You can imagine my surprise and delight when I received a LETTER from Chapter One Promotions of London, England with the news that my story had been chosen as 'runner-up' in a Romantic Fiction Competition for 2012 and to be published sometime next year.

I wrote this love-story a few years ago after spending a couple weeks doing some restoration work to the monastery at Deia,  high in the mountains of Mallorca; an ancient monastery visited by the Knights of the Crusades. The memory of the place will remain in my heart forever.

A attach the story
It's a bit long........

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Ruthless

 ‘Stay and we can make it work,’ Theo pleaded with Ruth. ‘We‘ve so much to share, our lives have only just begun, we’ve time on our side, we’re young and brilliant together. Don’t you see that?’ He could see the anguish on her face, almost follow the lines of thoughts criss-crossing her mind. He hoped she would agree to embrace the future together.

Throughout most of the morning in the warming Mallorcan sunshine Theo’s thoughts returned again and again to that garden in England he considered his finest achievement. He recalled with fondness the summer evenings when long shadows streaked across the newly cut grass and the late rich golden sun washed over the phlox in the herbaceous border. He remembered the glorious Rosa fillies ‘kiftsgate’, the ultimate rambler, cascading down the old red-brick wall; the golden blooms baking in the sun. He remembered Ruth; memories of Ruth weighed heavily in his heart.

‘I’ve just got to get away Theo, get some air, a different perspective.’ Ruth took his hand and drew him towards her, reaching up to press her cheek to his, feeling warmth through the roughness of his chin. She pulled away and looked into his smoky-blue eyes.

    ‘My career is at a crossroads. This is not the time for me to settle down. We both have much yet to do. In time, my darling, you will see I’m right, for both of us,’ she pleaded.

 The break-up took its toll. Friends remarked to each other how the burden of disappointment began to wear him down. He was still a handsome man, sharp featured, tall and well built. His manner was gentle and his voice soft and resonant, his blue eyes bright and alert. Now he stooped a little and he’d lost some self confidence; more and more he wanted to be alone. His broken heart had never healed, not properly.

 He moved from the shade of the ancient olive tree to take the newly potted plants to the beds in the poly-tunnel. The tunnel was stuffy. He threw open the flap to let in some air and stood for a moment in the entrance to the tunnel to appreciate his surroundings. To the west the vast expanse of the Mediterranean Sea glistened in the sun. High above to the right of him, clinging to a rock outcrop, nestled the 12^th century monastery Son Rollan, visited by Knights Templar and the Crusaders, now being lovingly restored and open to tour groups inquisitive about Son Rollan’s past and future. All around him ancient olive trees were scattered over the dusty rock-strewn terraced landscape. Nearby, in a pond that was once used for bathing, frogs croaked incessantly until the heat of the day silenced them. Overhead, a black vulture soared lazily in the up-draught heading towards the little town of Deia. Ruth returned to his thoughts. He remembered Kew Gardens and his work with passifloras and in particular the hybrid passiflora caerulea ruth; a cultivar created by him and named after Ruth. Vivid memories of the new garden they had worked on at Bognor flooded in.

The water from the hose was warm from the sun as he washed the roots of an Echinacea he was re-potting, one of several dozen he hoped to have transplanted before lunch. He teased the roots with his slender fingers, separating the tangled fibres with delicate caresses. His work was a meditation; he respected each plant as a living being, dependent upon his nurture, his knowledge and his love. Plants were his life and his passion. He knew of no plant that didn’t have some value to humans or animals. From the monastery he heard the ringing of the lunch bell.

The walk up to the monastery was steep and dusty. At a tap outside the kitchen, he washed his hands before stooping to enter the cool shade where the lunch table was set out for the four workers. A mountainous Nigerian carpenter, called ‘Everesto’ for his height, had dumped his huge frame into his chair and was already spooning helpings of rice onto his plate. Henar, the housekeeper was busy as usual; a diminutive energetic woman, striking, dark and sensuous with a voice like gravel. Theo took his seat by the door and took his turn to serve himself rice and a rich vegetarian sauce, heavy and aromatic with fresh basil and thyme. A hot crusty loaf and salad, colourful with mixed greens and the bright orange of nasturtiums made up the meal. The new cook hovered in the background, attentive to her task. Jorge, the Argentinean arrived, slid into his seat with a mumbled greeting and with him came the sweet and sour smell of sawdust.

