Chapter 6: Marking the Calendar
The potting shed air hung thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of crushed rose petals and something muskier, primal. Hector slumped back against the groaning chaise longue, his chest heaving, every muscle loose and trembling. Sweat cooled on his skin. Agnes shifted her weight off him, the wicker protesting again, and stood with surprising grace. Sunlight caught the silver strands in her hair, the dampness glistening on her own flushed skin.
She looked down at him, a satisfied curve to her lips. "Well," she murmured, her voice rough-edged but warm. "Now that's how we prune properly." She held up her weathered palm, glistening with their mingled release. Hector watched, dazed, as she walked barefoot across the packed earth floor towards the open shed door. Outside, her prize-winning rose bushes stood in neat rows, buds just beginning to swell.
With a wicked grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes, Agnes smeared her palm deliberately across the dark green leaves and thorny stems of the nearest bush. "Best fertilizer money can't buy," she declared, wiping her hand clean on her discarded gardening apron draped over a nearby potting bench. "My Hybrid Teas thrive on it."
Hector pushed himself upright, fumbling with his trousers, his fingers clumsy. The world felt tilted, unreal. The scent of roses clung to him, cloying and intimate. Agnes watched him, that sharp amusement back in her gaze. She rummaged in the deep pocket of her apron and pulled out a thick, red marker – the kind used for labelling seed trays.
She walked back to the calendar pinned haphazardly to the shed wall beside shelves of dusty pots. It was the same WI calendar, Miss January (Agnes herself, resplendent amongst her blooms) gazing out serenely. Agnes flipped the page to February. Her finger traced down the dates, then stopped. With a firm, decisive stroke, she circled the 27th in bright, impossible-to-miss red ink.
She turned, leaning her hip against the bench, marker still in hand. "Brenda," she announced, catching Hector's bewildered stare. "Lovely woman. Runs the WI bake sales. Makes magnificent cream puffs." A slow, knowing wink. "But I've heard whispers... she's even better at filling them." Agnes chuckled, a low, earthy sound. "Something to look forward to, eh?"
Hector stood, legs still unsteady. He buttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, avoiding her eyes. The scent of roses was overwhelming now, embedded in his skin, his hair. Agnes stepped closer, surprisingly fast. She reached up, her calloused thumb brushing faintly against his cheekbone. "Off you pop, dear boy," she said softly, her voice suddenly gentler. "Dorothy'll be waiting. Don't forget the date." She tapped the red circle on the calendar with her marker. "And try not to smell quite so... floral. She might get suspicious." Another wink, less wicked, more conspiratorial this time.
He stumbled out of the potting shed, blinking in the late afternoon light. The cool air hit his heated skin like a shock. The scent of roses followed him, a phantom embrace. He walked the familiar path through Agnes's cottage garden, past neatly tended borders and budding shrubs, his mind a whirlwind of sensation and disbelief. Dorothy's lipstick kiss, transferred from Agnes's thumb, felt like a brand on his cheek.
The key turned in the lock of his own front door. Normalcy rushed in – the smell of furniture polish, the faint hum of the refrigerator. Dorothy stood in the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She wore her usual comfortable jeans and a soft sweater, her hair tied back loosely.
"Back already?" she asked, her voice light. Her eyes, sharp and observant as ever, scanned him. They lingered for a fraction of a second on his flushed face, the slight dishevelment of his hair. "How was Agnes? Did she show you the new David Austin she's propagating?"
Hector cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "Uh, yes. Roses. Lots of roses." He forced a smile, acutely aware of the phantom warmth on his skin, the lingering scent he hoped was fading. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully. "She... she gave me some fertilizer tips."
Dorothy's lips twitched. Just a flicker. "Did she now? Agnes has always had rather... unconventional methods." She stepped closer, reaching out as if to brush a stray hair from his forehead. Her fingers, cool and familiar, grazed the spot where Agnes's thumb had smeared the lipstick. Dorothy didn't react outwardly, but her gaze sharpened infinitesimally. "You look flushed, darling. Was the shed warm?"
"Bit stuffy," Hector managed, his voice tight. He felt like a specimen under glass. "Lots of... composting material."
"Mmm." Dorothy hummed, noncommittal. She leaned in slightly, ostensibly to kiss his cheek. He braced himself, but her lips landed softly beside the faint smear, her own familiar scent – lavender and something clean – momentarily overriding the roses. She lingered for a heartbeat longer than usual. When she pulled back, her eyes held a question he couldn't begin to answer. And something else. An unsettling spark of... anticipation?
"Hungry?" she asked, turning towards the kitchen. "I made shepherd's pie."
Hector followed numbly. The familiar comfort of home felt alien, charged with unspoken knowledge. He saw the WI calendar hanging on their kitchen wall, identical to Agnes's. February stared back at him. The 27th was blank. For now.
Later, washing dishes while Dorothy dried, the silence stretched. The scent of roses seemed to have faded, replaced by the homely smell of gravy and potatoes. Yet Hector felt Agnes's presence like a ghost in the room. Dorothy bumped his hip gently with hers.
"So," she said casually, handing him a dripping plate. "Agnes mentioned Brenda's cream puffs are particularly good this year." She didn't look at him, focusing intently on drying a saucepan. "Said they're... exceptionally full."
Hector froze, the plate slippery in his soapy hands. Water sloshed over the rim. He stared at Dorothy's profile, the curve of her cheekbone, the slight smile playing on her lips. The red circle on Agnes's calendar burned in his mind.
Dorothy finally turned her head, meeting his wide-eyed gaze. Her smile widened, genuine and warm, yet utterly inscrutable. She reached past him, her fingers brushing the edge of their own February calendar page. "The twenty-seventh," she murmured, her voice low and intimate, just for him. "Mark it down, Hector. Brenda's expecting you." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear, echoing Agnes's promise with terrifying domesticity. "Don't be late." Her fingertip traced an invisible circle on the calendar air before she turned back to the saucepan, humming softly. The water ran cold over Hector's hands.