by Deb Kastner
But in this case, reminding herself of her heritage didn’t seem to help. Nothing did. She wasn’t sure if she could keep her tears from falling despite her best efforts.
Ben slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a close embrace. The comfort of his rock-solid chest and the steady sound of his heartbeat somehow reassured her.
Depending on someone else, even for a moment, was unfamiliar to her. And she couldn’t believe that the person she was leaning on was Ben Atwood—possibly the least reliable person she knew. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to breathe slowly, fighting desperately against the urge to let loose the roaring broil of her emotions and bawl into Ben’s chest. She barely restrained herself from wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him back.
She couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Ben. Bishops were strong people, she reminded herself again. They didn’t let anything get the best of them, not even a grief that felt like it was ripping her apart.
She sucked in another big gulp of air and backed away. The sudden sensation of warm fur crisscrossing her ankles in a figure eight caused her to jolt, but she was careful not to step on whatever it was that was twirling around at her feet. She looked down to find a large gray poof-ball rubbing against her and purring louder than the engine on her truck.
“Is that a cat?” she asked with a chuckle that came out as half a sob. She hitched her breath.
Ben leaned down and scooped the ball of fur into his arms, brushing the hair back from the feline’s face with the palm of his hand. Vee could barely make out eyes and a black button of a nose.
“This,” Ben said, “is Tinker. And you should feel privileged. He’s given you quite an honor. He doesn’t usually take to people he doesn’t know very well.”
As he said the words, the cat sprung from his arms to hers. She caught him with an exclamation of surprise.
“Warn me, next time, will you, kitty?” She tucked Tinker under her chin, oddly comforted by the vibration of the cat’s purr and the warmth of his fur.
“I never had a kitten,” she said, stroking Tinker’s soft, downy fur. “Or a dog. My mom was one of those people who thought all animals should stay outside in the barn.”
Another hiccup.
Ben jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, not speaking but urging her on with a smile.
“I had a hamster once, though, when I was about nine. Alvin the hamster. He’d run on his little wheel all night long. That sound was like a lullaby to me. I slept so soundly when he was around.”
“Tinker is a second-generation Atwood cat,” Ben explained, reaching out to tickle Tinker under his chin. “His mama was Belle. Tinkerbelle, actually, but most of the time I just called her Belle.”
“Oh, my,” exclaimed Vee, putting two and two together. “Please don’t tell me that this poor boy...”
“...is Tinkerbelle the Second. In my defense, I was a teenager at the time, and kittens weren’t a big deal to me. I was too busy worrying about my social life, which...well...” He cut himself off and gave her a charming smile. She noticed it looked a little strained around the edges, as if he disliked thinking back on those memories but was trying to hide it. “I gave him his moniker without actually bothering to see if it was a he or she, and my mother didn’t correct me. I think maybe she was trying to teach me a life lesson. Tinker here got the bad end of that deal.”
“Poor Tinker,” Vee said on a long, counterfeit sigh, stroking the cat from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, causing his purr to rumble even louder. “It’s a wonder he still associates with you at all.”
“Yeah,” Ben agreed with a self-deprecating shrug. “You’re probably right about that.”
Tinker started wiggling, and Vee reluctantly released him to the ground. “I think Tinker is giving me a nudge. I suppose I’ve had enough of a work break now. Your parents aren’t paying me to talk. I should get back to planting flowers.”
She turned, then paused, her shoulders tensing as she realized she’d returned to a touchy subject for Ben. Was he going to belittle her efforts again—tell her once more how little he valued all her careful planning and design work? She shouldn’t have been surprised that he had no appreciation for her craft, yet she had still felt hurt at his clear dismissal earlier.
“Where would you like me to start digging?” Ben asked, surprising her when he reached for a nearby shovel.
Vee released a quiet breath. Gardening was her comfort zone, her sweet spot where she could let go of everything else and just be thankful to God for His beautiful creation. Some might see it as just “digging in the dirt,” but for her, working with flowers brought Vee her greatest joy.
Did she want to share that with Ben?
Not really. But if putting him to work meant he’d stop giving his mother a hard time, then what choice did she have? Maybe if he could see how dedicated she was to the task, he’d realize that her work truly was important—to her, if not to him.
She pointed to the flower beds on opposite sides of the screened-in back fence, and then at the large plot she’d lined out with stakes and thread marking a place for the garden.
“If you’d please break up and turn the earth for me, I’d appreciate it. I’ll bring you a bag of compost so you can fertilize as you go.”
“I’ll get it,” he offered. “It’s in the back of your truck, right?”
“Yes, it is.” She hesitated. “I hate to have you make two trips, but can you also bring back some potting soil for me? I brought new annuals, mostly petunias and mums, to plant in the hanging pots.”
Ben assented with a nod and strode away. Vee’s gaze followed him until he turned the corner of the house. Then she propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the property, ticking off projects in her mind. The flower beds would be the home to a dozen new rosebushes, and the garden still needed to be seeded with vegetables. Several decorative pots for the back porch awaited her attention, too.
