Barbara Hancock - Silent Is the House

“Pink to symbolize a mother’s love,” the man muttered, and then he began to snip one stem after another and place them in his bucket.

They were all pink. Dozens upon dozens of pink carnations.

“Really?” I had never known that the color of my birthday flowers signified anything other than simple beauty. I wondered if Victoria had been reaching out to my mother all these years and we hadn’t known it.

I stepped closer to the man and suddenly I was able to make out the name that was stitched over his left breast pocket.

Robert Ward.

“I’ve met Owen,” I said. The gardener must be a relation. I could see it now in his height and the width of his shoulders. I could imagine a hint of gray at Owen’s temples. Perhaps they were brothers?

The name seemed to catch his attention. He paused in his work and looked around, but only for a second. Then, he continued his clipping.

“Must take these up to the house. Very nice this time. Very nice indeed,” the man said, almost as if he was mumbling to himself. How did Owen Ward become the heir and Robert Ward end up growing flowers for me?

“They’re lovely. I’ve always liked them,” I said. I reached out and touched one of the carnations in his bucket. Their scent here was petal-sweet, not dry and dusty. It mingled pleasantly with the juniper’s evergreen.

He really was focused, because he began whistling again and walked away from me, only repeating his thoughts about the flowers being nice in between whistled notes. I was left alone in the flickering lantern light wondering about so many things.

But not for long.

Just as I began to fear that the look-alike dead woman would show up again, a step caused me to turn. I was afraid I’d see pale staring eyes or, worse, feel a cold hand on my shoulder, but instead I faced Owen Ward.

He had come around the corner of shrubbery and stopped suddenly when he saw me. His eyes widened, then narrowed and sharpened as if it had taken him seconds to recognize that it was me.

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