The Blue Iris, page 4
“What night watch?” she said. “It’s just a shorter commute to work from here.”
Behind her, the staircase loomed. The main floor powder room, too small to turn a walker in, much less a wheelchair, laughed. This place would have been sold years ago if not for Tessa.
When she and her mother moved here, not long after visiting the market, Tessa had formed an immediate attachment to the property. Nano and Pop’s relationship with Beth, historically fractured, had broken off completely when Beth got pregnant by a man she never saw again while traveling Greece. But raising a child alone proved harder than expected, and Beth reluctantly ended up moving with Tessa to the coach house.
The moment Tessa met her grandparents, she understood, even at age five, there was nothing those two wouldn’t do for her. But as the Parkinson’s progressed, holding onto the home she loved would become impossible.
Pop switched subjects. “Tell me, was the first day worth getting your undies in a bundle?”
Tessa sighed. “I have no clue what I’m doing. And the outdoor department work is so physical.” She and Will waved Nano back into her seat, rising to clear the dishes. “As the newbie and the only female, I’m totally the weakest link.”
“The only female, huh?” Will said, scraping the plates. “What happened to Charlie?”
Tessa shrugged as she loaded the dishwasher. “She’s inside with the cut flowers. I hardly saw her. The guys needed a ton of help unloading.”
“I bet they did.”
Tessa tilted her head. Will took any chance to downplay the fact that it was he who had girls clawing to stand behind him in the popcorn line at Cinemax. “It’s not like that.”
Will’s knowing smile returned. “It’s always like that.”
“No, these guys were annoyed on sight. Like I’m cramping their locker room vibe.”
“Locker room vibe. Even better.”
Tessa swatted him with the tea towel. For as long as she’d known him, a pageant of false lashes had fluttered constantly from the wings. Yet to this day, no matter the room or crowd, whenever she found Will’s sea-glass eyes, they were only ever looking back at her. She should be gleefully stuffing invitations this minute, bending her still-tenuous goals around Will’s the way water finds space between rocks. Indeed, if her aspirations were wispier, becoming Mrs. William Andrew Westlake would have already solved everything.
Growing up, Tessa panicked when adults asked what she wanted to be. No answer felt right. Pop always saved her, clapping a steady hand on her shoulder, chest proud. “Something big,” he’d say, “that’s for sure.” Year after year, loan after loan, Tessa studied harder, expanding her academic disciplines. Preparing for big. Waiting for it to reveal itself.
All the while, Will’s big was proving more than enough for both of them to share. But Tessa hadn’t kept her grades up and her grandparents in debt all these years to ride coattails. She needed her own big, and her grandparents were never going to sell this property until she found it. How much time did they have left before Pop’s illness took over?
This summer had to be her final stall. No longer could her exaggerated need for stability keep her from starting on the path that wasn’t mapped out. It was time for a career worthy of all the sacrifice, to start the beautiful life she and Will had been planning for years and let her grandparents enjoy what remained of theirs.
Come September, the future would be her first priority.
Mexican Holly / Ilex Aquifolium
“Am I forgotten?”
ELEANOR
Alarm was still ricocheting through Eleanor Westlake’s body, but she kept her tone even. “You’d think we’re entitled to know where our own money went,” she said, slathering seaweed cream over her chest like drywall mud. In the halo of her makeup mirror, she could have passed for forty. Possibly thirty-eight.
Across their bedroom, her husband, Peter, failed to notice. Eleanor heard him grunting as he pulled on his dress socks. “It’s not ours anymore,” he said. “He can spend it however he wants.”
“That’s my whole point, there’s no indication he spent it at all!”
The boys were no longer minors, hadn’t been for a while, but the quarterly statements for their trust accounts still got mailed to Eleanor, an administrative oversight she’d kept in place. Every set of papers looked the same. Teddy withdrew the maximum weekly amount, Will’s remained untouched. When Eleanor got around to opening the latest this morning, she sprayed her coffee all over it.
“Maybe there’s finally a ring,” Peter said with a grin.