Now, where had she been before Ben arrived?
Oh, right. The hanging basket. Falling into Ben’s arms. How could she have forgotten that so easily? It was not her most graceful moment. Her face flamed just thinking about it, so she redirected her thoughts to the tasks at hand.
She was gathering a variety of hanging and standing flowerpots into a line on the porch when Ben returned to the backyard, a twenty-five-pound bag of potting soil under one arm and a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer slung over his other shoulder. She hadn’t expected him to bring both bags at the same time. He was probably trying to show off his strength, but the gesture was lost on Vee.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite lost because she’d obviously noticed. It was hard not to notice the solid muscles across his arms and shoulders. But a good man was made up of more than his muscles, and she knew what kind of man Ben was.
Ben had broken her best friend’s heart. Olivia had stayed in bed for a week depressed and crying over their breakup, which was all Ben’s fault. Vee wasn’t in any hurry to forgive him for that, no matter how good he looked in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Where do you want it?” Ben asked. He nodded his square chin toward the bag of soil under his arm.
“Right here is fine,” she answered, sweeping her arm indistinctly toward the ground at her feet.
Grunting with the effort—or possibly just for the effect the sound gave—he dropped the bag of potting soil where she’d indicated and then lowered the fertilizer bag near the closest flower bed.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d do the flower beds first,” she said, deciding there was no reason not to be civil with Ben since he’d offered to help—as a non-paid apprentice. “I’ve got a dozen rosebushes in the back of the truck that I’ll be planting in those beds today.”
“Yeah, I noticed them when I was gettin
g the soil. Do you want me to bring those back here for you, too?”
“Eventually. For now, just dig.”
“Pink and red,” he said, sounding like he was just making conversation. “Did you pick out those colors, or was it my mother?”
“Your mother, actually. I’ve planned most of the landscaping colors palette, but she specifically asked for red and pink roses. Red for love. Pink for gratitude. She said it would remind her every day to be thankful for her family.”
“That sounds like my mother,” Ben murmured.
“I’ll get these planters finished and then we’ll worry about the rosebushes. After that you can turn the earth for the garden and I can start seeding behind you,” she said, pulling on her gardening gloves and picking up a trowel.
She reached for the first tray of yellow mums and easily fell into her task. She’d organized the flowers and seeds according to the layout print she’d prepared of the Atwoods’ backyard. She’d spent a long time planning what would go where according to the palettes she’d created. She loved seeing the way the colors came together to make a final product she could be proud of and the Atwoods would enjoy. It was her artist’s canvas, available for everyone to see and appreciate.
Ben let out a low wolf whistle as he surveyed her print. She hadn’t realized he was standing over her shoulder. He was supposed to be digging.
“That looks complicated,” he commented. “And here I thought we were just playing around in the dirt.”
“It’s a lot more than that,” she fired back before taking a deep breath and reminding herself that she’d decided to be civil. “It’s actually quite interesting, or at least it is to me. The vegetable garden itself is determined by what your mom and dad want to grow, of course, but you get a better yield, not to mention a better aesthetic experience, if you know which vegetables should be planted next to each other for optimum growth and health. We’re going to do green beans, snap peas, carrots and tomatoes for starters.”
She gulped in a breath of air and continued enthusiastically. It didn’t take much for her to warm to her subject. “As for the hanging baskets, I not only consider which blossoms develop well in this area, but also the arrangement of color palettes...”
She hadn’t realized she’d launched into a full-throttle landscaping lecture until she noticed the pensive look on Ben’s face. Clearly his mind had wandered, and she flushed at the realization that she’d probably been boring him to tears.
“And...you really don’t care a whit about color palettes. Sorry. Too much information,” she said with a wince and a guarded chuckle. “I forget that not everyone is as ardent about gardening as I am.”
“Don’t apologize. I am interested. It’s just that what you said reminded me of a friend of mine who—”
He broke off his sentence as suddenly as he’d started it, his eyes widening to enormous proportions, as if he’d almost said something monumental, something he’d regret. He definitely looked a little green around the gills.
“A friend of yours who...?” she prompted, curious as to why he had stopped speaking so suddenly. She usually wasn’t the nosey type, preferring to mind her own business and give others the same courtesy. But he’d started it, and now she wanted him to finish.
“She—er—works in flowers. I can’t really tell you much more than that, I mean about her career.” He turned his back to her and scanned the flower bed. “Is it all right if I just rip into this bag any way I want, or is there a secret procedure I’m not aware of?”
Clearly he was deflecting. Vee was tempted to press the issue just to stir things up a bit, but she refrained. Once he’d finished breaking Olivia’s heart, Ben’s female “friends” had become no business of hers.
“No special instructions,” she informed him. “Just try to open it so too much of the fertilizer doesn’t spill out all at once.”
