Peter breathed in the mixed scent of life and decay wafting in through the open window. He loved that smell, when the rot was just a little stronger than renewal, because it meant this place needed him.
Like the pink hibiscus tucked into a dark corner that he had surreptitiously moved to a sunnier spot.
The exterior of Benes Manor could have been the setting for The Secret Garden, with fountains, statues, hedges, sprawling rose bushes, and every other type of plant that could exist in the generally year-round warmth of the area’s climate.
Peter had been recommended to the family, who had lived in the manor for less than a year, by word of mouth, which was Peter’s preference. He couldn’t risk being too widely known and rarely stayed with a client for longer than a few months, just enough to salvage dying or neglected gardens into something magnificent again. Then it was up to them and whatever everyday gardener they hired for upkeep.
Peter was often called a “miracle worker,” and his reputation preceded him that even an utterly devastated garden could be salvaged by his capable hands. What no one knew was how right they were to call what he did a miracle, for his hands contained the rarest gift of all.
The touch of life.
“Mr. Thorne, a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
An impressively tall and polished dark-skinned man approached, wearing what Peter had long since learned was the rich person equivalent of casual, only to them that meant loafers without socks, a lighter colored blazer, and a button-down with no tie. The man carried himself congenially enough, sporting a smile, and immediately reached to shake Peter’s hand upon joining him in the sitting room that looked out on the gardens.
He was mid to late 40s with a shaved head and equally clean-shaven face, and his casual ensemble probably cost more than Peter’s entire wardrobe—which he had with him in two pieces of luggage left in the foyer. Given Peter’s clientele, he made decent money, but most of his positions were live-in while they lasted since impressive manor homes weren’t usually easily accessible or near places where Peter could afford to rent.
He tried not to feel too self-conscious about his Target-brand shirt and basic slacks.
“Mr. Connelly, my pleasure as well.” Peter met the man’s hand with a firm shake.
“Joseph, please. If I can call you Peter.” Then, as was common for Peter upon meeting someone for the first time, Joseph stared at Peter’s gloved hands. “Ready to get to work already?”
“These aren’t gardening gloves,” Peter explained. They were probably the most expensive item he wore, since they were a daily necessity—a dark brown pair of lambskin driving gloves, touchscreen compatible, so he didn’t have to remove them to use his phone. “Given how much I work with my hands, I find wearing these in my off hours keeps them in better shape. I hope you don’t take offense.”
“Not at all. We all have our quirks where our professions are concerned.”
Good. Sometimes Peter’s employers did take offense, and that just made things complicated.
He could control his abilities for the most part, choose when and to whom his gift of life was passed to, but that required concentration and people could usually feel it regardless, like a shock that made them startle at his touch. That happening too often got suspicious.
If Peter wasn’t careful, he could banish a person’s cold as easily as cure a disease they didn’t know they had. He wished he could simply do that for everyone, but overuse took a toll on him, and he couldn’t risk anyone discovering his gift, or who knew what experiments he might be subjected to or what evils his powers could be forced to commit.
Therefore—gloves.
“I see you’ve already been admiring the grounds.” Joseph gestured through the double doors leading to the gardens.
This was possibly the grandest home Peter had ever been hired on to, worth several million, and beautifully renovated, while retaining original antique moldings, fixtures, and even furniture where possible. The sitting room was two-stories tall, with the landing of a large staircase looking down on it. Accompanying the French doors were ceiling-high windows, a massive fireplace ornamented with two lions carved into either side of it, and the staircase entrance was grand and winding, with stained glass windows leading all the way up.
The gardens would have echoed that beauty, if they hadn’t been allowed to get so overgrown, inviting wildness and rot.
“It’s everything you described,” Peter said, “stunning but definitely in need of a tender touch. You never mentioned what became of your previous gardener. Or was it a team? A local company maybe?”
A shadow passed over Joseph’s friendly disposition. “My wife planned to tend to everything herself. She knew it would be a lot to take on, but she’d dedicated herself to raising our children instead of having a career, so she was looking forward to helping some brand-new life grow since they’d both be going to school.”
There was far too much past tense in that explanation.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said cautiously, “did something happen?”