    The workers ate in silence, tired from the heat and soon replete from the excellent lunch. Everesto leafed absentmindedly through an outdated catalogue for garden furniture. Henar retreated outside to answer a telephone call. Jorge ate on in silence while Theo was uncomfortable with the new cook fussing, about clearing the table.

    ‘Have you had enough Theo?’ She asked. ‘The pumpkin you brought was so sweet, and the young zucchini... excuse me while I reach over...’

Theo didn’t answer. He leant back to allow her room to gather the plates. It seemed to him that she lingered too long clearing the table; she was too attentive, too close. He felt the warmth of her body and a feint scent of gardenia. Suddenly his emotions were thrown into turmoil. He felt claustrophobic, trapped, wanting both to stay and to get away. His chair scraped on the ancient flagstone floor as he pushed it back. He stood gathering his composure. He selected a couple of ripe figs and slivers of goat’s cheese from the sideboard and slipped them into his pocket. He spoke briefly to Jorge, in improving Spanish, about some cold frames he was making as Henar returned to the kitchen.

    ‘Theo!’ she exclaimed, ‘Your Spanish is improving, good, but you must talk with more passion, like a Mallorcan, no? You must use your hands!’ She added with laughter, made a dramatic gesture with her arms and engulfed Theo in an embrace squeezing out the panic he felt a few seconds ago.

    Theo, eager to leave his moment of awkwardness to the ghosts of monks, Moors and Knights Templar, took his leave. As he ambled down the steep path feeling the sun on his back, his movement flushing out crickets and butterflies from the parched scrub he began to feel better. He grabbed at a clump of thyme which grew wild all over the olive groves. He thrust his nose into the herb; ‘el tomillo’ he spoke aloud in Spanish, savouring the sound of the language in his mouth, raising his arms to the sky. A gentle breeze played with his hair, ruffled his loosened shirt and wafted through banks of spurge, Euphorbia characias. His mind raced back to the time as a boy when he retrieved an old food processor from the bin and used it to experiment with making various composts to grow his radishes.  He knew he would become a gardener, a ‘jardinero’.

    As he strolled towards his garden for some reason he thought about lunch and the new cook. Theo had made no attempt to welcome her. He knew his determination not to engage her in conversation was having the opposite effect. Although they had not been formally introduced, he knew she came from England and her name was Grace. She had come to relieve Henar of the cooking. He had been surprised to hear her chatting in Spanish to Jorge at his workshop the other morning as he arrived for work. She was good cook. Her style was instinctive. She cooked with bold flavours and had no patience with ‘Nouvelle Cuisine’, with its prettiness and its miserly portions. As he neared his ‘garden’, he sensed he was being watched and turned to look back up to the house. On the front terrace he saw clothes on a line billowing in the breeze. Otherwise the house was still, guarded by the pencil-thin Cypress trees. He turned away without seeing the figure watching him from a darkened room through an open window.

    Theo worked methodically until the rim of the sun touched the sea and the temperature began to fall. Once he had watered all the plants, his daily tasks were complete. He sat on a wine box at the pink plastic table in the poly-tunnel and spread out his plan, carefully drawn and annotated; his blue print of the future! This life-plan contained only plants. It was a vision of structure and form without colour or elaboration. A vision in monochrome: a technical drawing of lines, of vistas and enclosures, of balance and sequence. The scruffy plan was a familiar old coat he wore every day. He had grown into it. He was immersed in it and into it he poured all his emotion and energy. It meant everything to him now. He heard the cicadas begin their ritual chanting, he heard the dogs at the gatehouse barking as Everesto left for home.

    The gathering darkness dragged him away from his indulgence. He went outside, dug up some new potatoes and several squashes from the vegetable plot and added a handful of beetroot as an afterthought. The moon was full as the last glow from the sun sank below the horizon. He looked up at the monastery bathed now in silvery moonlight against the cobalt blue star-studded sky; frogs and cicadas began their carousing.

