The Gardener of Aria Manor Read online

  The delicate scent of bergamot tantalized her as she poured herself another cup of Earl Grey and settled in comfortably for a quiet moment, a drastic contrast to the night before.

  A knock on the door startled her from her contemplative gazing out the window. When the knock sounded again, it was more of a pounding. She quietly crossed to the threshold and eyed the shadow under the door. The jiggling of the knob left her breathless. Feet shuffled and the shadow moved. She stood silent, awaiting its departure. An envelope slid under the door and then the shadow disappeared, the sound of footfalls subsiding altogether.

  Janie’s shoulders slumped as she exhaled and drew a hand across her face. She tugged the belt of the robe tightly about her waist with a sudden twisting in her gut as she imagined the possible contents of the telegram. Her shaking hands reached down to the envelope and flipped open its folds, then pulled out the telegram. She sat at the table in the library, squinting at the telegram before remembering she had glasses. Sighing with resolve, she put them on.

  Arrangements made Stop Ship leaves New York Harbor May 3 Stop Looking forward to your arrival Stop Will be pleasant to have a head gardener again Stop

  “GARDENER?”

  A rap on the door jolted her, and her heart thumped in her throat.

  “Janie,” a muffled voice called out from beyond the door. “It’s me. Frank.”

  After a moment, Janie opened the door and Frank’s mouth fell open. She grabbed hold of his coat and jerked him inside. “Get in here before someone sees you.”

  Frank stared at her transformation as she pushed the door shut behind him. “Geez, Janie. Is that you?

  She smiled. “I guess you ought to start calling me Carolyn.”

  “Sure. Okay.” He followed her into the kitchen. “What a place, huh?”

  “It’s something all right.”

  “Good thing you gave me your new address. I had to make a beeline through Central Park. There were four people chasing me down just from the smell of fresh bread. People are starving out there.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel bad you’re doing a good job, Frank.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks. I have to be getting back to the bakery. I thought you might need some food, so I ran over to Mr. Goldstein’s and picked up some stuff to tide you over for a while.”

  She peered into the bag he laid on the counter. There was a little of everything in it.

  He raised another smaller bag. “I thought you’d be sick and tired of looking at challah, so I brought you a good old American white loaf and a breakfast strudel mom baked this morning. Cream cheese, your favorite.”

  She smiled warmly at his generous heart. “That’s very thoughtful, Frank.” Janie reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette holder.

  He waited as she pulled a cigarette from the case and placed it between her lips. Watching the flame light the tip of her cigarette, he followed her eyes as they rose to meet his, squinting through the smoke.

  “What’s the matter? Do I spook you?”

  “No. Not at all,” he said quickly. “You look great. Just...very different.” At her chuckle he added, “I mean, you have a figure. Who knew you had hips?”

  “Oh.” She breathed out the smoke and returned the case to her pocket. When she withdrew her hand, a small silver pendant lay in the palm. “Something I’m sure you’ll find amusing.” It was a Star of David. “I found it on the dresser last night.”

  When Frank burst into laughter, Janie smiled wryly. “I’m glad you find my twisted life so humorous, Frank.”

  “You’re a Jew!” he exclaimed happily. “How great is this!”

  She stepped past him. “Yeah, well, don’t start dancing around me just yet.”

  Still laughing, Frank followed her into the library and took a seat at the small table across from her. Janie frowned as she slid the telegram across to him. “Tell me what you think of that.”

  His eyes scanned the message and he grinned. “Fantastic.”

  “Fantastic? This isn’t fantastic, this is idiotic! I can no more be a gardener than I can be a Jew.”

  Frank shrugged. “Uncle Ben-Josef always says there’s a little Jew in everybody.”

  She glared through the exhaled smoke. “I’m not a Jew, Frank. And I’m not a gardener.”

  “That’s thinking like Janie. You’re Carolyn now. And Carolyn is a Jew and a gardener.”

