Pinned but Fluttering

Chapter 44

Chapter 44

All too soon the Denali coven was scheduled to descend upon us. I felt a little ashamed of avoiding Edward during the 24 hours or so between Alice’s vision and their arrival. I had actually stooped to hiding out with Alice and Rosalie in their bedrooms whenever I could, and when I couldn’t avoid going downstairs, I made sure that I stuck close to Esme and/or Carlisle.

I was afraid to find myself alone…for fear that he would corner me and coax my secrets from me.

And there was no way I was letting that happen.  

Edward’s too-knowing eyes alerted me to the fact that he was onto me, and I tried to stem my guilt at the sadness I saw in his amber depths. After several hours of my avoidance tactics, Edward abruptly grabbed the other males and insisted on an all-guy hunting trip.

Noting their still-golden eyes, we all knew that they didn’t need to hunt, but we let them go anyway. I felt even more guilty at the thankfulness I felt as he turned away to stride down the deck steps to the wide back lawn; I tried to ignore a definite twinge in my chest as he left.

And I refused to consider what these odd feelings meant. I told myself that I was relieved to see him go, but even I had problems believing myself; Rosalie’s dramatic eyeroll as she went back upstairs didn’t help.

But my faux-relief was definitely short-lived. Almost the moment that the guys’ backs disappeared into the trees across the river, Esme took me in hand, pulling me outside to her gorgeous flower garden.

During my stay with the Cullens, I had quickly come to realize the joy and pride that Esme took in her garden. As I stepped onto the perfectly-groomed gravel paths along the south side of the house where the weak Forks sunshine was the brightest, I couldn’t help admiring the results of her efforts.

Really, the whole area was a near-perfect replica of an English country garden. When I was convalescing after my injuries, Carlisle, Emmett, or even tiny Alice often carried me here to enjoy the pale sunshine and the beauty of Esme’s handiwork. Esme had proudly pointed out the types of blooms, and even though my human memories were faded and blurry, I can still recall and now identify every flower in the garden by sight and smell.

Hollyhocks reigned supreme along the fence line with the blue and violet delphiniums, larkspur, Canterbury bells, and cornflowers scattered between bursts of contrasting yellow daisies and miniature roses, orange poppies, white sweet alyssum, and other wildflowers. Queen Anne’s lace and several types of lavender lined the pathways, along with rosemary, mint, thyme, and other aromatic herbs that provided the garden with a delightful scent.

In the back corner of the garden, a gazebo was surrounded by more varieties of perfectly-tended roses than I had thought possible. Old-fashioned floribundas overflowed the staid hybrid teas while formal tree roses bloomed above wilder, low-lying landscape and shrub roses, with grandifloras of mid-height scattered about, all a complete riot of pink, white, red, yellow, and even pale lavender blooms, scenting the air with their spicy sweetness.

It was here in the gazebo that I had spent hours upon hours recovering from my injuries on non-rainy afternoon, chatting quietly with Esme as she worked nearby. I would settle into the comfortable wicker furniture…sometimes the cushioned wicker rocker, other times the well-pillowed sofa, the dark evergreen and purple floral patterns of the pillows seeming right at home in the natural redwood gazebo. I had enjoyed the hanging baskets of flowers that Esme nurtured along the eaves of the little octagonal gazebo: delicate bleeding hearts, raucous petunias, green ivy with pointed leaves. The ledge that ran around seven of the eight sides of the gazebo (the eighth side without railings to provide entrance) was covered with a variety of terra cotta pots filled with delightful blooms spilling over one another in delightful profusion.