Page 7 of Gardening and Gargoyles

Nigel is already back in the cab of his big work pickup. “Undid it for you. Pry bar. Foam-lined crate. Figured it’d be useful.” Nigel’s grunts form words, but he has a thick accent that makes it tricky to grasp at first. His voice is British, I think, but he sounds nothing like Daniel, thank goodness. I don’t think I can hear that right now. “You all right?”

“I had bad news. But thank you. Thank you for opening it. Um. Is it heavy?”

He nods. “I can move it?”

“No. No, no. I like it where it is.”

Nigel touches his hand to his forehead as if he’s tipping an imaginary cap. “That’s me away, then. Call if you need any help. Promises Kept. Pine Ridge Community website has our information, and we’ve a website. Here’s my card. Ian Fenclan’ll vouch for me.”

“Thank you,” I manage a smile and take the green and white card from his outstretched hand. “I might call if I need it moved.”

“Create should just pull apart now. Loosened it up, but didn’t want to open your package. Garden statue, eh?”

“Yep. I love gardening.”

“You’re good at it. Ian Fenclan oughta give you a discount, making this place look so grand. You’ve only been here a day?”

“How’d you know?”

“We’re a little town, and I know Ian. And the Kane brothers.”

I manage a little smile. “That’s cool. It seems like a beautiful place to live,” I rasp.

The handyman stares for longer than is comfortable. Even though the sun is starting to sink now, I’m not worried about being alone out here with some strange guy—at least not this guy. “You sure you’re all right? You don’t seem... I don’t know.”

“It was just some bad news.”

“And you’re here on your own? Well, if you need anything, you call that number on the card. My wife came up to a lodge here last Christmas and got her heart handed back to her by her cheating scumbag of a boyfriend. She ended up at a house where I was fixing up a nursery and...” The grunt turns to a chuckle. “I never knew you could fall in love so fast. Anyway, whatever your bad news is, I hope something here will cheer you.”

“I hope so, too.” I look around the garden and wonder if I can stay here for the summer—well, at least until the end of July, like we planned. It’s paid for, and since moving in with Daniel last month, I sub-leased my apartment for the duration of my lease.

Because he has to have “me time” with his visual mistress, I’m homeless—or I have to put up with something I’m really not comfortable with.

The idea that Daniel would keep something so big from me, and that he doesn’t even consider it a big deal, just floors me.When the truck drives off, I flop down and sit in the shadow of the opened wooden crate, looking up at Daniel’s gift, knowing I can’t keep it now. There will never be a big house and a garden, never be a fountain with this statue spouting water for our babies to splash in.

I’m tempted to curse, but I’m also weirdly numb. I just sit and stare, looking at dark gray stone as the sun fades away.

Like all the happiness fading from my life. If I were a poetry girlie, I’d be thrilled at how tragic and poetic all of this is.

I’m so not a poetry girlie.

Although what Daniel sent is poetic in its own way.

It’s a monster. It’s a big, broken monster. Horns like a headband, a wing that was clearly patched back on.

“Poor dude. Did you fall off Castle Mackintosh?” I murmur, looking at the hunk of rock that’s so intricately carved. I run my hands over the busted wing and admire the detail of the tattered, almost shredded kilt that clings and drapes on thick stone thighs. Muscular stone thighs.

I sneeze. The suspicious sneeze.

Daniel lied about this gift, too, I bet. I bet it was made in China in some super-industrial factory. This one’s a damaged one, broken and glued (how the heck do you glue stone? Cement, maybe?) orcementedback together.

“There is no way that some sculptor in the 1800s made you, buddy,” I grunt, pushing on the side of the crate, putting all of my rage and confusion into short, hard shoves until one more wall goes down. “You, my friend, are probably a knockoff. Or a very expensive piece made by a famous sculptor that I’m supposed to be impressed by. Hey, maybe you’re the real thing. Look at Michelangelo. Or do I mean Da Vinci? I don’t know. One of those Ninja Turtle types was a really good sculptor. You’ve got muscles and details like something in a museum. I’m sorry I said you were cheap.” I pat his head and wonder why Daniel pickedthis particular statue. It looks like he’s asleep, and he’s curled up in a strange crouch, as if he were on his side, but now he’s settled upright.

“Sorry I said you were a broken monster. You’re just a little banged up. I don’t think you’re supposed to be a fountain, but maybe you’ll fit in the corner of my living room—if I can lug you up two flights of stairs. Dang it, I’m going to have to move in with my parents or one of my sisters if Daniel—”

I stop talking abruptly.

My winged monster—my incredibly detailed gargoyle—is cracking.