  “Just because I have her name and face doesn’t mean I have to be like her. And I’m buying trousers, with pockets! Damned women’s slacks don’t have pockets. Who’s to say she didn’t have my face? It’s not like she had any family or anything—”

  “Wait. Wait,” Frank interrupted. “How do you know she didn’t have family?”

  “Look around. Do you see any kids? Husband? Do you see any pictures? She’s a recluse. It’s almost as if this woman didn’t exist. Every woman who carries a handbag possesses photos of some sort, right?”

  “You’d think. Pretty popular nowadays.”

  “Not one. The only thing she had in the bag was a key to this apartment, a passport, and two dollars and thirty-seven cents. The few things in her cupboards don’t even indicate anything kosher. Everything in this place is generic.” After a moment, Janie stubbed out her cigarette. “It’s all pretty creepy.”

  “So what? So she’s a woman without ties. All the better for you to start your life over without any strings attached.”

  “Pretty convenient, isn’t it?”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed to slits and he looked at her askance. “What do you mean?”

  “We have the same shoe size, for Christ sake.”

  “So?”

  “And the same waist size, same height, same prescription of—”

  Frank eyed the glasses that were lying on the table. “You wear those?”

  “Hey, no comment on the glasses, all right?”

  His hands went up in surrender. “Okay, so the two of you were very similar in a few aspects. Do you know if this Carolyn also had the same taste in...uh...” Frank chose his words carefully. “You know. Women.”

  She shook her head. “No clue. Look, you can’t tell me this isn’t a little strange.”

  “You ever think she might have been your twin?”

  Janie scoffed. “Twin.”

  “It makes sense, Janie. No family, ’cause she didn’t have one, that she knew of. Happens all the time. Children are separated at birth, one or both going to orphanages because the parents can’t afford to raise them. In fact, there’s a perfectly good Jewish orphanage just across town. I’m sure you could check to see if she—”

  “That’s fine for a poor family, but the O’Gradys inherited their fortune,” Janie said gruffly. “If they wanted to, they could have had twelve kids and put us all through college. Besides, my mother would never have kept anything like that from me. Nobody in my family is Jewish. We’re Irish Catholic.”

  “There are Irish Jews, you know.” Frank sniffed at her evil glare. “Your mother could have married into a Catholic family, Janie.”

  “Interesting story, but it never happened, Frank.”

  “Isn’t that what you would have said about your father, before you discovered his embezzling?” He paled in the face of her bitter snarl. “Look,” he hastened to add, “all I’m saying is that it’s possible. There must be a logical explanation.”

  “Logical? How do you explain the horror of seeing myself on fire in that cab?”

  “I bet it was no picnic for Carolyn, either.”

  “She was dead, Frank.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on, gimme a break here, will ya?”

  “Okay, so you’ve got sympathy. What about guilt, then?”

  “Oh, now you’re Doctor Freud.”

  “You asked me a freakin’ question.”

  Janie drew an exasperated sigh and rubbed her face. “I know. I know.”

/>   After a long hesitation, he stood to go. “You want my honest opinion?” He waited until she looked at him. “I think things happen for a reason. God has blessed you with a second chance at life. It’s called re-inventing yourself. You’ll see.” At the door, he stopped and turned with a final observation. “You’re right about one thing, Janie.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Just because you can fit into someone else’s shoes doesn’t mean you should be that person. You may look like Carolyn, but inside you’re still Janie. Be yourself—whoever that is. Anything else will look as fake as hell. Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better figure it out quick. Tomorrow a woman is being buried next to your father. It’s up to you to decide whether it’s going to be Carolyn...or Janie.”

  FOR FEAR OF being discovered by Madden’s thugs, Janie followed Frank’s advice and stayed away from her funeral, far enough away to avoid being seen. She stood on the next block, serving food at a soup line with Frank, from which vantage point she could serve bread and watch the procession of mourners as they descended the steps of St. Peter’s.

