by S. E. Rose
As we walk down the street, we are extremely close, but not touching. I can feel his eyes on me and I can feel the blush begin to creep up again.
“I’m over here,” I say, pointing at my rental car.
We walk across the quiet side street and I hit the unlock button on the key as the car gives a beep to let me know it is indeed unlocked. Jack opens my door for me and takes my hand to help me in before handing me my bag.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he says quietly and I know in that moment that he feels the connection too as he stares into my eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”
And with that, he shuts my door and stands on the sidewalk until I have pulled away. I watch him disappear in my rearview mirror and I can feel a slight tug on my heart. I have a crush. I roll my eyes at myself. I feel like a character in one of my more cheesy love novels. Great, I think to myself, all I need now is a crazy plot twist and then I can get pregnant with twins and we’ll live happily ever after. I laugh out loud at the thought and continue my drive back to Seaview Cottage.
Chapter 7
Laura’s Playlist: “This Year’s Love” by David Gray
The next few days go by fast at first. I spend countless hours working on my book. I sit on the patio. I sit in the living room. I sit at the little bedroom desk. And I even take my laptop to my rock along the path. But as the day approaches for Jack to come tend the garden, time seems to come to a halt, suspended as though each second takes five seconds. I’m restless and no amount of changing positions or places around the cottage can keep me focused on my task at hand. Sighing, I leave my laptop sitting on the kitchen table and head to the kettle to make some tea. I’m dunking my tea bag in my hot water when I hear a car pull up and I jerk my head so my eyes can follow the sound. I see his dark-green Range Rover pull up the drive. I step back from the window so he can’t see me and I watch as he gets out of the car. He truly is a beautiful man. I’ve stolen glances at him since meeting him, but I haven’t thoroughly looked at him.
He is most definitely tall. He has dark, reddish-brown hair with touches of gray throughout it. His hair has a bit of a wave to it and is thick and cut fairly short, but long enough that it gives him a sweet boyish quality. His skin is tanned from the sun and he has some wrinkles around the corners of his mouth and eyes and a few creases on his forehead. His green eyes sparkle as he glances at my car and then the house. He is one of those annoying men with the great long eyelashes and I’m sure other women have commented on them and this probably annoys him to no end. I smile at the thought. He’s wearing cargo pants and a flannel button-down shirt. He has Oakley sunglasses sitting on his head and has work boots on that look old and worn. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and I can see his muscled forearms. He has strong cheekbones and a sculptured chin with a bit of stubble. His nose and lips are pleasant, but it’s those eyes that draw one to him. They are like windows to his soul and they reveal a true beauty in him.
He’s walking to the door now and I jump, backing up and hoping he didn’t see me. I hear the knocking at the door and he calls out my name.
“Coming!” I yell as I start to run before slowing myself down as it’s only twenty steps from the kitchen to the front door. I yank it open and am greeted by his warm smile.
“Hello there,” he says. “I didn’t want to startle you out here. I shouldn’t be long today as I did a lot of weeding and pruning last week.”
“OK,” I say, trying to sound not disappointed at what sounds like a quick visit.
“Any issues with the cottage? How’s your work going?” he asks in rapid fire.
“Uh, no, none, and good…,” I trail off as I can sense that he sees right through me. “Well, I guess today isn’t such a good day for writing,” I admit.
“Writer’s block, eh?” He laughs as I nod looking a bit sheepish.
“Can I be so bold as to make a suggestion?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.
“Sure.” I shrug, looking up at him from beneath my lashes as my head is pointed toward my feet. He puts his fingers under my chin and lifts my face up to meet his gaze. He is close, much too close, invading my personal space. For an instance, I’m nervous. I’m not ready for that…my mind trails off as he tosses his head in the direction of the garden. “Come help me in the garden.”
I laugh nervously. “Uhhhh…hmmmmm…I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I don’t have a green thumb and I’m likely to be in your way.”
He shakes his head. “Nope, nice try, beautiful, but I don’t believe that for a minute. Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out onto the patio and places a watering can in my other hand. He points to the spigot and I proceed to fill the watering can in silence as he watches me. I finish and then glance around the plants not sure what to do next. Sean always did the yard work. I, on the other hand, killed plants. After Sean died, Lily and Nick would help with the gardening. Even my mother and brother at times would stop by to pull weeds or water plants. If I didn’t have all the green thumbs in my life, I would have ended up filling in my garden with stones and mulch and plants that didn’t need any tending. I begin tipping the watering can here and there over some various flowers. I have no idea how much water they need.
“No, no, no, that won’t do,” he says. I look up at him feeling like an idiot. Yes, that’s right; I can raise children, travel the world and have a career, but plant care, no, that is way too difficult for me. He places his hand on mine jolting me from my inner dialogue of shaming, and guides my hand as together we slowly water plant by plant. Occasionally we stop and I refill the can with water. We don’t speak and after a few attempts he releases my hand and I continue as he leans against a wall in the garden and inspects my work. I look up at him questioning my work and he gives me an encouraging smile. After what seems like an eternity, I look around and see my work is done.
