For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.
“Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”
She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.
“This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”
Still no husband. Interesting.
And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—
And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.
“Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”
* * *
She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.
Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.
It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.
Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.
“Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.
“Yes—”
“I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”
“Oh...no, thanks, I’m good.”
“Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”
She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he could laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far side of the space.
His cell phone clamped to his ear, Patrick lounged in the far chair with one work-booted foot propped on the table in front of him, his “good” side to her. Focused on his conversation, he didn’t see her at first. It was a nice face, April decided, although Mel was right—you couldn’t call it exactly handsome. Honest, though. Good lines. A man’s face, she decided, one befitting someone older than his late twenties, since she guessed he was about the same age as Mel. Which made him a year or so older than her—
She suddenly realized he’d noticed her, his expression downgrading to neutral as he lowered his foot, then stood, pocketing his phone.
“Sorry. Didn’t see you standing there.”
Her stomach fluttered, from nerves, from something much worse, as she smiled. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
He nodded, then waved her in. “Have a seat, then. This won’t take too long.”
The coolness in his voice made April cringe. For all his assurance the other day that he’d accepted her apology, there was no mistaking the change in his demeanor once he’d noticed her presence. Not that she expected everyone in the world to like her, but it killed her to think she’d done something, unwittingly or not, to hurt another human being.
Then again, she thought as she sat on one of the metal chairs, she’d been as sincere as she knew how when she’d tried to undo her gaffe. True, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, but despite this annoying quirk that made her want to resolve every problem life tossed in her path, she had to remind herself it wasn’t any of her business. Goodness, even Clayton had tried his best to convince her that, oddly enough, the entire world was not her responsibility. Breaking the habits of a lifetime, though—not so easy.
And keeping this relationship strictly professional would be one small, important step toward that goal. Contractor and client—this, she could do.
Then an image of what she realized could be the inn’s front yard appeared on the screen—a yard filled with stone paths and flower beds, blooming fruit trees and lush bushes. Of seating areas nestled into several outdoor “rooms.” A pair of evergreens flanking the porch steps, a hedge of roses alongside a low stone wall. And more, much more than she could take in.
“It could really look like that?”
“It really could,” Patrick said from several feet away, then began to explain what she was looking at, periodically adjusting the image as he took her on a virtual tour, his obvious enthusiasm for his work leaching past April’s not-so-hot-to-begin-with defenses. “The idea is to make it an all-season landscape—hence the evergreens. To decorate for the holidays, if you like.”
In the heat of the moment, their gazes met. Tangled. April quickly returned her attention to the screen. Not making that mistake again, nope.
“Oh...yes,” she said, willing her heart to stop pounding. “Perfect.”
“And in the back...” He clicked a few keys, and the backyard appeared. “A gazebo for weddings. Or whatever.”
Her throat clogged. “It’s absolutely amazing.”
“It also doesn’t come cheap.”
Ah, yes. Money. Business. Stay on track. “I wouldn’t imagine that it does.”
“Figured I may as well give you the full monty, we can always cut back if we have to.” He reached for a slim folder beside the computer, handed it to her. “Here’s the estimate, with a complete breakdown for materials and labor. See what you think.”
April pulled out the papers, scanned them, flipped to the last page, had a brief pang of conscience—considering all those years when she couldn’t even buy her mother flowers—then held out her hand. “Got a pen?”
Clearly, Patrick hadn’t expected that. “You sure? I mean, no questions—?”
“Nope.” She dug her checkbook out of her purse, discovered a pen already in it. “Never mind, I have a pen. I take it you’d like half down now?”
“Actually, we do it in thirds—”
He separated the copies from the original, slipped hers into another folder, then set the folder in front of her. “Next week? The weather looks like it’s going to stay decent at least through the middle of the month.”
“Great,” she said, getting to her feet, then extending her hand, which he took. Another mistake, but too late now. And the sizzling would subside eventually.