“Not to Fran, my wife. Well, something happened to all of us, but…” Joseph faced Peter directly. “Our daughter went missing several months ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Before we knew it, the gardens had become a jungle. I’m hoping seeing it tended to and revitalized might help Fran move on. Help all of us move on.”
“If you’d prefer not to speak more on it, I understand, but… may I ask…?”
“We don’t know what happened. One day, she was just gone, our little Delia.”
Joseph turned to face the fireplace, and above the mantle was a family photo. It showed Joseph, even more smartly dressed, beside a beautiful woman, slightly lighter in skin tone but with intensely dark eyes. Their two children stood in front of them, a girl about four or five, and a boy twice her age, both a perfect mix of their parents with medium skin, chestnut hair, and dark eyes like their mother.
Delia had a very sweet if mischievous smile.
“She’d be starting pre-school this year,” Joseph said. “Her brother, Dennis, is nine. He might pester you from time to time, but he’s a good boy. The grounds and house were searched top to bottom, but we never found anything. I think that’s the real reason Fran hasn’t been able to move on. Maybe if we’d found a body, we’d have some closure…
“I’m sorry.” Joseph shook himself after a pause for reverie.
“Please, it’s alright,” Peter assured him.
“The point of bringing you on is to breathe some life back into this place.”
That, quite literally, was what Peter could do, and if he could also help a grieving family, all the better. He knew what it was like to lose someone.
“Come on.” Joseph guided Peter out of the sitting room. “I’ll introduce you to the staff, show you around, and then you can get a look at the gardens up close.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
They entered an expansive hallway. Behind them, through a door beside the entrance into the sitting room, was a small office, but they headed away toward the split in the hall that either turned to the foyer and grand main entrance, or into the dining hall. The dining hall also had a spiral staircase leading to the second floor like a perfect bookend of the other side of the house.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Peter sucked in a breath and stopped. He hadn’t been through this part of the house yet, but the presence he felt was unmistakable, even if it was something he rarely experienced—a spirit passing by or through him, like an echo of life, disconnected from its body.
These poor people. Their daughter was dead, which they likely suspected. There was no way to give them the closure they’d been denied, however, for Peter could never tell them how he knew.
He shook the jarring sensation from his shoulders and continued behind Joseph. In some cases, Peter had tried talking to spirits, seen the haze of a few, but they weren’t something he could touch in the conventional sense. Even so, his presence seemed capable of giving them a little life, which usually amounted in frightening scenarios for his clients. He preferred to avoid places where he could feel this sort of presence. He’d have to be careful, but he didn’t want to call it quits so soon.
“Oh, Joseph! I didn’t hear you coming.”
A young blond stopped in the doorway to the kitchen just inches from having run into Joseph on her way out, laden with an armful of linens Peter assumed were being carted off for laundry. She didn’t wear anything so formal as a maid’s dress, but her navy uniform-like shirt, black pants, and comfortable shoes clearly said housekeeper.
“Just means you’re on a mission, Sheree, like usual.” Joseph stepped to the side to let her pass, and her eyes fell on Peter. She carried herself with the sort of excess energy he envied in others, and despite her hair being in a messy bun, it struck him as a very controlled mess.
“You must be the gardener,” she said with an out-of-breath huff. “I’d shake your hand, but…”
“Don’t worry.” Peter raised his gloved fingers, which prompted a curious head-tilt.
“Peter, Sheree. Sheree, this is Peter Thorne,” Joseph introduced.
“Is that the new blood?” an older woman called from the kitchen.
Joseph and Sheree shared a practiced look of exasperation, and Sheree offered Peter an apologetic nod before hurrying away.
“Nice to meet you, Pete!”
At her departure, they entered the kitchen, which was wall-to-wall beige, even on the cabinets, along with a beige and ivory marble-topped island. The room had lower ceilings with recessed lighting that made everything a little too bright for Peter’s tastes. A few paintings on the walls broke up the monotony with splashes of color.
“We’ll need to be feeding him,” the owner of the previous voice said by way of greeting, perusing Peter’s trim form like a disapproving grandmother.