“Got it,” he said, flashing her a smile.
Who was this elusive she who worked with flowers? Vee wondered in spite of herself. He sounded as if he truly cared for her, whoever she was. Maybe he’d learned his lesson and matured some. Or maybe he’d met a woman who hadn’t immediately fallen prey to his charms, and it had forced him to actually put some effort into a relationship. But if that was the case, this woman must really be something special. She would have to be a classic beauty. Vee could almost picture the woman—long, flowing blond hair and perfect makeup that accentuated deep cheekbones and a perfect chin.
The exact opposite of Vee, in other words. No one could call her heart-shaped face classic. The dimple in her chin marred any chance for that. At best, she could be called pretty—but it wasn’t the sort of pretty anyone noticed. She was way too easily overlooked for reasons that had nothing to do with her diminutive height. Her strength was her intelligence, not her beauty, and men didn’t line up at the door to date smart women. At least in her experience—or lack of—they didn’t.
Which mattered why?
She scoffed inwardly and turned her mind back to her work. She wasn’t going to consider any other possibility except that she might be nursing her own curiosity. And even that felt inappropriate. She shouldn’t care one bit about Ben or about any women that he knew and might care for.
At the end of the day, Ben was still the man who’d broken the heart of her best friend. That hadn’t and wouldn’t change. Unfortunately for Ben, Vee had a long memory, and though she knew God would want her to forgive him, she just wasn’t there yet.
It might have been easier if Ben had hurt Vee and not her friend. She could shake off an injury to herself, but going after someone she loved—that was stepping over the mark. She tended to go all mama tiger on anyone who hurt her friends and loved ones.
And by “anyone” she meant Ben.
Vee shook her head and jammed the trowel into the bag of soil, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was absolutely necessary. With a renewed effort, she set to work, trying to keep her mind focused on the task at hand and not the man turning the earth just a few feet to her left.
To her surprise, she and Ben worked well together. After Ben had turned the soil, they retrieved the rosebushes from the truck. It was nice to have an extra pair of hands. Planting went smoothly and much quicker than Vee had anticipated.
Then they moved their combined attention to the plot for the vegetable garden. Ben flipped over the dense spring turf and mixed it with fertilizer while Vee followed along behind him, planting seeds with her trowel.
They didn’t speak much, but that was just as well. Vee didn’t know what to say to him, and she hated it when she felt like she needed to chatter just to fill up the space. She wasn’t much for small talk.
Before she knew it, the entire afternoon had passed and the sun was starting to make its descent in the west. Vee glanced at her watch and was surprised to find it was after six o’clock in the evening. Where had the time gone?
“I think it’s about quitting time,” she said, tapping the face of her watch. “I’ll be back to finish what’s left tomorrow. I appreciate all your help today. I wouldn’t have gotten nearly this far without you.”
Ben wiped the sweat off his forehead with the edge of his shirt, then rubbed his palms together and grimaced.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked, reaching out to examine his left palm.
“It’s nothing. I just got a couple of blisters.” Stubbornly, he drew his hand into a fist to prevent her from examining it.
“Let me see.” He refused at first, keeping his hand tightly clenched, but she ignored his protests and gently worked his fingers open so she could scrutinize his wound.
“See? It’s not so bad,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “No big deal.”
“Maybe not,” she answered in a conciliatory tone, “but you need to clean your palm so it doesn’t get infected. You stay there,” she said, po
inting to a porch chair. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She entered the house through the sliding door in the back and brushed her shoes against the welcome mat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Atwood?”
“You’re still here?” asked Ben’s mom in surprise as she entered the room. “I would have thought you’d have something better to do on a Friday night than hang around here, especially if you’re not on call at the fire station. Don’t tell me there’s no fancy date with a handsome hunk?”
Vee blushed so hard she thought her head might pop. “No, ma’am. Not tonight.”
Not ever, actually, but Vee didn’t see the need to elaborate on the subject.
Ben’s mother chuckled lightly. “Their loss.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she agreed, becoming more embarrassed by the moment. She decided to change the subject before it got completely out of control. “I was wondering if you had any rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide that I could use. Ben has a few blisters on his hands, and I’d hate for them to get infected.”
“Of course. My son isn’t used to shoveling dirt, poor dear. Why don’t you sit down for a moment while I get them for you?” His mom sounded more amused than concerned by her son’s dire plight. She gestured to a chair at the dining room table, but Vee politely declined. Despite the woman’s kindness, Vee decided it was better for her to remain standing on the mat where she wouldn’t accidentally make a mess with her dirty clothing.
In less than a minute, Ben’s mother returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a roll of gauze, a handful of large cotton balls and a tube of antibacterial cream, delivered with a perceptive smile.
“There you go, hon. Everything you need to patch my boy up right.”
“This ought to do it,” Vee agreed warmly. Ben’s mother was one of the most pleasant women she knew. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Atwood.”