The folder tucked against her side, she started out the door, wanting to get away from that intense, puzzled gaze. But he stopped her with, “I don’t get it.”
She turned, frowning. “Pardon?”
“Why you didn’t haggle.”
“Was I supposed to?”
“People...usually do.”
Somehow, she caught the subtext. “Rich people, you mean?”
She thought his cheeks might’ve colored. “Didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you meant.”
“Okay. Yeah.” His crossed his arms, high on his chest. “In my experience the better off the client, the more they’re inclined to try to get a better deal. But you didn’t. Why?”
By rights, his borderline impudence—not to mention his assumption that all rich people thought and acted the same way—should have ticked her off. And probably would have, except for the genuine mystification underpinning his words. As well as her having to admit there’d been a time not that long ago when she might’ve been tempted to do some pigeonholing of her own. So she didn’t take particular offense. Nor, in theory, was she under any obligation to explain herself.
Except this little exchange had only illustrated what she’d already learned, which was that people treated you differently when they thought you had money. And not always in a good way. So if she was going to be judged, at least let it be on who she was, not on who Patrick thought she was.
Maybe it wasn’t up to her to right all the wrongs in the world, but she could at least address this one.
* * *
His mother had always said his big mouth was going to get him in trouble one day. Judging from the look on April’s face, Patrick figured that day had come. But she was like...like a little hoppy toad, never doing what he expected. Making him crazy.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was out of line.”
So of course she laughed. And, yes, he almost jumped.
“It’s okay, I’m used to dealing with people who say whatever’s on their mind. My mother-in-law was like that, and we got on like gangbusters. Then again, I get on with most human beings. I kind of see it like my mission in life. Anyway...” She waggled her left hand, the rings glinting in the overhead light, “the thing is, I didn’t always have money. To be blunt...I married into it.”
“Really. Another...mission?”
She laughed again, then glanced down at the rings, the light dimmed in her eyes when she looked up again. “No. Not at all. But what I’m saying is, this is still pretty new for me. Believe me I know what it’s like to try to make a living. To hopefully get an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work, and then—” she sighed “—to wonder if that’s going to be enough to meet the bills. So I can’t tell you what a relief it is to not worry about money any more. To be able to sign that contract without a second thought.”
Or any thought, apparently. “Did you even get other bids?”
“I considered it. Of course. But for one thing, your ratings on Angie’s List are through the roof. And for another, based on your discussions with Blythe, she gave me a ballpark figure for what it would probably cost. And you were right on target.” She pulled a face. “It also doesn’t seem fair to make other companies go to all that trouble when only one can get the job.”
“It’s just business, Mrs. Ross.”
“True. But sometimes you have to trust your instincts. This is one of those times.” Then she chuckled. “Unless you deliberately padded the estimate?”
“No!” he said, only to smile himself when she chuckled again. “Although it will be nice to make a halfway decent profit margin on a job, for once. Especially since Christmas is coming. Bonuses for our workers,” he said when she frowned. “They were pretty lame last year, although they all said they understood. At least we didn’t have to lay off anyone, but it was touch-and-go there for a while—”
What the hell? Talking about the business, especially with a client...he never did that. Ever.
Her expression softening, she shouldered her giant purse and pulled on her gloves. Good leather, he was guessing. As were the boots. And the purse. Maybe she hadn’t been born into wealth, but she wore it well all the same.
“Something tells me it’s going to be real nice working with you all,” she said, then looked around. Although God knew what she thought she was seeing. Then her gaze touched his again. “I know this is really pushing it, but...do you think it’ll be done by Thanksgiving? I’d love to have my parents come stay. My mother hasn’t been back to the house for nearly thirty years.”
His phone rang. But since it wasn’t his mother’s ring, or his sister Frannie’s, he ignored it, figuring it wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait five minutes. “The planting will have to be done in stages, some specimens don’t take kindly to establishing over the winter. But all the brickwork, the walks and walls...those, we can do. I promise, we’ll have it looking pretty good by then.”
