I was seeing her ghost.”
For some reason, his observation sent another shiver down Arden’s spine.
As he continued toward her, she could pick out the familiar Mayfair features—the dimpled chin and piercing blue eyes melding seamlessly with the Berdeaux cheekbones and nose. Arden had the cheekbones and nose, but her hair wasn’t quite so golden and her complexion was far from porcelain. Her hazel eyes had come from her father, she’d long ago decided. A frivolous charmer who’d skipped town the moment he’d learned she was on the way, according to her grandmother. Still, the resemblance was undeniable.
“Ambrose told me a few days ago that you were coming, but somehow it slipped my mind,” her uncle said. “I’m so used to letting myself in through the garden gate I never even thought to stop by the house first.” He came to a halt on the path, keeping distance between them as if he were worried he might startle her away. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too badly.”
“It’s not you.” She let out a breath as she cast a glance into the shadows. “It’s this place. After all these years, the garden still unnerves me.”
“I’m not surprised.” His hair looked nearly white in the fragile light as he thrust it back from his forehead. He was tall, slender and somehow stylish even in his casual attire. In her younger years, Arden had thought her uncle quite dashing with his sophisticated demeanor and mysterious ways. She had always wanted to know him better, but his remoteness had helped foster his mystique. “Even after all these years, the ghosts linger,” he murmured.
“You feel it, too,” Arden said with a shudder.
“No matter the time of day or year.” He paused with a wan smile. “You were so young when it happened. I’m surprised you still feel it so strongly.”
“It’s not something you ever get over.”
“No, I suppose not. I was away at the time. Father and I had had a falling out so I didn’t find out until after the funeral. Maybe that’s why the impact only hit me later. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to at least offer some comfort.”
“I had Grandmother.”
“Yes. I remember hearing how she clung to you at the funeral. You were her strength.”
“And she, mine, although I don’t remember much about that day. It passed in a haze.”
“Probably for the best.” He gave her another sad smile. “So here you are. Back after all these years.”
“Yes.”
“It’s been a long time. Everyone had begun to think that we’d lost you for good.”
Arden wondered whom he included in that “everyone.” Not her grandfather, surely. Clement Mayfair had never shown anything but a cursory concern for her welfare. “I’ve returned periodically for visits. I spent almost every Christmas with Grandmother.”
“And now you’ve come home to any empty house and me looking like something the cat dragged in. I apologize for my appearance,” he said as he held up his gloved hands. “I’ve been working in the greenhouse.”
He looked nothing short of pristine. “At this hour?” Arden asked in surprise.
“Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve been up to. That is, if you don’t mind the general disrepair. The greenhouse is in rather a dismal state so mind your step.”
“What have you been working on?”
His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’ll see.”
He turned and she fell into step behind him on the flagstone pathway, following his graceful gait through borders of silvery artemisia and pale pink dianthus. She felt safe enough in the company of her uncle. She didn’t know him well, but he’d always been kind. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother had been murdered on an evening such as this.
The greenhouse door opened with a squeal.
“The hinges have rusted and the latch doesn’t catch like it should,” he said. “Not that there’s anything of value inside. The tools, what’s left of them, are secured in the shed around back. The lock needs to be replaced, regardless. No one needs to be traipsing about inside. Could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“Ambrose should have had that taken care of,” Arden said. “At any rate, I’ll have someone come out as soon as possible.”
Her uncle glanced over his shoulder. “You’re here to stay then.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans yet.”
He looked as if he were on the verge of saying something else, but he shrugged. “You’ve plenty of time. There’s no need to rush any decisions.”
She stepped through the door and glanced around. The tables and racks were nearly empty except for a few chipped pots.
“Straight ahead,” he said as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them aside.
“I’d nearly forgotten about this place.” Arden glanced up in wonder through the glass panels where a few stars had begun to twinkle. “Grandmother never talked about it anymore and we didn’t come out here on any of my visits. She gave up her orchids long ago. I’m surprised she didn’t have the structure torn down.”
“It served a purpose,” Calvin said.
“You’re being very mysterious,” Arden observed.
“Just you wait.”
Arden hugged her arms around her middle. “When I was little, Grandmother used to let me come in here with her while she mixed her potions and boosters. Her orchids were the showstoppers at every exhibit, but secretly I always thought they were the strangest flowers with the spookiest names. Ghost orchid, fairy slipper, Dracula benedictii. They were too fussy for my taste. Required too much time and effort. I adored Mother’s cacti and succulents. So hardy and yet so exotic. When they bloomed, the greenhouse was like a desert oasis.”
“I can imagine.”
Arden sighed. “The three of us spent hours in here together, but Grandmother lost interest after the—after Mother was gone. She hired someone to take care of the plants for a while... Eventually everything died.”
“Not everything.” Her uncle’s blue eyes glinted in reflected moonlight. He stepped aside, leaning an arm on one of the tables as he waved her forward. “Take a look.”
Arden moved around him and then glanced back. “Is that...it can’t be Mother’s cereus? It’s nearly to the ceiling!” She trailed her gaze up the exotic cactus. “You kept it all this time?”
“Evelyn kept it,” he said, referring to his mother and Arden’s grandmother by her given name. “After you moved away, it was the only thing of Camille’s she had left. She spent most of her time out here, trimming and propagating. As you said, mixing her potions and boosters. She may have lost interest in the orchids, but she never lost her touch.”
Arden felt a twinge of guilt. She could too easily picture her grandmother bent to her work, a slight figure, wizened and withered in her solitude and grief. “I see lots of buds. How long until they open?”
“Another few nights. You’re lucky. It’s promising to be quite a show this year.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Arden said. “You’ve been coming by to take care of the cereus.”
“I couldn’t let it die. Not after Evelyn had nurtured it all those years. A Queen of the Night this size is rare in these parts and much too large to move. Besides, this is its home.”
He spoke in a reverent tone as if concerned for the plant’s sensibilities. That was nonsense, of course, nothing but Arden’s overstimulated imagination; yet she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at her uncle,