The door sticks, so I give it a shove, making the hinges squeak and the glass panes rattle. Hal eyes them suspiciously.
“It’s okay, they always do that.” Reaching back, I slip my hand into his and pull him into the glasshouse, nudging the door shut again with my toe.
“Are we meant to be in here?” His voice is little more than a whisper, swallowed by the green hush filling the glasshouse.
“It’s fine. I come in here all the time.”
Which is true. This is where I came every time I had a panic attack in those first weeks after The Incident; every time I felt like someone had swapped all the blood in my veins for pure distilled adrenalin and my lungs closed up and my heart screamed at me that it couldn’t keep doing this, while quietly, my head told me that this was what I deserved. This glasshouse was where I came to breathe in the scent of the plants, to hear the tick-tick-tick of the watering hoses, to dig my fingertips into the soil or run my hands along the old benches…to ground myself.
Of course the next piece of the puzzle is hidden here. Of course it is.
Drops of water from the humid air settle on Hal’s lashes, where they glitter. I can see myself reflected in his eyes – or at least a version of me. Whoever that girl is, surrounded by leaves and plants and flowers. And behind my reflection, I see – what, exactly? Deep in his eyes, I see him. Golden. Dazzling.
Blinding.
But when he smiles and leans into me and his lips press against mine, all of that slips away…and he’s just him and I’m just me…
With his forehead resting against mine and his arms around me, I could put down roots here – right here, in the middle of the glasshouse and the plants and the flowers and the misty dew from the watering hoses. A made-up Eden, perfect for someone like me. Someone who needs a safe place.
Maybe even for someone like Hal too.
His breath and mine curl together in the air, and the glasshouse has never felt safer. I wonder whether it felt safe to them too, to Albie and Iris?
I nudge my nose against his. “That wasn’t what I brought you here for, you know.”
“I know.” He grins, and the glasshouse lights up.
“This way.”
I lead him deeper into the glasshouse – past the ancient potting bench, dented and battered by generations of gardeners; past the trays of seedlings for the autumn and the frames of baby vegetables for the kitchen gardens; under the sprawling grapevine that dapples the floor beneath it with shade even on the brightest day…and right to the back, to the oldest, gloomiest corner up against the hedge, where Charlie has his garden planning boards set up and keeps his favourite kit. Not even the junior gardeners dare come here looking for tools or seeds in case they mess something up. But I know exactly what I’m looking for – the point where two corners of the roof meet the walls, and the massive oak post that joins them.
“Look there,” I say to Hal, and point at the post.
“What?”
“Look. Really look. Or better yet…” I lift his hand and press it against the wood, my hand on top of it, sliding down the beam. “You’ll know it when you find it.”
Under my hand, he runs his fingertips down the grain of the wood until he reaches a rough patch, and he stops. His whole arm tenses and his eyes open wide. He’s found it, and I drop my hand, letting him duck around the post to get a better look.
His nose pressed almost up to the wood, he outlines the letters cut into the post with his fingers. “What are they?”
“They’re initials.” A dozen pairs of them, all in a column. BP, DF…and more, up and down the post. And right at the bottom: GH. “They’re the gardeners. When Charlie started working here, there was a guy on the gardening staff who’d been here basically for ever. He showed him these on his first day – he told him that right before they left, the gardeners who went to fight in the First World War all came here to carve their initials.”
“GH has got to be our GH – right? George Harbutt.”
I nod. “The one who helped Albie and Iris.”
“It fits. It all fits, Flora.” He tilts his head forward and rests it against the pillar, almost like he rested his head against mine a few minutes ago, and his voice cracks as he says it.
“It fits.”
The glasshouse is so quiet that I can almost hear the plants growing.
“I can’t believe it. I thought maybe I’d find a name or something…but all this?”
“I’m glad. I mean, I didn’t want you to be…” I take a deep breath. “Disappointed.”
In this. In here.
In me.
Half in the shadow of the post, Hal slowly shakes his head, his eyes fixed on mine and his lips curving into a smile.
“What possible reason could I have to be disappointed? I came here looking for a story and I found it. And then I found something much more interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
I know exactly what he means, because I didn’t even know I was looking for him, either…but suddenly, here we are.
Found.
“Listen,” he says as I haul the door closed behind us, keeping the damp air of the glasshouse in and the summer evening air out. “That party in a couple of days. Here.”
“The anniversary one?” I brush my hair out of my eyes.
“That’s what it’s for?” Hal clears his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets, staring at the gravel path – suddenly awkward.
“It’s ten years since Hopwood Home opened. The owners want it to be a big thing – Barney’s had to invite the local press and people from all over the place.”
“Mmm.” He scuffs one of his shoes backwards and forwards on the path. Bits of gravel ting off a glass pane. “It’s just…I was wondering…would you…I mean, maybe? I thought…did you…?”
I can barely hear what he’s saying over the humming of my heart.
He frowns and screws his eyes shut, and his chest rises and falls as he takes the deepest of all possible breaths, and I hope he’s breathing for both of us, because I just can’t.
“Would you like to go? With me? Umm, what I’m trying to say is – would you like to go to the party with me?” The words rush out of him, and the second they’re out, he opens his eyes and I can see everything in them. Everything I’ve learned about him, everything I’ve felt…and the ground underneath me is just as solid as it’s ever been, but the sky is spinning and I could step up into it and soar.
“I’d love to.”
“Yesss!” Hal punches the air.
I try not to laugh. It’s very difficult.
But he shakes his hair out of his eyes and beams at me. “Sorry. It’s just…I was really worried you’d say no.”
“Why would I say no?”
“Because…” He shrugs, and mumbles something under his breath. It sounds a lot like “I’m me”, but why would he say that?
I want to tell him so much that of course I want to go with him because he’s him. That all of this, the attic and the glasshouse and the roof of his car and the deer park under the moon…it’s because he’s him, and he makes me feel I can be the closest to me I’ve been in a long time. But instead of saying that – or even some of it – I freeze. If I told him that, I’d have to tell him everything.