  There was something agonizing for Janie about the slow, silent exit of a black coffin gliding above gray steps. Almost as if to say: Remember every step, every breath. This day is the first day of our lives without you, and the last day you’ll get to feel us with you. The pathetic, tragic possibility of that coffin carrying her own body slapped against her face with the bitter cold wind. Janie didn’t know if Carolyn Vaughn would have been grateful to have had a family. She felt it was good, if for no other reason than for them to stand above her in prayer and toss a few lilies into her grave.

  “Geez,” Janie mused. “I hope she didn’t mind the priest and all the verses of Danny Boy.”

  The sight of her mother’s grief forced Janie away from the bread line. She turned toward the building with tears welling in her eyes.

  Frank rushed over to her. Grabbing her sleeve, he mumbled in a low voice, “Come on, hold it together, Janie. You don’t want to draw attention, now do ya?”

  Swiping at the tears running down her cheek, she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Frank. But my God, look at her. Look what I’m doing to her. I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can. If you want to save her life, and your own, you’ve got to stay dead. Understand? Now, come on. You watching your own funeral was a bad idea. Let me buy you a coffee.” He led her away from the serving line, careful to cover their departure by walking alongside the people waiting for food.

  As they sat having coffee, Frank cleared his throat and hemmed and hawed a bit before saying, “Uh, Janie, I’ve been thinking about something, but I wanted to clear it with you first.”

  Noting his discomfort, she raised an eyebrow. “Something I’m not going to like, I take it.”

  “Well…” He shrugged. “It all depends on your perspective.”

  “And? Spit it out.”

  “Well, this Catholic service was for you, and you’re not dead.”

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re not dead, I was just thinking that, well, Carolyn Vaughn was Jewish, and she is dead. So, if it’s all right with you, my dad and I would like to come over some time in the next few days and perform a Jewish ceremony for her.” He dared a glance at her expression.

  “I can’t help but think that she is getting more visitors now that she is dead than she ever did when she was alive. I guess that’s not a bad thing.” He was still waiting for her answer. “Of course, Frank. I have no problem with anything that might help...put her at rest.”

  FOR THE NEXT two months, Janie brushed up on gardening, reading the texts on plants, flowers, and English landscape design that Frank picked up for her at the library. She even snipped and repotted potted plants that he brought over, a few at a time. The first dozen or so didn’t look as healthy as the latest three. Childhood visits on Aunt Bess’s farm were all a blur. She had made all that clever planting and blooming seem so flawless. Latin names were, for the most part, something her Aunt Bess and mother didn’t rely on as much as the common names. And the more enticing names of musk roses, like “Penelope” and “Buff Beauty” were about as deceptive and vague as the descriptions of hazel twigs and pears.

  Janie felt overwhelmed and sank her head into her hands, succumbing to a moment of panic. “God, help me. What the hell am I doing? How on earth am I going to pull this off?”

  By the morning of May third, she felt some semblance of comfort in researching the trade she now was a part of. Still, as Frank was driving her toward the docks that early morning, she was feeling less and less certain about her ability to adapt to the circumstances in which she was about to find herself.

  The fog was beginning to lift, but still cuddled the ship’s hull as Frank stopped his father’s delivery truck near the pier. Janie thought she heard the dense, gray waters calling her to stay. New York City didn’t seem so bad after all.

  “Misgivings?” asked Frank.

  “You betcha.”

  Putting the car in park, he turned to her. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

  Frank held her hand. “There’s never a wrong way to do something in God’s universe.”

  Janie shifted a skeptical eye toward him. “You got that from an insurance salesman, didn’t you?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “So? It means something, doesn’t it? It all works out.” He held her face in his hands and laughed with her. “Seriously, though. Listen to me. You’ll be fine.”