Eleanor glared at him. It was a staggering amount for a diamond, even by Will’s standards.
Plus, the withdrawals happened months ago, and Tessa’s perky little finger remained empty.
What had Will done with so much money?
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Peter continued. “Working-class roots is exactly what this campaign needs.”
“No.” Here, Eleanor drew the line. “Peter . . . no.”
With her unquestioning support, Peter had turned Westlake into one of those names people recognized without knowing why. His boutique firm catered to clients requiring swift, discreet action that came at a premium. Word of his pulling off the impossible in and out of court quietly spread, until three satellites had sprung up, then a long list of subsidiaries. Now, having reached the loftiest peaks of private-sector success, there was only one apex unconquered—to nobly eschew it all in the name of public service.
After four years on city council, Peter’s heavy-hitting network and overt philanthropy all but made him a shoo-in as Toronto’s next mayor, if he could gain traction among the low-to-middle income voters. The campaign team suggested weaving a working-class element into the family optics, with Tessa being the most obvious option. But as much as Eleanor wanted—deserved—that mayor’s seat, no one was rushing her firstborn into marriage, too. Not even the almighty Peter Westlake.
Peter shrugged. “It’s going to happen soon enough, anyway.”
“Not this soon.”
Yes, the dreaded bells would surely chime, but Tessa had made Will promise straightaway: careers first. A brilliant move, dangling her future like forbidden fruit, pretending to have bigger goals than locking him down at full salary; it only set the hook deeper. Eleanor was glad to see Will’s ambition sparking, but found it suspicious that Tessa had yet to formulate any coherent career plans of her own.
“There’s plenty of campaign left,” Eleanor said. “We’ll find another way. Promise me.”
Peter rubbed her shoulders, tarnished gold cinching his finger in the mirror. “Of course. If you feel that strongly.”
“I do.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, dots of foundation framing them like a ceremonial mask. “Something is going on with that boy. I just know it.”
But that was all she knew; her son stored his secrets with Tessa now. Eleanor would give anything for one more day of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, the stool twisting back and forth, navy socks swinging as every schoolyard skirmish poured into her kitchen.
One hand flew to her chest, like she’d spotted a roach. “Could she be pregnant?”
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”
No, that had to be it. Eleanor ground her fingers into her temples, strangling the very idea. “Peter, I swear to God I will push that little witch down—”
“Jesus, Ellie!” Peter glanced around as if the crown moulding had ears. “He started pulling money in December, right?”
Eleanor nodded. “For ten straight weeks. Right up until winter break.”
“Think about it. She’d be showing by now. And, she had wine at the club last week.”
Eleanor exhaled. From day one, the girl had a way of driving out all rationality. “What, then? Another animal rescue start-up?” He always was a sucker for the strays.
Peter looked as though she’d said it out loud. “He’s a sharp kid who knows what he wants. And why not Tessa? Lovely girl, good head on her shoulders.” He smirked. “Besides, if she was looking to trap him, wouldn’t she have done it right out of the gate?”
Eleanor’s gaze bent sharply to his. Peter flashed that look that used to get her into all kinds of trouble, then kissed the top of her head. “Will’s never been the one to worry about,” he said. “Now, would you forget all this? It’s your special day.”
Right. Mother’s Day. This year, Eleanor had pulled out all the stops—two days at the medi-spa, the latest Dior wrap dress, and an exquisite pair of Choos, the perfect companion to the Louis hobo Peter would be proudly presenting her with in an hour.
Eleanor’s favorite associate at Holt’s had made sure to flag the handbag for Becca, Peter’s favorite office assistant, when Becca was dispatched to choose Eleanor’s gift. Limited edition, embossed magnolia calfskin. An absolute must. No doubt the price tag made Peter’s eyes bug out, as would the blowjob Becca would surely gift him on Father’s Day. The purse, at least, could be counted on to hold up.
