Flowers for the Gardener

Chapter 1-2

Unable to bare the oppressive atmosphere any longer and unsure whether he could stomach the French toast, Rich slipped out into the garden. Breakfast lay hidden, wrapped in several layers of tissue-napkins in a pocket.

Goodness knew where to throw the damn thing, but the mess was impossible to carry around on account of the risk of grease seeping into his trousers. Out of view of the house, he pulled the moist bundle free, and marched along, transporting his unwanted meal to he knew not where. Rich cut out back, across the patio, and the lawn, and ducked under the trees.

Shit, but the air soon lost any trace of warmth in the shade. The wind threatened to cut the back of his throat open and leached the heat out of him. Stupid not to fetch an overcoat, but the desperation to ditch the scraps, and to escape the stifling confines of the house, put weather last on his agenda. He should turn back but the time required to seize a jacket would no doubt be enough for the smuggled-out food to stain his clothes.

Should he first dispose of the evidence, or hurry inside? If he grabbed a coat, he could return to his walk, which he now desired, and take the time to enjoy a stroll. Not once since his return had he walked these paths. The icy breeze helped to calm, if not ease, his mind, or at least blocked any thoughts unrelated to the concern of freezing to death. If he dressed appropriately, a half hour ramble might relieve tension. The one thing he still liked about Oxshott was the views. The five acres of land with the mansion was like owning a piece of countryside.

No bins on the grounds gave him a single solution: to bury the toast. A spot beneath a hedgerow with soft soil would do. Should be easy.

So much for that idea. Not fingers or stone created more than a shallow trench and made a mess of his hands. He tucked the bread into the narrow gap he created before shovelling dirt over the leftovers. That presented the problem of having nothing to hand but leaves and sticks to wipe off mud and dig out the sludge under his nails.

“Most people bury treasure not food.”

Rich shot up and spun, ready to accuse the speaker of spying. Every sentence he came up with died.

Ethan.

The man stood around his own height, manner of dress and stance casual. Where the autumnal morning struck Rich not solely with its charm but with a chill, the newcomer leaned on a rake, shirtsleeves rolled up over bulging biceps, jeans caressing slim hips. Brown eyes gazed out from under a heavy fringe of brunette hair. Ethan’s eyes twinkled, or appeared to; a possible trick of the morning sunlight. He smiled as much with his eyes as with his mouth, lips no less full for expanding into a curve.

Rich’s tongue dried out. His throat closed. c**k swelled. He blinked, amazed to be in lust in the space of a moment.

“Smells of Rosie’s cooking, that does. Not sure she appreciates her efforts being wasted.”

Now Ethan mentioned it, redolent evidence scented the air and caused Rich’s stomach to grumble enough to make him regret not having eaten. Belly and c**k argued over which need might be the more urgent.

The man gestured with a flick of his hand to the small burial site.

“An animal will dig it up, maybe eat it, and, if not, leave traces strewn over the path for your mother to find.”

Improbable, but judging by his luck…Rich pictured his mother calling him into the dining room, making him take a seat, and presenting him with the evidence. Condemning him—the sentence one of insisting he stay until he ate it, much the same as she once had with any meal he didn’t like when he was a child. The most troubling thing about the vision was he couldn’t be certain whether the soil or a worm, or mould on the eggy bread would change her mind.

“I won’t ask why you’re hiding food in the garden,” the other man continued. “But if you need shot of it, I suggest you bring it along to the compost heap. May be best if we get you clean, too.”

We? Images of bowls, warm water, facecloths…blanket baths, stormed Rich’s mind. He shook off the assault. Unable to speak, he nodded, whirled around, and dug up his breakfast. He fell into step beside the man who pushed a wheelbarrow.

“Toss it in.” Ethan gestured to the leaves and plant cuttings. Rich threw the toast on top.

The two men walked in silence along the track, Rich’s heart speeding up with every stride. Hard to believe he still felt any attraction for Ethan, but after the first shock of recognition, his libido had perked right up. To think he experienced an instant attraction for someone he once thought of as his nemesis.

The extensive estate needed someone to help cultivate the land, but, it’s caretaker, William Fields had taken care of the grounds for as long as he could recall. To Rich, as a young boy, the gardener had the appearance of being as aged and constant as the property he tended. The idea the man had a wife and son shocked Rich long ago—Fields appeared too old. Older than Rich imagined, as he later learned, and nothing about that as shocking as the last time he’d seen Ethan Fields.

Whatever heat remained in his body trickled into Rich’s face.

“We’re here.” Ethan’s voice broke the trance. They stopped walking, and Rich angled his head away, fearing what Ethan might notice in his expression. Better to concentrate on the building.

The term shed belittled the cabin-like structure which put in his mind a day spent hiking in the woods brought to a close by curling up before a blazing fire. An image of Ethan and a rug rose up, turning Rich colder than the weather managed to do. He daren’t envision such thoughts.

Thank goodness Ethan headed around the back and tipped the wheelbarrow into the compost heap, burying the nibbled slice of French toast under the fresh pile. The passing seconds gave Rich enough respite to remember how to breathe.

“There’ll be more on top by the end of the day. Buried deep.” Ethan gave him a nod. Reassurance? To indicate he knew what he was talking about? Rich couldn’t be sure. “I’ll store this and we’ll see about getting you clean.”

Rich nodded, dumb with confusion. They disliked each other, so why be helpful?

With what appeared a quizzical glance, Ethan went to one side of the hut, to where they stocked the tools. Nothing had changed. Far larger than an average potting shed, the building consisted of two parts. The smaller side was kitted out for storage, while the gardeners kept their clothes, paperwork, tea and coffee making facilities in the principal area. The unit lacked indoor running water, and a toilet. Otherwise, the cabin might be a home from home. A fresh breeze kicked up, blowing in through the open doorway, causing Rich to shudder not from the chill but recollection. Last time he set foot here, Ethan’s father let him wash because of the sound beating he’d received from Ethan.