She grinned. “No more mud?”
“No more mud,” Patrick said, nearly overcome, as he watched her walk away, with something that felt an awful lot like envy, that some other dude had it better than him. An indulgence he hadn’t allowed since he woke up in the VA hospital. And one damned if he was going to allow now.
Then he remembered to check his voice mail, only to feel his gut turn inside out when he heard Natalie’s voice, saying she wanted to see Lilianna that weekend, was it okay?
Okay? No. Since every time his ex blew into town and disrupted their daughter’s routine, it took a solid week to get Lili back on track. Four-year-olds weren’t good with change. Or understanding why Mama kept disappearing. But it wasn’t like he could deny either of them some time together. And, if nothing else, dealing with that would take his mind off pretty, married, out-of-his-league clients.
Although he had a good idea it would take a lot more than his ex’s shenanigans, or even his daughter’s inevitable bad mood as a result, to expunge April Ross from his thoughts.
* * *
“Yes, you need to leave,” Blythe had said. “And not return until I’ve finished your suite. Because you hover, that’s why. And I’ve already called Aunt Tilda, told her you’re coming. She’s thrilled.”
Hence, three days later, April found herself staring out of her parents’ Richmond condo at the bleak November sky hanging over a dozen condos that looked exactly like this one. Not that she had any right to turn up her nose, since she’d helped them pick it out. Only she’d never planned on spending any real time here herself.
And, as her mother bustled about in the open kitchen behind her, listening to talk radio at full volume as she made lunch, she remembered why.
She loved her parents, don’t get her wrong. Enough to freak out when her father became seriously ill, to worry when her mother had to quit her job to take care of him, enough to make sacrifices on their behalf she doubted few women her age would have dreamed of making. Even if, at the end, she’d didn’t feel she’d sacrificed all that much. But she’d forgotten how stubborn her mother could be. A propensity inherited from Mama’s own mother, most likely, since nobody could hold on to things—newspapers, margarine tubs, grudges—like Nana.
“It’s a simple invitation,” April said, swallowing down the irritation, the hurt. Fine, so maybe she’d led her mother to believe they were renovating Nana’s house to sell it. Meaning, yes, she’d deliberately kept her parents in the dark about buying out her cousins, about her plans, because April was having enough troubl
e convincing herself she could make a go of this without throwing her mother’s inevitable disapproval into the mix. So why she’d thought presenting it as a fait accompli would garner a better reaction, she had no idea. Because clearly it hadn’t.
“And you know I can’t set foot back in that house,” Mama said behind her. “I just can’t.”
April turned away from the window, thinking that—from a distance, anyway—with her ash-blond pixie haircut and still-trim figure, her mother looked far younger than she was. “Except it’s my house now—”
“It’s still tainted, April. With all those bad memories...” Her mother shut her eyes, shaking her head. “So many bad memories.”
Although how terrible her mother’s memories really were, April wondered. Lord knew Nana had been irascible and strict, and from all accounts had given her three daughters far less freedom than most children of their generation—prompting all three girls to rebel by marrying men Nana heartily disapproved of. And which, in turn, led her grandmother to cut all three of them off. Warm and fuzzy, Nana had not been.
But while her grandmother might’ve been a pain in the butt, April had no reason to believe she’d ever been out-and-out abusive. And weirdly enough she hadn’t let the rifts between her and her daughters tarnish her relationship with her granddaughters. Not when they were kids, at least. Those summers at the beach house with Blythe and Mel—summers when April could, for six or eight weeks, forget her own chaotic homelife—had been the high points of her childhood.
“I know you and Nana had your differences,” April said gently, “but she and I didn’t—”
“Why, April? Why?” Her mother squawked the last word like her neck was being wrung. “Even if the place weren’t a money pit, which you know it is, for you to, to do this without telling us, to throw away everything Clayton left you...I don’t understand, April. I really don’t. You could have bought any house you liked—”
A Gift for All Seasons Page 3
