by Irene Hannon
This upcoming Christmas season, may each of you experience the joy that comes from believing in the endless possibilities that keep life always new.
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Come to me, all you who labor and are overburdened, and I will give you rest. Shoulder my yoke and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
—Matthew 11:28–29
To Tom
My Friend, My Hero, My Love
Chapter One
Nick Sinclair felt his blood pressure begin to rise and his spirits crash. A few moments ago he’d been on a high, elated by the news that he’d won the commission to design a new headquarters building for the Midwest Regional Arts Center. It was a coup destined to move his architectural career into the limelight.
Then George Thompson dropped his bombshell. On behalf of the building committee, he had strongly suggested—more like mandated, Nick thought grimly—that the firm of Sinclair and Stevens use some unknown landscaping company to design the grounds.
“Taylor Landscaping?” Nick cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of them,” he said in a pleasant, conversational tone that betrayed none of his turmoil.
“You will,” George replied with a decisive nod. “Great company. Small. Relatively new. But dynamic. Creative, yet practical. I like that.” George always spoke in clipped sentences, a habit that Nick suddenly found irritating.
“How do you know about them?”
“Several of the board members have used them. Did the landscaping at my new house, in fact. Wonderful job! My wife said they were great to work with. Very professional. And stayed right on budget, too.”
Nick struggled to keep his face impassive as a wave of panic washed over him. On his own, he knew he could assemble a team of contractors that would do the firm of Sinclair and Stevens proud. But one weak link was all it took to ruin an otherwise great job. Or, at the very least, to make his life miserable.
Nick carefully smoothed down his tie. Not that there was anything out of order in his appearance. His navy blue pin-striped suit, starched white cotton shirt and maroon-and-gray paisley tie sat well on his just-over-six-foot frame. Broad shouldered, with dark hair and even darker eyes, he didn’t particularly care about clothes one way or the other, but he’d invested a good number of his thirty-six years to reach this point in his career, and he was smart enough to know that appearances did count. Today he looked every bit the part of a rising young architect, and nothing was amiss—including his tie. But that little maneuver bought him a few seconds of time—all he needed to recover from his surprise at George’s suggestion and to rapidly formulate his response.
“Well, I’m sure they’re very competent, but commercial landscaping is on an entirely different scale than residential,” Nick said smoothly. “Now, I’ve worked with an established firm for several years that I think you’ll find very—”
“Nick.” George held up his hand, cutting the younger man off. “Providing opportunities for young talent is in keeping with the philosophy of the Arts Center. And it’s one of the reasons we chose your firm to design it. I think it’s only fair that we at least give this company a chance, don’t you?”
Nick looked at the man across from him in silence. Checkmate, he thought grudgingly. George Thompson’s years as a respected trial attorney served him well in the business world. You couldn’t raise an objection that he hadn’t already considered.
And, Nick had to admit, he was right. The Arts Center board could have chosen a well-established architectural firm for this project. Instead, the board members—all of whom were influential business people in St. Louis—were giving him a shot at it. He couldn’t argue the point that this Taylor Landscaping deserved a chance, too. It was just that he didn’t relish the idea of some wet-behind-the-ears firm getting its chance at his expense. However, it looked as if he didn’t have a choice.
“I see what you mean,” he said, his even tone revealing nothing of his frustration.
“Good, good. Give them a look, get a bid…I think you’ll be impressed.”
“I’ll get in touch with them immediately,” Nick promised. “Now, about the schedule…”
By the time Nick left George’s office, all of the details had been finalized. He should have been on top of the world. Instead, the sudden gust of cold March wind and the overcast, threatening sky that greeted him when he stepped through the glass doors better matched his mood, and he scowled at the dark clouds overhead.
There had to be a way around this, he reasoned as he climbed into a sleek red sports car parked in the visitors’ lot. Obviously, the board wanted a first-class job. The Arts Center would be a St. Louis showpiece, and anything less than the best would reflect poorly on the city. Just as obviously, the board members were convinced this landscaping firm could handle the job. And maybe they were right. But Nick wasn’t convinced. Not yet, anyway. And before he agreed to work with this company, he had to feel confident in its abilities. George had given him an out. A slim one, true, but it was there. And he intended to use it unless Taylor Landscaping did one terrific sell job on him.
Suddenly Nick found himself walking through the door of his office, with no recollection of the drive from downtown. For a man who prided himself on his alertness and attention to detail, it was an unsettling experience. Frowning, he nodded distractedly to the receptionist, glanced at the two part-time draftsmen at work in a large, airy room and stuck his head into his partner’s office.
Jack Stevens glanced up from his drafting table and grinned hopefully, his short-cropped sandy hair giving him a fresh-faced, all-American-boy look. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“How’d it go?”
“Fine.”
“You mean you got the job?”
“Yeah.”
Jack tilted his head quizzically. “Well, try to contain your enthusiasm,” he said dryly.
Nick shook his head impatiently and raked his fingers through his hair, jamming his other hand into the pocket of his slacks. “There’s a complication.”