   ‘Ruth would have liked it here,’ he said aloud to himself. Suddenly he was engulfed in a wave of emotion. His legs gave way and he dropped to the ground in a heap, sobbing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face, he ran his hands back and forth through his hair, as if trying to get a hold on the perturbation raging through him. Sobs became convulsions. He managed somehow to turn and kneel on all fours. His lungs now had room to gasp huge quantities air and gradually he began to gain control. As the convulsions subsided, breathing became more regular and he swivelled so to sit cross legged on the dusty cooling earth. He heard again the frogs and cicadas. Within minutes he rose and walked uneasily to the standpipe. Bent at the waist, with the hose he drenched his head with the lukewarm water. He took off his shirt and used it as a towel. The dusk had disappeared. Standing in the moonlight with his hands on his hips, he sensed his eyes were swollen and his chest bruised; his heart beat with renewed purpose. For a while he stood not daring yet to acknowledge the restoration complete. When he next moved he felt changed; clean and fresh, taller and moving with an unfamiliar looseness. As he walked among plant pots at the base of the giant olive tree he knew a weight had been lifted. Not only was he restored, he was changed, given permission to begin again.

    As Theo approached the house carrying vegetables, he drew out his pocket knife and cut an armful of Strelitzia reginae, enough Chinese anemones to fill a decent vase. As he stepped through the kitchen door he paused to listen for any sound of occupation; all was deathly quiet besides the din of croaking frogs and chattering cicadas. He recalled as a child how he loved to be alone in his house. He laid the basket of vegetables on the kitchen table. The flowers, he stood upright in the corner of the porcelain sink. They looked luminous, like mother-or-pearl in the light of the moon peeping through the little open window.  As Theo turned to leave he heard soft slippered footsteps on the stone landing on the first floor. He slid silently through the open back door and around to where he parked his old Peugeot.

    Grace stepped out on to the terrace and watched the ghostly cloud of moonlit dust pass down the hill, the car headlights splashing amber on the grotesque contorted olive trees and the rutted drive; like some erratic tumbling fireball, tyres crunching and spitting out the loose gravel. Once out of sight, she waited to hear the barking of the dogs at the gate and the car accelerating away on the smooth tarmac road. The land settled to sleep under the blanket of moonlight.

  

 In his little flat in the village, Theo had a sleepless night, drifting in and out of dreams and awoke late. It had rained heavily, now it was hot and humid. At breakfast at Son Rollan, Henar too complained of not enough sleep; she had woken early with a severe tooth ache. She sat at the table clasping a plastic bag of ice-cubes to her jaw.

    ‘God’s way of telling you to sit down, rest a while.’ Offered Everesto, between mouthfuls of porridge. Henar groaned an angry response. Theo could tell she had been crying. Without comment he rose and left the room.

    ‘Theo, thank you for the flowers and for the vegetables.’ said Grace at the sink as he passed behind her. ‘The anemones look heavenly in my room, thank you.’ She turned to look at Theo but he was already past her and out of the door.

    Behind the shamble of a stone shed used for nothing in particular, he knew where a clump of Echinacea purpurea had self-seeded and was enjoying the south-facing slope. He pulled out the root of one sturdy plant and with his knife, he separated a root rhizome. He returned to the kitchen. Henar was moaning gently with her head on the table cradled in her arms. Grace moved back from the sink anticipating Theo’s intention. He quickly washed the root and cut it into strips.

    ‘Henar, Henar, listen to me. Take these roots and place a strip inside your cheek, alongside your aching tooth. The root will draw out the pain. You will be OK in about fifteen minutes. You must drink water, as much as you can.’

    Grace appeared next to Theo. ‘Here Henar, here’s some cool water.’ She placed a jug of water and a glass on the table.

   ‘Thanks, Grace’ said Theo, surprised that he used her name. He looked up at her and she smiled and he felt his emotions somersault. Quickly, he took a piece of tortilla de chorizo and two oranges from the breakfast table and departed with a ‘ciao!’ He rested his hand on Henar’s shoulder as he passed.

