And why had it been locked for so long?
Charlie knocked back the faded Mets ball cap he’d picked up on a trip years ago and scratched his forehead. “From most to least destructive?”
“Sure,” she said.
“We get a blowtorch and cut the gate open,” he said.
“I love playing with a blowtorch as much as you do, but that’s off the table. The owners are very much on the side of restoring history, not destroying it.”
“We get a cherry picker and hack a path in to get a ladder down there. Machetes at dawn,” he said, thickening his Scottish accent for effect.
She glanced over her shoulder at the gap in the gate. “Maybe, but the plants could be valuable.”
“There’s got to be another way.”
“Yeah, a key, but until that turns up we’ll have to figure it out,” she said.
“Hey, you heard about that Royal Botanical Heritage Society job?” Charlie asked.
She froze. “What?”
“They’re looking for a head of conservancy.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“You’d be good at it.”
“Why would I need a job? I have Turning Back Thyme,” she said sharply.
He held his hands up. “Hey, hey, I just thought it would be a good fit for you.”
“I’ve spent six years building this business.”
“Come on. Don’t pretend like you haven’t had days where you want to pack it all in. I know you get stressed. I know you don’t usually love the client side of the business,” he said.
Or logistics or personnel or taxes or… the list could go on and on.
“I love our clients,” she said firmly.
Almost on cue, her mobile began to ring. She pulled it out of her back pocket and made a face. “Will Frayn.”
“The influencer’s husband?” Charlie asked. “Didn’t he call last week?”
With a sigh, she swiped to answer. “Turning Back Thyme, this is Emma.”
“Emma,” boomed Will’s voice. “Gillian’s here, too. Let me put you on speaker.”
“Emma,” Gillian cooed into the phone, “we miss you.”
“What can I help with, Gillian?” she asked.
“There’s a problem with the garden,” Gillian said.
The garden consisted of a series of traditional English borders planted to create an ombré effect, going from deep purple to lilac to pale white, all connected by a weaving path of switchbacks that ended in a redwood deck surrounded by cherry trees. It would look good this spring, but it would be truly stunning in a few years when everything had a chance to grow in.
“Did your gardeners have trouble with the handoff notes I left?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Gillian said.
“What’s the matter, then?”
“Nothing’s blooming!”
“It’s a real problem,” Will jumped in. “Gilly has a shoot tomorrow, and there isn’t a single flower.”
Emma pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “It’s February. Nothing in that garden is going to bloom until at least April, but the trees will start budding out soon.”
“But, Emma, what’s the point of having a garden without flowers?” Gillian asked.
“Gardens have cycles. You need to work with the seasons, which is why I suggested succession planting. Then you would have had something interesting to look at most of the year,” she said.
A few feet off, Charlie snorted.
“What do we have?” Will asked.
“A lot of late-spring- and early-summer-blooming plants. It will look incredible in June.” She’d warned the Frayns about this very thing. However, when they heard that succession planting would have meant staggering the flowers’ blooms throughout the season, slightly reducing the impact of having full beds in flower all at once, they’d pushed back. Since they were paying the bills, Emma had been forced to acquiesce.
“I need it to look great now. We’ve sold an ad campaign around this,” said Gillian, panic starting to enter into her voice.
“What’s the company?” Emma asked.
“It’s an organic meal subscription box,” said Gillian.
“Talk about how gardens have seasons and so do vegetables. If you eat what is in season, you lower your carbon impact. If they’re organic, they’ll love the idea of seasonable and sustainable food,” she said.
Whispers on the other end. Finally, Gillian said, “We can do that.”
“Good luck with the shoot,” said Emma.
When she turned around again, Charlie burst out laughing.
“I’m going to get ‘Gardens aren’t just about flowers’ tattooed on my forehead one of these days,” she muttered.
“I bet the Royal Botanical Heritage Society doesn’t have to deal with Gillian Frayn.” When she shot him a dirty look, he shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, let’s go mark out the long border.”
“You got it, boss.”
• STELLA •
FEBRUARY 1944
Stella slammed the door of the larder so hard the clock on the wall trembled and threatened to fall to the floor.
“Mrs. George,” she barked at Highbury House Hospital’s head cook. “This is the second time in as many weeks that you’ve made off with my milk.”
“Miss Adderton, please,” Mrs. Dibble, Highbury House’s housekeeper and a member of the regular staff like Stella herself, said with a gasp.
Mrs. George, that miscreant in blue serge and white linen, slowly wiped her hands on her apron while the two junior cooks who reported to her watched in wide-eyed fascination, a potato and a knife frozen in each of their hands.
“Miss Adderton, think of what you’re saying. Are you really accusing me of stealing?” asked Mrs. George.
“I’m sure Miss Adderton wouldn’t—”
“I’m not accusing you,” Stella cut off Mrs. Dibble. “I’m telling you that I know you stole the milk from the larder again. And eggs. There were six in the green bowl this morning. Now there are just four.”
The four chickens that Mrs. Symonds had let her keep in a corner of the kitchen garden weren’t laying as much as they had just six months ago, and eggs were becoming more and more precious. And real milk that wasn’t powder in a can was practically liquid gold. Stella didn’t even want to think of the criminal acts she would commit for a taste of real cream in real coffee.
“This hospital doesn’t need your eggs and milk. We have our own rations,” said Mrs. George.
“And what about the time I caught you in my flour, red-handed?”
The woman dropped her eyes to the pile of carrots in front of her. “That was a biscuit-making emergency. I had every intention of replacing the flour I used.”
“A likely story,” Stella muttered.
“Excuse me, Miss Adderton,” said a meek voice from across the room.
Stella spun around on her heel to face Miss Grant, the diminutive junior cook who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. “What?” she demanded.