girls begged to go home. She returned and demanded marriage counseling. He admitted to a meaningless fling or two because his wife, he said, was not at all enthusiastic about sex anymore. And the counselor cautioned her about throwing away the father of her children, explained that the repercussions could be very long-term. She found another counselor and it happened again—the counselor sympathized with Brad. Only Lauren could see that Brad was a manipulator who could turn on the charm when it suited him.
Rather than trying yet another counselor, Brad took the family on a luxurious vacation to Europe. He pampered the girls and ultimately Lauren gave the marriage yet another chance. Then a couple of years later he gave her chlamydia and blamed her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lauren. You picked it up somewhere and gave it to me! Don’t even bother to deny it.”
She’d told him she wanted a divorce and he had said, “Fine. You’ll pay the price. I’m not going to make it easy for you.”
Knowing what was at stake, she moved into the guest room instead.
Days became weeks, weeks became months. They went back to marriage counseling. In no time at all Lauren suspected their marriage counselor had an agenda and favored Brad. She helped him make excuses, covered for him, pushed Lauren to admit to her manipulative nature. Lauren suspected him of sleeping with the counselor. He told her she’d become sick with paranoia.
By the time Lacey was in college and Cassie was applying to colleges, Brad was worse than ever. Controlling, domineering, secretive, verbally abusive, argumentative. God, why didn’t he want her to just leave? Clearly, he hated her.
But he told her if she left him he wouldn’t pay college tuition. “No judge can make me. I can be stuck with some alimony but not support payments. And not tuition. When they’re over eighteen they’re on their own. So go then,” he’d said. “You’ll be responsible for cutting them off.”
The last few years had been so lonely. She had spent a lot of time worrying that by staying with a man like Brad she had taught her daughters a dreadful lesson. She’d done her best with them but she couldn’t make them un-see how their own mother had lived her life.
She’d taken a few hours from work to meet with the lawyer, laying out plans, creating her list and checking things off. The lawyer had said, “He’s had you running scared for years. We have laws in this state. He can’t cut you off and freeze you out. I’m not saying it will be easy or painless, but you will not starve and your share of the marital assets will be delivered.”
It was time. She was finally ready to go.
Lauren inhaled the smell of spring flowers. This was one of the best times of year in Northern California, the Bay Area and inland, when everything was coming to life. The vineyards were greening up and the fruit trees were blossoming. She loved flowers; her grandmother had been a ferocious gardener, turning her entire yard into a garden. Flowers soothed her. She needed a garden right now.
Lauren heard the squeaking of wheels and looked up to see a man pushing a wheelbarrow along the path. He stopped not too far from her. He had a trowel, shovel and six plants in the wheelbarrow. He gave her a nod, and went about the business of replacing a couple of plants. Then he sat back on his heels, looked at her and smiled. “Better?” he asked.
“Beautiful,” she said with a smile.
“Is this your first time in this garden?” he asked.
“No, I’ve been here a number of times,” Lauren said. “Are you the gardener?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “Well, yes, I guess I am if I garden. But I’m just helping out today. I noticed a few things needed to be done...”
“Oh, is this your church?”
“Not this one, a smaller church south of here. I’m afraid I’ve fallen away...”
“And yet you still help out the parish? You’re dedicated.”
“I admire this garden,” he said. He rotated and sat, drawing up his knees. “Why do you come here?”
“I love gardens,” she said. “Flowers in general make me happy.”
“You live in the right part of the country, then. Do you keep a garden?”
“No,” she said, laughing uncomfortably. “My husband has very specific ideas about how the landscaping should look.”
“So he does it?”
Get dirt under his nails? Hah! “Not at all. He hires the people who do it and gives them very firm orders. I don’t find our garden nearly as beautiful as this.”
“I guess you have nothing to say about it, then,” he said.
“Not if it’s going to create conflict,” Lauren said. “But it’s kind of a secret hobby of mine to find and visit gardens. Beautiful gardens. My grandmother was a master gardener—both her front and backyard were filled with flowers, fruits and vegetables. She even grew artichokes and asparagus. It was incredible. There was no real design—it was like a glorious jungle.”
“When you were young?”
“And when I was older, too. My children loved it.”
“Did your mother garden?” he asked.
“Very little—she was a hardworking woman. But after my grandparents passed away, she lived in their house and inherited the garden. I’m afraid she let it go.”
“It’s a hereditary thing, don’t you think?” he asked. “Growing up, our whole family worked in the garden. Big garden, too. Necessary garden. My mother canned and we had vegetables all winter. Now she freezes more than cans and her kids rob her blind. I think she does it as much for all of us as herself.”
“I would love that so much,” Lauren said. Then she wondered how the residents of Mill Valley would react to seeing her out in the yard in her overalls, hoeing and spreading fresh, stinky fertilizer. It made her laugh to herself.
“Funny?” he asked.
“I work for a food processor. Merriweather. And they don’t let me near the gardens, which are primarily research gardens.”
“So, what do you do?” he asked.
“I cook,” she said. “Product development. Testing and recipes. We test the products regularly and have excellent consumer outreach. We want to show people how to use our products.”
“Are you a nutritionist?” he asked.
“No, but I think I’m becoming one. I studied chemistry. But what I do is not chemistry. In fact, it’s been so long...”
He frowned. “Processed foods. A lot of additives,” he said. “Preservatives.”
“We stand by their safety and it’s a demanding, fast-paced world. People don’t have time to grow their food, store it, make it, serve it.” His cell phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “See what I mean?” she said, his phone evidence of the pace of modern life.
But he didn’t even look at it. He switched it off. “What, besides flowers, makes you happy?”