“What?”
“Have you ever heard of Taylor Landscaping?”
Jack frowned thoughtfully. “Taylor Landscaping… No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because the board of the Arts Center strongly recommended them to do the landscape design.”
Jack leaned against the drafting table, propping his head on a fist. “Is that bad? What do you know about Taylor Landscaping?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. It’s some new outfit that’s probably fairly inexperienced.”
“Sort of like Sinclair and Stevens?” Jack said with a mild grin.
Nick glared at him. “Don’t you start, too. That’s exactly what George implied.”
Jack shrugged. “Well, it’s the truth. Why don’t you keep cool until you check them out? Might be the proverbial diamond in the rough.”
“It also might be a lump of coal.”
“Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”
Nick gave him a disgusted look. He was in no mood for humoring, not with the commission of his career facing potential disaster at the hands of an inept landscape designer. “Aren’t you just a little worried about how this might affect the future of Sinclair and Stevens?” he said tersely. “Most people will only see the outside of the Arts Center, and a bad landscaping job could ruin the lines.”
“You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”
“You better believe it.” Nick walked restlessly over to the large window on one wall and stared out unseeingly for a long moment before he turned back to his colleague. “You of all people know how hard we’ve worked to get this far. Fourteen-hour days for three long years, working in a cramped office with barely room for two drafting tables. It’s beyond me where you ever found the time or energy to have two kids along the way! We’ve done okay, but you know as well as I do that we’ve been waiting for our real break, the one job that will move us in
to the big leagues. This is it, Jack. It may sound dramatic, but our future could depend on this commission. This is what will make or break our reputation with the people who count in this town. We blow it—we might as well close up shop because we’ll never get another chance.”
Jack stared at his partner thoughtfully for a few minutes, his demeanor now just as serious as his friend’s. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to make light of it. I realize how important this is. But if this landscaper doesn’t cut it, we don’t have to use them, do we? You said the board recommended them. So at least the door’s open to other possibilities if they don’t work out, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. About half an inch.”
“Look, before we jump to any conclusions or panic unnecessarily, why don’t you check out this Taylor Landscaping? I trust your judgment. If you’re not satisfied with them, we just have to tell George. I’ll back you up, but this project is really your baby, Nick. You went after it and you did the preliminary design that the committee selected. I know it’s coming out of the Sinclair and Stevens shop and I’ll help peripherally, but you’re the one who needs to feel comfortable with this company because you’re the one who’ll have to work with them.”
“Yeah, I know. And you’re right. I need to check them out. I’m condemning without a trial, and that’s really not fair.” He glanced at his watch and gave an exasperated sigh. “Six o’clock! Where did the day go?” He shook his head. “It’s too late to do anything today, but I’ll follow up on this first thing in the morning.”
At nine o’clock the next morning Nick punched in the number for Taylor Landscaping. He waited with an impatient frown as the phone rang once, twice, three times. By the sixth ring he was drumming his fingers on the desk. What kind of an outfit was this, anyway? Every business office he knew of was open by this hour. Hadn’t anyone ever told this company that an unanswered phone meant lost business? Nick was just about to hang up when a slightly breathless voice answered.
“Taylor Landscaping.”
“This is Nick Sinclair from Sinclair and Stevens. I’d like to speak with Mr. Taylor.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “Do you mean the owner?” There was a hint of amusement in the voice.
Nick bit back the sarcastic retort that sprang to his lips, confining his response to a single, curt syllable. “Yes.”
“Well, everyone’s out at the job site right now.”
Nick debated. He could just leave a message. But it might not be a bad idea to see this outfit at work. “All right. Just give me the address,” he said in a clipped, authoritative tone.
“Well, I guess that would be okay.” The voice sounded uncertain. “Hang on a minute.” A sound of papers being shuffled came over the line, and after several interminable minutes the information was relayed. Nick jotted it down. A residential job, in a nice area of large homes and expansive grounds. But not a commercial commission.
“Thanks,” he said.
“My pleasure.” The amused tone was back.
Nick frowned at the receiver, perplexed by the woman’s attitude. But he wasn’t about to waste time trying to figure it out. Instead, he glanced at his watch. If he hurried, there was time to pay a quick visit to Taylor Landscaping before his eleven o’clock meeting.
A half hour later Nick pulled up at the address provided by the woman on the phone. Four people, dressed in jeans and work shirts, were visible. Two wrestled with a large boulder. Next to them, a guy with a mustache fiddled with a jackhammer. Another slightly built worker, who appeared to be only a teenager, stood apart with a hose, watering some freshly planted azalea bushes.
Nick had no idea who the owner was, but the kid with the hose was closest to the street. Besides, he had no desire to approach the group with the jackhammer. It was now in use, and the bone-jarring noise was already giving him a headache.
Nick stepped onto the lawn and took a moment to look over the grounds. It was a new house, built on a vacant lot in an already established neighborhood. The ground had been cleared during construction, and it was obvious that a complete landscaping job was under way. The work appeared to be just beginning, and it was difficult to tell whether a cohesive plan had been developed. But a well-maintained pickup truck bearing the name Taylor Landscaping stood parked in the circular driveway, and the crew seemed energetic.