    With the events of yesterday evening on his mind Theo began to focus his thoughts on the day’s work and almost ran down the terraced slope. He stopped suddenly to consider: Grace thought the flowers were a gift from him to her! Looking back at the house the realisation took hold. He could see how easily Grace would think this, but it wasn’t his intention, or was it?  As he arrived at the garden he was eager to get started. He took a moment to gaze at the marks on the ground where his struggle had taken place. He picked up a twig of olive and gently smoothed away the marks in the dry soil. He picked up a handful of the soil and rubbed it between his fingers. Good fertile soil; a foundation upon which he was building a future full of promise.

    Up at the house, Henar was revived. The pain of tooth ache had subsided and she felt better. She jumped into her dusty dented Renault 4 and sped into town. Grace was alone in her room; the bright sun shafted through the open windows and poured on to the wooden floor. The sea shimmered and sparkled in the distance. She felt pleasure course through her body and she smiled openly as she ran her hands through the petals of the Chinese anemones. In the kitchen she cleared the debris of breakfast and stooped to see her reflection in the tiny window pane above the sink. She untied the chintz band and let her thick auburn hair fall. The weight of it pulled her head back as she shook it. With a wicker basket on her arm she set off down the hill following a sheep path through the olives.

    As she approached the Theo’s garden Grace saw him sitting under a tree surrounded by pots and plants. She watched him. She saw a gentle man who moved with a graceful ease and rhythm picking up and putting down as if playing a solitary board game. His silver hair occasionally ruffled in the warm breeze. She could see his hands were wet and muddied from his work. The faded blue of his denims seemed a natural part of the dusty greens, silvers and greys of the olive grove. She wished she could paint; the scene was perfect.

    Theo was startled momentarily as he looked up to see Grace approach. Immediately he felt exposed, disarmed, discovered, as if found in a hiding place. He was immediately defensive. Only seldom did anyone visit his garden. He was not used to company. He recalled an occasion when some hikers had lost their way and stumbled into the garden. He shouted at them with such unexpected anger that he frightened them away. Grace posed no threat except for her unexpected arrival. Her face was radiant with a broad smile framed by the mass of her auburn hair; her body swayed with the motion of her descent. He stood up slowly and as she came closer, mistrust and irritation gave way to a sweet, pleasing sensation deep within him. He thought Grace was a perfect name for her; he thought she looked lovely.

    ‘Hello Theo, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. I came to tell you that Henar is better. Her toothache has subsided, as you said. What was it you gave her?

    ‘Oh nothing really, just some Echinatia root. Please, please come and sit, here’ he gestured to the root of the giant olive tree, wrestling with his own awkwardness. ‘There’s plenty of shade. I have nothing to offer you, but warm water from the hose pipe!’

    ‘I’m fine thank you,’ Grace replied as she looked for a suitable seat among the mass of sinuous roots.

    ‘No wait, wait, wait, I have a chair’ He dashed away and returned with the small plastic chair from the poly-tunnel, aware of his excitement.

    ‘Thank you, I won’t stay long. I’ve come to collect some thyme and marjoram from down there.’ She pointed to a place just beyond the garden. Theo found a perch on the root of the old olive tree, happier, perhaps, knowing Grace would not be staying long.

     Grace looked around the productive scene. ‘So this is where you hide away during the day. There’s so much going on. I’d love to know what you’re doing,’ she remarked with genuine interest.

    ‘Um, yes, well, this is my garden, er, in the process of becoming a Physic Garden. I have been encouraged by the Mallorcan Medical Board, and by two local doctors who know about herbs, and an enlightened restaurateur in the village anxious to use locally sourced vegetables and herbs. The conditions here are perfect and the garden has much potential. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do’. Theo realised his enthusiasm had got the better of him but was reluctant to stop.

   ‘Let me show you my plan, it’s only rough but it’s all I need.’ He went to the poly-tunnel and returned with his scruffy sheet of paper. He spread it out over the uneven roots.

    Pointing with his index finger he described the plan. ‘Here’s where we are now, and on this terrace there’ll be most of the medicinal cultivars. The vegetables are confined to the lower of the three terraces to make use of the run-off of rainwater and general watering. You see the soil is rich yet friable, so water conservation is an important consideration. There will be need for shaded areas since many plants, like the Euphorbia, need cool growing conditions so they will be grown here where the terraces sweep with the counters giving deep shade during much of the day.’ He beamed with pride.