She very well could have been a grandmother to this family, given her dark complexion and familial attitude. She stood at the stovetop left of the island removing a steaming kettle from a burner. She wore a floral-patterned dress and full apron, with silver hair pinned neatly, and small spectacles on her nose.
Peter was a little too skinny, exaggerated by his six-two height, which made him feel lurching on his best days like a scarecrow come to life, made worse by his straw-colored hair that he rarely kept trimmed. His thin physique wasn’t for lack of trying, but even the healthiest of appetites failed to keep up with the energy he expended using his gift.
The woman’s scrutiny made him sweep back his hair, which was long enough now to resemble a 90s teenage heartthrob.
Also in view was a breakfast nook, where an ancient looking gentleman in a suit and tie was seated—Hugh, Peter recalled, who’d met him at the door and showed him into the sitting room.
“Peter, this is Mrs. Benedict, our cook,” Joseph said, “and Hugh, who you met earlier, is the manor’s caretaker. Anything the ladies of the house can’t handle falls to him.”
Hugh rose with some effort, pale-skinned and gaunt. He was easily in his seventies but moved like someone in his nineties. He managed to stand tall regardless and offered Peter a polite bow like a proper butler. “I assure you, anything the ladies can’t handle is frightfully little.”
Joseph and Peter chuckled in good humor.
Mrs. Benedict kept staring.
“How wonderful to meet you both!” Peter blurted, realizing he hadn’t yet greeted them aloud.
No handsome, single, young men on staff, which was a relief. Not that Peter worried any of these people would care that he was gay, but he wasn’t good at hiding his attractions, and it was better if he didn’t invite romantic attachment.
As much as he might long for companionship—a boyfriend, lover—it wasn’t possible. He’d made that mistake before and always ended up leaving when too many questions arose. The more someone touched him, the more they became curious, and that led nowhere good.
Mrs. Benedict nodded in mild approval. “Dinner is at six-thirty—for everyone. Being late or trying to be a hermit in your room will not do in this household. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Peter said promptly. “It is very kind of you to include me.”
She seemed pleased by this response and offered a nod toward a nearby tea set with a platter of assorted cookies and snacks. “Coming up to meet Dennis and join us for tea?”
Peter regularly felt out of place around his wealthy clients, but although this one appeared to observe teatime like some posh English family, the inclusion of the staff was a pleasant surprise, like everyone was a member of the family.
“I wish we could,” Joseph spoke up, “but I need to finish a tour of the house and introduce Peter to Fran first.”
“I will absolutely take you up on that another day though,” Peter said in appeasement, which she also seemed to appreciate—very much like a grandmother. “I promise.”
Peter had no memories of his own grandmother. He’d grown up solely with his mother until he was nine, and then… no one. At least no one related to him. Foster care hadn’t been easy, but also not the horror story he had often heard from others. He was never adopted, just part of a revolving system that saw him in several different households until he was eighteen. Since he was an orphan, no one expected him to be especially physical, which he always thought sad, but at least it had been convenient.
By the time he could go out on his own, if anyone suspected there was something strange about him, he was already gone.
He and Joseph continued from the kitchen into a small wet bar that connected to a smoking room, which was really another sitting room, just smaller than the main one.
“Normally, I’ll be in the city during weekdays,” Joseph explained along the way, “but any questions you might have, don’t hesitate to ask the staff. They can usually answer things better than I could.”
Joseph was a commodities broker, which Peter didn’t really understand outside fictional knowledge of Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman. The family wasn’t well-off purely because of Joseph’s job, however. His wife, Francine Connelly—formally Benes—came from money. Benes Manor had been in her family for decades, originally belonging to some distant cousin and having sat empty for years.
“I’m amazed you’ve only lived here a few months,” Peter said. “This place is in wonderful shape for having been empty for… forty years, was it?”
“At least, but empty only of a Benes. Hugh was caretaker during that time too. Kept the place in pristine condition until the next Benes wanted the place, which ended up being my Fran. Speaking of…” He swept his arm forward as they entered the final area of downstairs.