The jackhammer stopped momentarily, and Nick opened his mouth to speak. But before he could make a sound the annoying noise started again. Shaking his head in irritation, he moved forward and tapped on the shoulder of the teenage boy who held the hose.
It happened so quickly Nick had no chance to step aside. The boy swung around in instinctive alarm, maintaining a death grip on the hose and drenching him in the most embarrassing possible place. Nick was stunned, but not too stunned to lunge for the hose and yank it in a different direction. He glanced down at his soggy gray wool slacks, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours he felt his blood pressure edge up.
“Just what exactly were you trying to do?” he demanded hotly. “Of all the stupid antics…”
“I’m…I’m really sorry,” the teenager stammered.
Nick removed his pocket handkerchief and tried to sop up the moisture, a task he quickly realized was futile. “Yeah, well, that really solves everything, doesn’t it?” he said sarcastically. “I have an important meeting in less than forty-five minutes. How do you suggest I explain this?”
The teenager stared at him blankly.
“You could say you had an accident,” replied a mildly amused voice.
Nick glanced up. The worker who had offered the suggestion wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses.
“Very funny,” he said icily. “Which one of you is Mr. Taylor?”
His question was met with silence, and he frowned in irritation. “I’m looking for the owner,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well, why didn’t you say so,” the worker in sunglasses spoke again, the husky voice now even more amused. The baseball cap was flipped off, releasing a cascade of strawberry blond hair caught back in a ponytail. She removed the glasses to reveal two startlingly green eyes. “You’re looking at her.”
Nick stared at the woman across from him. Several moments passed while he tried to absorb this information. And in those few moments Laura Taylor quickly summed up the man across from her. Rude. Arrogant. Overbearing. No sense of humor. Probably a male chauvinist, judging by his reaction to her gender.
“Laura, I—I’m really sorry.”
Laura turned her attention to the young man holding the hose. He looked stricken, and she reached out and gripped his shoulder comfortingly. “It’s okay, Jimmy. No permanent damage was done. But those azaleas could use some more water. Why don’t you finish up over there.” She turned to the other two men. “I’ll be with you guys in a few minutes. Just do what you can in the meantime.”
They nodded and headed back to work, leaving Laura alone with the stranger. She tilted her head and looked up at him, realizing just how tall he was. At five-eight, she wasn’t exactly petite, but this man made her feel…vulnerable. It was odd…and unsettling. And it was also ridiculous, she told herself sharply.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, more curtly than she intended.
Nick stared down into the emerald green eyes that now held a hint of defiance. How had he failed to notice, even from a distance, that one of the workers was a woman? Sure, the glasses and the cap had effectively hidden two of her best features, but the lithe, willowy figure definitely did not belong to a man!
Laura saw the quick, discreet pass his eyes made over her body, and she resented it. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Look, mister, I don’t have all day. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
It suddenly occurred to Nick just what kind of work she was doing, and he frowned. “You shouldn’t be trying to move that boulder,” he said. “Why isn’t he doing the heavy work?” He gestured toward Jimmy, the young m
an with the hose.
The question took Laura by surprise, and she answered without even considering the appropriateness of the query. “He’s only sixteen. It’s too much for him.”
“And it’s not for you?”
“I’m used to this kind of work. He isn’t.”
“How can you run this company if you’re out in the field actually doing the manual labor?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we happen to be one person short today.”
“As a matter of fact, it does happen to be my business.”
Laura frowned. “I’m not following you.”
“I’m Nick Sinclair, of Sinclair and Stevens. We’re designing the new Regional Arts Center, and you happen to own the firm of choice for the landscape portion, or so George Thompson tells me.”
Now it was Laura’s turn to be shocked into stunned silence. She stared at the man across from her, her initial elation at the news suddenly evaporating as her stomach dropped to her toes. What had she done? The Lord at last had answered her prayers, sending a dream commission her way, and she’d blown it by insulting the man who held the key to that dream. Why couldn’t she have overlooked his bad manners long enough to find out his business?
Nick saw the conflicting emotions cross her face, debated the merits of trying to put her at ease and decided against it. Let her sweat it out. He certainly was. From what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t impressed with Taylor Landscaping. Not by a long shot. He’d started the day off with the disorganized receptionist and then arrived on the scene to find that half of the crew consisted of a high school kid and a woman. Not a promising first impression.
Nick remained silent, his arms crossed. He noted the flush of color on her face, the look of despair in her eyes, the nervous way she bit her lower lip. His resolve began to waver. After all, he was the one who had appeared on the scene uninvited and disrupted what otherwise seemed to be a relatively smooth operation. And then he’d behaved arrogantly over a simple mistake. Not to mention his reaction to the discovery that a woman owned Taylor Landscaping. What had come over him? He wasn’t a chauvinist. At least, he didn’t think he was. But this woman sure must think so, and he couldn’t blame her.