   ‘Wow that’s amazing. You’ve done so much already,’ Grace responded with enthusiasm.

‘How long have you been here?

   ‘I’ve been here nearly two years now,’ he replied eager to continue with his plan. ‘There’ll be six tunnels in all when it’s finally under way sometime next year. There’s a small car park and delivery bay off the road just above the gate house; I really don’t want any unnecessary intrusion into the garden itself.

    As they talked he began to share himself and he could feel his reserve melting away. As she listened, she began recognising his knowledge, enthusiasm and dedication. She watched his tanned face, sensuous lips and his bright smoky blue eyes searching her as he spoke. She nodded slowly as he sketched out his plan, she, sitting like a large child on the tiny chair, arms out straight and her hands on her knees.

     As he talked he noticed scars on her forearms. He got up and went to cut a fleshy leaf from a nearby wild Aloe plant. He took her hand and applied the cool gel from the leaf to the scars he knew were from hot ovens. He smelled her scent of gardenia and mint and felt gentle warmth radiate from her skin.

    ‘This is aloe; it’s sometimes called the ‘burns’ plant’. He paused and looked into her green eyes as she raised her face to him, her full mouth and the cascade of auburn hair reminded him of paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Edward Byrne Jones; He was mesmerised.

    The noise of a car accelerating up the drive broke the spell. A boundary had been crossed. Theo stepped back.

    Grace rose from the chair. ‘I’d better be getting along,’ she said smoothing down her skirt with her hands. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’ She stepped closer to Theo and on tip-toes reached to brush his cheek with her lips and whisper his name. He heard it like a warm breeze laden with a heady scent. She stepped back to look deep into his eyes, she smiled, turned and walked away.

    Speechless Theo watched her go. He saw her look back and raise her hand to him and was gone.  He watching her pick her way through the olive groves as a wave a self-pity washed over him, reminding him how desperately lonely he was. In spite of his passion for his work he was not truly happy without Ruth.  Dare he fall in love again? He closed his eyes and recalled the pleasure of sharing, the thrill of intimacy, the warmth of touch and the scent of gardenia.

    Theo turned, shrugged his shoulders and went back to his plants. All that afternoon he wrestled with conflicting emotions. Should he surrender himself to the passion he felt or should he dismiss it and resume his work at Son Rollan? Would both emotions sit comfortably side by side? Pros and cons stacked up in opposition. He worked on, ignoring the lunch bell, until dusk began gathering up the light. He tidied up as usual then cut some fresh Padron Peppers. He dug new potatoes and plucked some ripe tomatoes. On his way back to the house he picked a posy of wild flowers, including wild gladiolas, honeysuckle and sea lavender; the combined scent in the evening air was intoxicating. He left the vegetables on the kitchen table, found a jar, filled it with water and left the posy on the small wicker-topped table at the foot of the stair to Grace’s rooms. He felt happier than he had for a long, long time.

    Grace heard Theo go into the kitchen and presumed he was leaving vegetables. She heard his car start and watched from her window as the car tumbled down the winding steep stony track to the gate.  She thought she saw a hand wave from the car window and raised her arm in instant response. The dogs started barking as the car stopped. She heard the chain on the gate rattle both to open and after a second or so, to close the gate before the car accelerated on to the tarmac road to town. The dogs ceased their protestations and a feint mist gathered over the still landscape.

At his flat after a supper Theo sat down and wrote a letter to Ruth:

My Dear Ruth

Today I had a strange experience that left me in no doubt that continuing to   grieve over our lost love is not good for my health. I must wipe the slate clean and give myself the chance to begin my life again without you.

I shall never forget you but I will from now remember you with affection only                   and not for the lost opportunity of working together. That is the past and there it must remain. I am in a place now where I can be happy together with good people as companions. I’m excited about a new garden I am bringing into being, with all the encouragement I could ever expect.

All my love

Theo

He folded the letter, put it in an envelope, sealed it and wrote ‘Ruth’ on the cover. He stood looking at the letter in his hands for a while, then slid it into his sock drawer and went to bed.