There were two bathrooms on this level, one half-bath near the dining room for guests, and one full connected to the master bedroom—and what a master it was, almost as large as the sitting room, with the same two-story ceiling-high windows and French doors leading to the gardens.
The difference was that these doors didn’t have glass, and the windows were covered by thick curtains.
“May we interrupt?” Joseph knocked on the partially open door before entering.
Peter didn’t see anyone at first, only the impressive view of a carved antique chest at the end of a California king-sized bed, with a matching dresser, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Joseph turned to his left, and as Peter followed, he saw the rest of the room, which included a vanity, where the woman from the family portrait sat, scribbling on a piece of paper that she tucked under a stack of others as soon as she noticed them.
“Joseph! Is this the new gardener?” Francine rose, a little tired looking maybe, but every bit as rich-casual and prim as Joseph, despite the way her mourning had been described. Her chestnut hair was tied back into a full mane of curls, and she wore a chic marigold jumpsuit, with bangles on her wrists and a locket necklace.
When she shook Peter’s hand, she didn’t seem to notice his gloves. She was all in her head, though clearly trying to put on a braver face than what she felt.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Connelly. A little TLC is all that’s needed for those gardens, and they’ll be brand-new.”
“That would be… incredible,” she said with more wistfulness than Peter had intended to conjure.
Brand-new, the chance to start over, wouldn’t mean anything to this woman without her daughter, and the plain truth of that made Peter wonder what she’d been scribbling when they came in.
Even if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he couldn’t heal a broken heart.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Thorne, but there are a few things I need to finish up before dinner.” As Francine said this, she shifted as though to hide the vanity and its stack of papers behind her. “I look forward to seeing what you can do for us.”
“I won’t let you down,” Peter promised.
“Be sure to get out and enjoy some sunshine, won’t you, dear?” Joseph moved in closer and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She didn’t shy from it. In fact, she leaned into Joseph and a faint smile touched her lips that was realer than her previous expression. There was still an ache between them, unspoken tension, and shared sorrow, but all too often Peter saw this sort of loss wedge a rift between couples. It was nice to see one trying to overcome that.
Even so, whatever Francine had been working on, Joseph wasn’t fooled into ignoring it. He didn’t comment as he led Peter out but allowed a brief troubled frown.
There was a third staircase, this one hidden and not as grand as the others, which they used to ascend to the second floor, coming up in the center of a long hallway stretching either direction.
“There’s a full bathroom at either end, though you’ll likely use the one to the right.” Joseph brought Peter left despite saying that, and along the way, they passed two closed doors, each bearing signs that said Pink Room and White Room, respectively. “Hugh has the White Room. Sheree the Pink.”
Next to the bathroom on this end was a laundry room, where Sheree was folding a recently finished load, while having started another, presumably the linens she’d been carrying earlier.
As she looked up to wave, an orange blur shot up from out of a basket of folded clothes, disrupting articles every direction. Sheree shrieked as it raced past her out of the room. Peter and Joseph parted to give the cat clearance, and Peter just barely made out its long ginger-striped fur and heard the tinkle of a bell before it was gone.
“Damn cat!” Sheree cried, stomping her feet.
Joseph cringed and passed her a penitent wave. “Sorry! I didn’t forget to check if you were allergic, did I?” he asked Peter.
“I’m fine. I love cats.” Although Peter would have to do something about that pink hibiscus in the sitting room. It shouldn’t be one of the types that was toxic to pets, but best to be safe.
“Well, watch out because that little monster doesn’t love anyone. Anymore,” Joseph added, which immediately told Peter who the cat had belonged to. “Back this way.” He gestured Peter the other direction. “You’re in the Blue Room, and Mrs. Benedict has the President’s Room.”
“President’s?” Peter questioned when they passed it.
“The aesthetics and dark blue carpet evoke a certain Oval Office charm,” Joseph said with a smirk, “and residing in something called the President’s Room suits our cook just fine.”
Peter chuckled. That grandmother air certainly made Mrs. Benedict seem like the runner of the house, even if Hugh was caretaker.
The door to the Blue Room was open, and while the President’s Room might have dark blue carpeting, Peter’s room was so named for royal blue walls. It bore similarly carved furnishings to the master bedroom, and the rounded arches above the windows held more stained glass, with a view looking down on the gardens.