  She took his hands in hers. “Thanks for everything, Frank. I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  They embraced for a long moment and then he pulled away. “Go on, now,” he said, his voice cracking. “Before somebody sees you.” He watched as she climb out of the truck, and, before she closed the door, he added, “And don’t worry, I’ll check in on your mother. Write me, okay?”

  Janie’s voice failed her. She nodded as she stepped back. Watching Frank depart, she was again fearful of the prospects ahead. But there was no going back. She boarded the ocean liner and stood on deck as it headed out to sea. The world around her felt very different. Back on the dock she could see immigrants joyfully arriving on their new soil, a journey of discovery awaiting them in their New World. Like them, she was leaving behind everything in her old life. For her, this change was so great, so sudden, the fragrance of its memory slipped away as if it were a ghost, unmasked.

  The sea spray was cold, but the sun that peeked through the parting fog told her it was going to be a warm spring day. She had never been on a ship, yet she couldn’t help but feel an acquaintance with the salt air and sound of the tides rushing past the ship’s hull as it effortlessly cleaved the waters. Janie inhaled deeply as the Statue of Liberty faded from view, her thoughts almost sullen.

  “Goodbye, Janie O’Grady.”

  Chapter Three

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  JANIE MADE IT off the boat without attracting much interest from the locals. After taking a somewhat lengthy train ride through the beautiful English countryside, a driver was waiting at the station to take her on to her new venture. The prospect of viewing this less than joyous transition as an act of Providence was something she was certain would be launched from the tongue of an ambitious nun with much fervor. She suddenly realized she could believe and feel whatever she wished, without rebellion. She decided she would acquaint herself gradually with the enigma that was Carolyn Vaughn.

  Janie completed her first letter to Frank and closed her letter case. An avenue of lime trees greeted the traveler as the drive pulled away from the coastline.

  “Welcome to Aria Manor, Miss Vaughn,” said the driver.

  Aria Manor was a two story edifice that dated from the late seventeenth century, its appearance bespeaking a chivalrous past. It sat on an expansive, well-groomed estate that ended against a ridge of craggy cliffs.


  Janie was traveling with several bags, two of which she insisted on carrying herself. She buzzed the doorbell of the manor and then gazed keenly at the carriage house behind her as the driver carefully pulled through its doors. There was a slight chill in the air. Janie felt grateful to have worn a blazer, which she pulled off and slung over an arm just as the main door opened. The butler gazed at her attire—a man’s brown pinstriped suit—with an appraising eye.

  “Something wrong?” Janie asked abruptly.

  The butler said not a word, but left the door open for her as he spun on his heel. Smirking, she picked up her bags, and followed him. The foyer alone was larger than her father’s entire house. The floor of black and white tiles reminded her of some of the homes of the extravagantly rich in New York, and its expanse seemed to dwarf her figure. Janie’s room was at the end of the servants’ hall, next to the butler’s pantry that led to the kitchen. Her room was quaint. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under a small green rag rug, the only color in the room aside from the gray-sage paint on the walls. The only light came from a small window, which overlooked the greenhouse roof and the shade garden beyond.

  “I’ll inform the Missus of your arrival,” the butler said unenthusiastically.

  Janie assessed the thin-haired man. He was impeccably dressed, as a butler should be, with crisp creases in his black suit and heavily starched white shirt and gloves. The collar looked uncomfortable, or maybe he was always that stiff. The slight balding on his high forehead appeared as polished as his shoes. The observation made her grin.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” she said.

  As if he was giving away a secret code from a mystery radio show that would grant him a prize if he answered a quiz question correctly, he grudgingly said, “Bartley.” He turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving Janie to her musings.

  “Bartley,” she repeated, mocking his intonation.

  She was stacking her luggage in a corner by the bed when she noticed a small blue vase of white Lilies of the Valley atop the nightstand. A meek figure standing in the doorway cleared her throat to catch Janie’s eye. It was a young maidservant wearing a gray shirtdress with a white apron. Her brown hair was bobbed around her round, smiling face.