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“We are.” Gabriel hated to admit it, but Joseph was going to be more of a help than he’d thought. The fifteen or so years between them—Joseph had to be in his mid-thirties—made a difference when it came to the backbreaking, limb-wrenching task of gardening.
“Iris has some great ideas for the garden,” Joseph said.
“Yes, I never thought interior design would translate to garden design, but I suppose it’s all about an eye for color and place.” Gabriel shaded his eyes with his free hand so that he could see Joseph’s face. “Where was your last job, before coming to Hugh and Esme’s?” he asked, before remembering too late that Joseph had lost his job after getting drunk. “I mean, was it a landscaping job or just general gardening?”
“Landscaping.”
“Right. In Winchester?”
“Yes, thereabouts.”
Gabriel waited for Joseph to expand, and when he didn’t, he found mutual territory for their conversation by returning to the plans for the walled garden.
They were interrupted by a buzz on Gabriel’s phone, indicating that he’d received a message. He dug it from his pocket; it was Iris, asking if she could talk to him for a minute. He frowned; she must have something to say to him that she didn’t want Joseph to hear.
“Sorry, Iris needs me for something. I won’t be long.”
He made his way to the house. Iris was waiting for him in the kitchen.
“Close the door, please.”
Her tone was so serious that Gabriel wondered what Laure had done to upset her.
He leaned back against the countertop, his arms folded across his chest. “What’s up?” He’d never seen her look so nervous before. A sudden fear gripped him. Was it Beth?
“I was putting the washing on,” she said, “and I found this in the pocket of your shorts.”
He was so relieved that it wasn’t about Beth that it took him a while to recognize the screwed up letter in her hand. He stared hard at it, as if just by looking at it he could make it disappear. He felt himself go hot, then cold. Iris was waiting for him to say something.
“Oh that,” he said, recovering. “It can go in the bin. It’s just advertising for a pension plan.”
Iris was wearing a red T-shirt, and it seemed to Gabriel that he could see the color reflected in her eyes, indicating her anger at behind lied to. He caught himself; she wouldn’t have read the letter; it was addressed to him and they never read each other’s mail.
“The thing is,” Iris said, her voice unnaturally calm. “I read it.”
He resorted to anger to hide his fear. “Why?” he exploded. “It was addressed to me, which means that it’s private!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I saw the letter in the kitchen weeks ago, where Laure had put the mail that had come in while we were in Scotland. If it had been advertising, you wouldn’t have carried it around with you for all that time. I read it because I thought it mightbe from a doctor. I was worried you were ill and hadn’t wanted to tell me.”
“You still shouldn’t have read it. Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“If I had, would you have told me the truth?”
Gabriel ran a hand through his hair. No, he wouldn’t have, because she wouldn’t have understood his reluctance to meet Charlie’s mum. The letter was from Maggie’s grief counselor, who had explained that as part of the grieving process, Maggie wished to meet the person who had been with Charlie in his final moments.
“I’m not going to meet her, if that’s what you’re wondering. It wouldn’t do any good.”
Iris looked at him, concern in her eyes. “But Gabriel, wouldn’t it give you both some kind of closure, allow you to move on?”
“Absolutely not. I would only have to re-live the whole thing, which is something I’m not willing to do.”
“I know it would be painful. But what about Maggie?”
“What about her?”
“Doesn’t she deserve closure?”
“I don’t see how hearing about the final agonizing minutes of Charlie’s life would bring her closure.”