“Now what?” I ask, flashing him a big grin. He must think I am a moron. He has to think that. I mean, I think that, yes, definitely, I think that. How can a grown woman not know how to tend a garden? And why am I so damn proud of myself for doing it?
“How about we cut a bouquet for that lovely kitchen in there?” he says, pulling some shears from a basket he has at his feet. I am frozen and I receive a questioning glance from him. “Laura? A bouquet?”
“Uh…yes, yes, of course, that would be lovely,” I respond, pulling myself back into the moment. He walks around the garden taking a handful of flowers. He’s particular and passes some while going for others and after a few minutes, he has a beautiful bouquet. He’s like a Greek god, an Adonis of gardening. I, on the other hand, am like Death waving my bony finger over each plant and watching as it turns brown and all the leaves wilt and die. Well, at least he’s an easy-on-the-eyes type of garden god.
“Well, I’m no good at gardening, but I do know that those need some water, so let’s go find a vase or pitcher in the kitchen,” I say, leading him inside.
Hagrid jumps from his spot on the sofa and follows us, tangling himself around Jack’s legs so that he nearly trips. Jack chuckles and reaches down to scratch my cat’s ears and back. And then he follows me as I begin opening cabinets.
“I think there’s a vase under the sink,” he says, glancing at my laptop. My screensaver is on, running photo after photo of myself and family. He watches it, handing me the flowers without breaking his stare. Sean, the kids, and me at the beach, Sean and me on our honeymoon, the kids with our old dog, my parents, brother, and me, a young me with my cousin, the kids in a bathtub, the kids, and the kids, and the kids, and then back to me as a little girl with my brother. He slowly pries his eyes away from the screen and looks at me with a look of awe. “You were a lovely girl,” he says matter-of-factly as though he has always known me.
“I was a precocious girl,” I state with equal fact and I grab us each a drink. I giggle at the photo’s memory. He gives me a “what?” look. I nod to the laptop and say, “I was about to kick him when my mom snapped that photo. He had just s
tolen a chocolate Easter bunny from my basket and I was really angry.”
“I see,” he says as though making a mental note. “No chocolate stealing, noted.”
“No one should come between a girl and her chocolate.” I laugh with a smirk and wink as I place the flowers in a vase and pass them to Jack who sets them on the table next to my computer.
“Are all these family photos?” he asks.
“Yes.” I point to the screen as various photos pop up in a slideshow fashion. “That’s my brother, Jesse. He’s a few years younger than me and lives not far from me. And that’s my mom, Eleanor. She lives in Florida now. And that’s my dad, Patrick. He died when I was younger. And those are the twins, Lily and Nick. They are twenty-two now and will graduate from college next year.”
“What do they study?” he asks, nodding a yes to me as I raise a bottle of wine out of the fridge. I pour two glasses and we sit.
“Lily is studying literature and horticulture and Nick is studying engineering,” I say proudly. “They both have internships this summer. So, I’m hoping they will be employed this time next year. Nick’s been interning with the same firm for a year now, and they’ve all but told him that he’ll be hired once he graduates. Lily has had a couple of internships, so I’m hopeful she will also quickly find something. She’s really been wanting to take some time and travel in South America after graduation. I’m hesitant, but she’s headstrong and wants to explore her biological roots. Who knows? Maybe she’ll find a job doing that.”
“You must be very proud of them,” he states.
“I am. They’ve come a long way,” I say and suddenly I miss Sean. I miss him so badly I can feel tears nearly sting in my eyes. Sean knew exactly what I’d been through as an adoptive parent, we had done it together and it was like going into battle. Only Sean would ever truly understand it. The pain of the loss of him is still strong, but the pain of the loss of the bond we had as parents is even stronger.
“Are you alright, Laura?” he asks suddenly, reaching out a hand to cover mine.
“Fine…just memories is all,” I say, shaking my head to rid my eyes of the tears.
“You have a very beautiful family,” says Jack softly.
“Yes, we were a beautiful family.” I nod in agreement.
“You still are,” he says as a photo of the kids and me pop up. We are at the White House garden for a tour. Our faces are up close and the White House is the background. Living around D.C., we have so many family photos in front of monuments and government buildings. It’s like background music to our life, always there, but not a crucial part of it.
“Your husband died young,” he states, looking now at a photo of Sean and me. We are in our early twenties before we had kids. We were at a party and a friend took a photo of us as we were looking at each other, smiles on our faces. We do look young.
“Yes, he was too young,” I say solemnly.
“May I ask how he died?” he probes.
“Car accident,” I reply not elaborating. I don’t want to go there. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Sorry to hear that,” he says and then is quiet. “How old were you when your father died?”
I haven’t thought about him in a very, very long time. That memory is painful as well, but it has scarred over as time has passed. I close my eyes for a moment to steady my emotions. “I was young, only in my second year of college. He was a police officer. Well, technically at that point I guess he was a detective. In any case, he made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He used to volunteer for a boys and girls club in the city. One night he was going to visit one of the boys because the kid hadn’t shown up in a few weeks. The neighborhood had a lot of gang activity. I guess he felt as a cop, he was safe. He parked his car on a side street and was turning a corner when a gun battle broke out between two rival gang members. Dad got caught in the crossfire as did the eleven-year-old boy he was going to check on, but somehow Dad had angled himself at the last minute so that the boy just got it in the arm and Dad got three in the chest.” I pause and look at Jack. His eyes are wide with concern and sympathy. I’m sure he thinks I belong in the loony bin with all these crazy events that have happened in my life. “They say he died instantly.”
