One

The present

So this is how a marriage ends, thought Julia Hamill as she rammed the shovel into the soil. Not with sweet whispers goodbye, not with the loving clasp of arthritic hands forty years from now, not with children and grandchildren grieving around her hospital bed. She lifted a scoop of earth and flung it aside, sending rocks clattering onto the growing mound. It was all clay and stones, good for growing nothing except blackberry canes. Barren soil, like her marriage, from which nothing long lasting, nothing worth holding on to, had sprouted.

She stamped down on the shovel and heard a clang, felt the concussion slam up her spine as the blade hit a rock--a big one. She repositioned the blade, but even when she attacked the rock at different angles, she could not pry it loose. Demoralized and sweating in the heat, she stared down at the hole. All morning she had been digging like a woman possessed, and beneath her leather gloves blisters were peeled open. Julia's digging had stirred up a cloud of mosquitoes that whined around her face and infiltrated her hair.

There was no way around it: If she wanted to plant a garden in this spot, if she wanted to transform this weed-choked yard, she had to keep at it. This rock was in her way.

Suddenly the task seemed hopeless, beyond her puny efforts. She dropped the shovel and slumped to the ground, rump landing on the stony pile of dirt. Why had she ever thought she could restore this garden, salvage this house? She looked across the tangle of weeds and stared at the sagging porch, the weathered clapboards. Julia's Folly-- that's what she should name the place. Bought when she hadn't been thinking straight, when her life was collapsing. Why not add more flotsam to the wreckage? This was to be a consolation prize for surviving her divorce. At thirty-eight years old, Julia would finally have a house in her own name, a house with a past, a soul. When she had first walked through the rooms with the real estate agent, and had gazed at the hand-hewn beams, spied the bit of antique wallpaper peeking through a tear in the many layers that had since covered it, she'd known this house was special. And it had called to her, asking for her help.

"The location's unbeatable," the agent had said. "It comes with nearly an acre of land, something you seldom find anymore this close to Boston."

"Then why is it still for sale?" Julia had asked.

"You can see what bad shape it's in. When we first got the listing, there were boxes and boxes of books and old papers, stacked to the ceiling. It took a month for the heirs to haul it all away. Obviously, it needs bottom-up renovations, right down to the foundation."

"Well, I like the fact that it has an interesting past. It wouldn't put me off buying it."

The agent hesitated. "There's another issue I should tell you about. Full disclosure."

"What issue?"

"The previous owner was a woman in her nineties, and--well, she died here. That makes some buyers a bit squeamish."

"In her nineties? Of natural causes, then?"

"That's the assumption."

Julia had frowned. "They don't know?"

"It was summertime. And it took almost three weeks before one of her relatives discovered . . ." The agent's voice trailed off. Suddenly she brightened. "But hey, the land alone is special. You could tear down this whole place. Get rid of it and start fresh!"

The way the world gets rid of old wives like me, Julia had thought. This splendid, dilapidated house and I both deserve better.

That same afternoon, Julia had signed the purchase agreement.

Now, as she slumped on the mound of dirt, slapping at...

 

"Equally fascinating and horrifying . . . The pages seem to turn themselves."

 

"Powerful . . . white-knuckle suspense at its finest."

 

"A potpourri of thrills."

 

"A tale that will keep readers feverishly turning pages."

 

The Bone Garden by Tess Gerritsen
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