration. No wonder the name sounded familiar to me when I first heard it. I’d love to see more of the gardens, so I hope Luca will let me explore them further. He’s an odd guy. He appeared sad for some reason, but he makes really great coffee.

The next morningI rise early. I didn’t sleep well. I’ve no idea why, but the encounter at the house kept playing through my head. Maybe it’s best that I leave and find somewhere else formy plants, though I’d rather not. Darla told me last night that Olivia’s back today. I knew the job wouldn’t last long, but I still have to pay some of my van repairs off. Darla still wants my help at the May Day fete on Monday, but after that I need to find something else.

I glance up at Larchdown House as I drive past the gates. It looks slightly more alive, though it needs some maintenance. I wonder if Luca is serious about selling it. It would be a shame, but it needs an owner who appreciates it.What did he say he was? An artist? Or was an artist?He was not happy to talk about that, but I don’t blame him—I don’t want to talk about my past, either.

It’s a pleasant surprise when Luca shows up at the greenhouse—I’m genuinely surprised. I’m sure he has better things to do, though I’m very pleased he brought coffee with him.

“Ah, my hero,” I say when I take the mug from him. For a second, he lights up with a dazzling smile. It’s an image of genuine joy and vulnerability. But just as quickly, it’s gone, and a mantle of resigned sadness settles on him again. It feels like a cloud’s passed over the sun, and I somehow want to see it shine again.

He jumps up to sit on the bench beside me, but says nothing. He just sits there, black hair falling over his face as he keeps his head down. I’m not good at small talk—I usually work alone. I’ve spent so much time alone, and I like it that way. I’m comfortable spending hours by myself. It isn’t that I want him to leave, but it is rather awkward, or it’s starting to feel that way. The way he’s watching me, or rather watching my hands tending to the plants, is disconcerting—it’s beginning to feel weird. I need to say something, but I don’t want to talk about myself, and I get that he has secrets too.

“What was she like?” I watch in my peripheral vision as he drags his eyes up from my hands to my face. I’m careful not to look straight at him.

“Uh?” This guy is worse at small talk than I am.

I turn to address him. His gentian blue eyes are softer than they were yesterday, and the fact that I notice his eye colour confuses me. I can’t remember what colour Natasha’s are.

“Your Aunt, what was she like?”

He smiles, a thoughtful memory perhaps.

“She was kind, she was funny, and smart. She accepted me for who I am and encouraged me to follow my dreams. She was the only one who believed in me.”

“Did you get involved in the garden?”

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