Indeed, Eleanor deserved to be spoiled today. She’d sacrificed her pelvic floor and a promising career as a legal secretary to become the most together mom in Hogg’s Hollow, a fact she quite enjoyed reminding everyone at the club’s annual brunch. Without Tessa wedged between them this time, Will might make the day even more perfect by confiding about the trust money.
Tessa had bewitched everyone; only Eleanor could see it. Gee Will, I’d love to go to the concert, but I can’t handle crowds. And there was Will, requesting the private box. Will, the trip sounds amazing, but airports make me a wreck. And there was Peter, handing Will the private charter’s number. Eleanor threw herself an exasperated look before rising to dress. Tessa even managed to piss her off in absentia.
When Eleanor first laid eyes on her through the tinted Range Rover glass, Will and Tessa were on a park bench, eating frozen yogurt and giggling like idiots. Will wore an expression Eleanor hadn’t seen since he was three while at Disneyland, sharing pancakes with the Mouse himself. Two blinks later, there he was, eighteen, endlessly capable, painstakingly gorgeous, and drooling like a toddler in broad daylight.
It wasn’t his fault. Those Virgin Mary blue eyes, that wispy tank top loose around her teeny waist and snug across those perfect tits Peter still pretends not to notice. Her ponytail hung like melted chocolate, plush and shiny, jolting Eleanor back to when hers did the same. And those legs. How many lunges had Eleanor done trying to recover those after the babies? When she noticed the ratty cut-offs, Eleanor knew; this girl was straight off the clearance rack at Urban Planet. Will wasn’t in love, he was fascinated.
Eleanor never bought the perfect couple hype. Will, yes, he was as close as they came. That alone made it all worthwhile. But Little Miss Sensitive could ruin him, and Eleanor would keep tracking her like an ant under a magnifying glass until she found a way to prove it.
In the meantime, Tessa would be accommodated at the family table like a shellfish allergy, because Will had made it very clear she wasn’t going anywhere. And if Eleanor wasn’t Will’s mother, she couldn’t be the least bit sure who she was.
Oleander / Nerium Indicum
Calculated Risks.
CHARLIE
Twenty-Seven Summers Ago
Charlie’s parents made a life of packing up and starting over. Her four brothers would grumble at leaving behind the winning team, or some hopeless crush, as if it all wasn’t waiting at the next stop in different wrapping. But by age seven, Charlie wished on every birthday candle for a trip to someplace new. By sixteen, staying in one place felt dangerously restrictive; the world was too big, it had too much to reveal. So far, she’d lived in six cities, two towns, five countries, and three continents. The more she saw, the more she needed to see.
Within an hour of landing at Pearson, she dropped her bags on the twin bed in her aunt’s guest room and jumped the subway downtown. On the recommendation of a polite passenger, she took the streetcar to Queen West, poking through a patchwork of indie bookstores and novelty shops spiced with incense. She stumbled bug-eyed through the technicolor tunnels of Graffiti Alley. By the time she crossed the bustling fabric district to the open-air markets of China Town, Charlie decided if she was ever to call anyplace home, Toronto would be it.
Next morning, jet lag had her up early. She strolled her aunt’s neighborhood, jonesing for cappuccino and an almond croissant, a morning habit she’d picked up in Salzburg at age nine. The smell of budding gardenia pulled her along the sidewalk to where the sexiest man she had ever seen was unlocking a flower market.
He was older by just enough, his twenty years to her sixteen affording precisely the number of trips around the block required to render boys her own age obsolete. His battered hands worked deftly to untwist the speaker wire connecting the fence panels, a lit cigarette pinched between his lips, the length of ash unnerving. Razor burn streaked the cut of his jaw like a comet, and his damp hair smelled shower-fresh on the breeze. Charlie’s face twisted; it physically hurt to look at him.
He caught her staring, his eyes a startling, regal blue. He winked in a way that felt like charity. Charlie jutted her chin. He saw someone’s adorable kid sister, and she fiercely resented caring what he saw.
“Someone’s up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Hah. Story of my life. What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Nice. Short for Charlotte?”