“Laura, I’m so sorry,” he says and takes my hand in his.
“Thanks. It was a very long time ago.”
“You’ve not had it easy.” He rubs my knuckles.
“Well, I could have had it harder. We were well taken care of financially and my mom was great. If anything, it brought Jesse and me closer.” I look at him.
“He must have been a great father,” he says as he looks into my eyes.
“How do you know?”
“By the way you speak of him.”
We sit in silence for a few awkward moments before I ask him a question.
“So have you been a groundskeeper for long?” I pry.
“Groundskeeper?” He smirks. “Uh, yeah, I’ve been taking care of some properties for a few years now. I’ve always loved gardens. My granny loved her garden very much and taught me about gardening when I was very young. I guess with agriculture and gardening running in the family, I was bound to pick up a thing or two.”
I look at him as I can clearly see he’s not telling me something.
“I studied agricultural economics. Remember?” he coaxes, making me recall our conversation at the pub about our time at university in London.
“Ahhhh, right. Sorry, sometimes my brain gets a bit loopy,” I say quickly, hoping he won’t question me about that.
“Do you like it?” I ask hurriedly.
“Yeah, I guess so. Not what I had planned, but it keeps me busy,” he says. I’m suddenly very curious, as I look at his clothes and think of his car. He must do very well.
“I guess it’s a pretty lucrative career,” I say.
He cocks his head to one side, clearly perplexed. “What makes you say that?”
“I just mean, you seem to do well,” I mutter, averting his eyes as I look away with embarrassment.
He looks slightly uncomfortable by my statement and I can feel the heat rise in my skin. “What about writing?” he asks, switching topics abruptly. “Is writing lucrative?”
“Well, it can be,” I say. “I do OK. Good enough to quit my day job. I mean the real money is in book deals and movie rights. But no one has inquired about making any of my books into films.”
“Your kids must be proud of you,” he says.
“They’re kids, so as long as I feed, clothe, and pay for things like concerts and classes, then they love me unconditionally.” I laugh and he laughs at my response.
We are quiet for a moment both sipping our drinks. But it isn’t an uncomfortable silence; it is the silence you have when conversation pauses with an old friend. It is comforting and I find myself staring at his green eyes again. When his stare finds mine, I quickly look out toward the sea. Shit, I hope that wasn’t obvious, I think to myself.
“Have you been down to London recently?” he asks.
“No, I had thought about going before coming here, but there are so many distractions…I decided coming here directly would be best.” I shrug.
“I see,” he says. I can tell he has more to say about this topic, but I decide that he’ll speak when he is ready.
“What about your family?” I ask. I suddenly realize he’s been asking most of the questions.
“What about them?” he replies.
“Do you have a family? I mean, other than your brother,” I ask, with a slight roll of my eyes, as he knows exactly what I mean and is just being obtuse. Why is he so secretive?
“My parents are both deceased. Dad passed away from Parkinson’s complications when I was in my twenties and then Mum died a few years later from cancer. And of course my younger brother, Oliver, who lives nearby as I’ve mentioned…,” he trails off not sure if he should proceed. It seems he decides not to and instead takes another sip of his drink.
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br /> “That’s nice. Do you see him often?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. Clearly, he is not going to expand on his answers unless I become Barbara Walters, so I ask what his brother does for a living.
“He took over the family business,” he says, again giving away no shred of detail.
“And that would be…?” I coax.
“Agriculture mostly,” he replies with the same lack of detail.
“So you come from a family of farmers,” I state rather than ask. At this, I see the slightest of grins as he tries hard to fight the natural curl of his lips.
“You could say that,” he says, squirming in his chair. I sigh and sip my drink again.
“Sorry, I’m not used to anyone questioning me. I’ve lived around here most of my life and people just know me, so they don’t ever ask me anything,” he explains finally. “I guess it’s a little unnerving.”
“I unnerve you,” I state, but really it’s more of a question.
“Yes,” he admits, finding my eyes with his. And the look he gives me causes butterflies in my stomach. Oh my, I can’t remember the last time a man has looked at me like that. OK, that is a lie, but in this moment I don’t want to remember the last time a man looked at me that way.
“Laura…,” he trails off before finding his voice again. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”
“Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Ross?” I smile shyly.
“I believe I am,” he says with a bit of confidence that could easily be mistaken for arrogance.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
“Just a little place I like,” he replies nonchalantly. “Shall we say half past six?”
“We can say six thirty,” I say. He laughs at my humor.
“Well, then I should be going. I’ll see you tomorrow at six thirty.” He sounds out the last part slowly before he finishes his drink and stands. “Stay put and relax. I’ll see myself out.”
And with that, he walks out and leaves me deep in my thoughts.