Peter’s bags had already been brought up and were stacked beside the bed.
“Oh! I didn’t realize Hugh would be carrying everything up for me,” Peter said with a twinge of guilt.
“That man is sturdier than he looks—and as stubborn as everyone else in this house. He would have insisted.”
“I forgot to ask—no basement?”
“There is, through the kitchen, but just for storage and our wine cellar.” Joseph led Peter into the hall again. “All the work supplies you need should be in the garden shed, which I can show you once we’re outside. That just leaves—” He cut off and reached into his jacket to pull out a vibrating phone.
The only place left to tour was up a central staircase beside the one they’d used from the first floor, which Peter assumed led to the children’s rooms.
“I need to call my assistant,” Joseph said. “I apologize. Are you good to get settled?”
“Absolutely. Honestly, I’ll be happy to get to work.”
“About that fatigue you mentioned…”
“A mild case of chronic fatigue, yes.” Peter was upfront about that with his clients, since he usually required periodic rests and early evenings after using his abilities all day. “I promise it won’t affect my work, simply means my breaks might include a power nap and I retire early most nights.”
“Whatever you need to do, your schedule is yours to dictate. But don’t work too hard your first day,” Joseph teased.
“I’ll just get my hands in the dirt and start a game plan. This is what I do, Mr. Connelly, and I love every part of it.”
“Joseph,” Joseph corrected. “And alright. Help yourself to the kitchen any time—though Mrs. Benedict is likely to force-feed you more than you might want. Nowhere is off limits here other than private rooms. Unless you prove to be a sloppy houseguest,” he added with a wink. “See you at dinner.”
Heading left again toward the staircase that wound down into the sitting room, Joseph had his assistant on the line before he had even begun his descent, leaving Peter to the sounds of his fading voice and the hum from the not-too-distant washer and dryer.
Peter glanced up the third-floor staircase. If he craned his ears, he could hear the faint clink of the tea set and Mrs. Benedict’s voice mingling with a younger one. As tempted as he was to go up, he was more eager to see the gardens.
When he returned to his room, he felt a stir he hadn’t while Joseph was with him.
The spirit was back, and it was stronger here than in the dining hall.
Wary as he was, Peter moved to the windows in front of the bed and turned around, taking in the whole of the room to try pinpointing where the spirit was most concentrated. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt it in the far corner, watching him like it had been waiting for him to be alone. There was no malice in the intent, merely curiosity, maybe because Peter’s presence made it feel a rush of life.
“Hello?” Peter said softly, surprised when he realized he was meeting the spirit’s scrutiny at his own eye level. This was no little girl. Delia was unlikely alive after so many months missing, but this was someone else, an adult who had died, a man, with a bold aura that spoke of a once boisterous personality.
Since this was an old family home, any number of people might have died here, and Peter wondered who he was talking to.
“Am I in your room?” he asked.
A flutter surrounded him like an answering breeze. His encounters with spirits before had always included negative emotions, like confusion, fear, even anger, but this spirit seemed content, at least with having Peter in his presence.
“I’m glad you don’t mind me being here, but it can be dangerous if I interact with you too much.”
Another breeze blew, and Peter sensed the questioning in it.
“I’m… different. You can already feel it. Interacting with me will only complicate things. You’re not really here, not alive. I might make you feel a little like you are again, but you’ll only end up… turning lights on and off, moving things, or frightening these poor people if you suddenly appear in front of them.
“They lost their little girl. The last thing they need is to think she’s haunting their house. It’ll only hurt them more. Do you understand?”
Again, came the breeze-like flutter, sadder now but comprehending.
“Thank you. I won’t be staying long anyway. So please, let this family grieve in peace.”
There was no breeze this time, no flutter or chill whispering across his skin. Like an unspoken promise, the spirit was quiet, and although that was what Peter had asked for, he felt a pang of regret.
The contentment from the spirit initially had been in answer to a welcome reprieve from loneliness, something Peter could understand.
He sighed and started to unpack.
Amanda Meuwissen