“Yep.”
“It seems to me we have no ordinary spider.”
“Huh?”
“E.B. White. Charlotte’s Web?”
“Oh. Right.”
He smiled. “A classic. Still holds up.”
Twenty minutes later, Charlie bounced through her aunt’s side door, changed clothes, then ran back to the Blue Iris where Sam taught her to deadhead petunias from the base of the arm, not the bloom itself. “It’s a pain in the ass,” he said, dabbing the droplet of sweat at the tip of his nose, “but do it the other way, and the whole plant looks like shit in a month.”
Sand-colored hair brushed his eyes as he demonstrated how to slit sunflower stems five inches up from the bottom, creating a larger surface from which to draw water. “Do you make your linebacker drink from a straw, or do you hand him the whole pitcher?”
He set a houseplant in a shallow dish of water, freeing it to drink what it needed, but no more. His voice dipped low. “The trick here, Spider, is do it regularly. Let it dry out, like this mum here?” His head shook with sorrow. “Drowning’s the only way to save it.”
Charlie hoped he couldn’t feel her pulse clipping as he placed his earth-worn hand over hers. Together, they plunged the full plant into a pail filled with tepid water, holding firm as it struggled to float up. Releasing only when no more bubbles fled through their fingers.
Her blood ran green. She wanted to know everything about the shop’s ever-rotating flora. She studied Sam’s finger work, rapt, as he dismantled her clumpy attempt at a rose bouquet and started again, baby’s breath first, tucking the blooms in and around it, then set the leather fern, shiny side out, much lower than she had. “Fern is the collar, Spider, not a mask.” Then, flashing his gut-flipping grin, he made her promise to avoid using both types of filler whenever possible. Charlie decided on the spot that she preferred her roses laced with blue stattice and bear grass, though she’d pick dahlias over roses any day of the week.
Charlie’s botanical passions thickened all summer like trumpet vine on a cedar pergola, inextricably entangled with Sam. She worked sunrise until dusk, shoulders peeling, her palms permanently stained by chlorophyll. Sam was dynamic in his instruction, comically encouraging about her mistakes. Playfully affectionate no matter the weary hour or skewering temperature. On days he ambled around, as though towing an oversized load through thick fog, everyone pulled back. But it was on those occasions he drew Charlie closer.
For a while, it was enough to numb the sting of watching him saunter down the back laneway, a new mini skirt trailing every night.
In a too-short moment between retail fray, the leafy aisles a confessional curtain between them, Sam told her his parents had been dead less than six months. They’d given their lives to this shop, raising he and his brother, Darryl, among these pails and flats, as wild and in love as you read about in books. They’d partnered with investor Simon Miller years ago to fund a massive expansion, but it was only now getting off the ground.
“I’ve got Simon’s money and Darryl’s muscle. But I’m the only one who knows anything about actually running the place.” Charlie heard the weight of his parents’ legacy in his voice. The shop held his childhood and his future, along with Darryl’s.
Three mornings a week, the white cube truck eased to a stop in front of the shop. Sam bounced from it, belting anything on the radio for all to hear. With him came bucket after bucket of creamy daylilies, roses of every length and hue, puffy snapdragons, rainbow-speckled alstroemeria, and Darryl, lurking like Stonehenge behind him. It was unfathomable to her that they were brothers.
In these hurried spurts, Charlie scurried around the shop floor, topping up displays with the fresh inventory while Sam hauled the overflow into the cooler. Simon rallied to help, as did his teenage son, Rowan. But not once all summer did Darryl cross that threshold. At most, he dumped a pail of cuts or two into the doorway with a clomp.
Darryl’s persistent failure to help his brother was appalling. Sam was grieving, too, but it never stopped him from shouldering their family burden. He juggled all of it, without complaint—the cuts and indoor plants, the new wholesale division, the ordering, the staffing. And here was Darryl, acting like Sam owed him. Worse, he was outraged whenever Sam leaned on Charlie. As if Darryl preferred Sam to have no help at all.
