The Rose Garden Read Free Page A

in the old stables at the far edge of the leveled yard, but Mark stopped where we were, beside the house, and parked the van, and in an instant we were overrun by what appeared to be a pack of wild dogs, all leaping up and barking for attention.
    ‘Down, you beasts,’ Mark told them, getting out and going round to take my suitcase from the back.
    I got out carefully myself, not because I was afraid of the dogs, but because I didn’t want to step on them by accident. There were only three of them, as it turned out—a black cocker spaniel, a Labrador, and something that underneath all the dirt looked a bit like a setter—and with the little brown mongrel dog, Samson, who’d jumped out behind me, the pack was quite manageable. Once I’d patted all the heads and rumpled a few ears and scratched a side or two, the leaping changed to energetic wagging, with the four dogs weaving round Mark’s legs and mine as we followed the curve of the path round the corner.
    At the front of the house a small level lawn had been terraced out of the hillside, with hedges around it to block some part of the wind, and below that the steep green fields tumbled and rolled to the edge of the cliffs.
    I was unprepared, as always, for my first view of the sea. From this high up the view was beautiful enough to steal my breath with such a swiftness that my rib cage almost hurt. There were the green hills folding down into their valley, with the darker smudges of the woods marked here and there with paler arcs of blackthorn blossom. There, too, was the harbor of Polgelly with its steeply stacked white houses looking small so far below us, and the headlands curving out to either side, already showing the first spreading cover of sea pink that made a softer contrast to the darkly jagged rock beneath. And past all that, as far as I could see, the endless rolling blue of water stretched away until it met the clouds.
    Mark stopped when I stopped, turned to watch my face, and said, ‘Not quite like California, is it?’
    ‘No.’ This ocean had a very different feel than the Pacific. It seemed somehow more alive. ‘No, this is better.’
    I hadn’t heard anyone open the front door behind us but suddenly someone said ‘Eva!’ and, turning, I saw a young woman in jeans and a red sweater, her dark hair cut even shorter than Mark’s. This had to be Susan, I thought, though I wouldn’t have known her if we’d met away from Trelowarth. She’d only been seven or eight when I’d last been here. Now she was in her late twenties, grown taller and slender, her smile wide and welcoming. ‘I thought I heard the van.’ Her hug was just as warm. ‘Honestly, Eva, you look just the same. It’s incredible. Even your hair. I always envied you your hair,’ she told me. ‘Mine would never grow like that.’
    I didn’t really think much of my hair, myself. My father had liked my hair long, so I’d left it that way. It was easy enough to take care of, no styling required, and whenever it got in the way I just tied it all back.
    ‘Short hair suits you, though,’ I said to Susan.
    ‘Yes, well, it’s not by choice.’ She smoothed it with a hand and grinned. ‘I tried to dye it red…’
    Mark said, ‘It came out purple.’
    ‘More maroon, I’d say,’ she set him straight. ‘And when I tried to fix it, it got worse, so I just cut it.’
    ‘By herself,’ said Mark.
    ‘Well, naturally.’
    ‘I could have done as good a job as that,’ he told her dryly, ‘with my garden shears.’
    Their banter was affectionate and utterly familiar, and I felt myself relaxing in the way one only did when in the company of friends.
    Susan let Mark score that last point and shrugged as she told him, ‘Just drop that suitcase here for now. Claire said to bring you both round to the cottage when you got here. She’s made sandwiches.’
    Mark did as he was told and then fell in behind as Susan—with the dogs bouncing round her as though they’d caught some of her