by Nora Roberts
“Can their guardians be in charge?”
“Up to you,” Zane told Nathan.
They exchanged another look that told Zane they’d already worked it out. Ashley took Nathan’s hand, gave it a squeeze.
“We’ve decided we want to name my parents as guardians. We want our kids raised here, and Fi loves my parents, knows them, trusts them. They’d take good care of our babies.”
“Let’s get that information. Full names, address.”
As she answered, Ashley winced and pressed a hand to the side of her mound. “You know, Nathan, I think this one’s fully cooked.”
“Braxton-Hicks, Ash.” He patted her arm with the casualness of experience. “You’ve got ten more days.”
“He doesn’t think so. He thinks today.”
“What?” Zane dropped his pen. “Today, like, today? Let me get Maureen.”
“No, no.” Ashley waved him back down. “They’re light, and that’s only the third one. They’re about twelve minutes apart. We’ve got time.”
Still, Nathan rose, pulled out his phone. “I’m just going to call the midwife, let her know where we are. Give me a second.”
“You have a midwife?” Zane asked as Nathan stepped out.
“Yeah, right here in the clinic in town.” Placid as a spring morning, Ashley just smiled, rubbed her belly. “She’s great. I’m fine, Zane. My mom already has Fiona, and we can be at the clinic in five minutes. I’ve done this before. So, what else do we need?”
“My mind’s a little muddled.”
She just grinned at him. “You said about education. My parents opened a college fund for Fi, and want to do the same for the new baby. I trust them to look after the kids, the assets, the everything. We just want this all put together, the best way, so we can forget about it.”
“Yeah, that’s the … You’re really calm.”
She sent him a sparkling look out of those pretty blue eyes. “About a possible zombie apocalypse?”
“No, about…” He gestured. “Happy birthday.”
“I won’t be in a couple hours, might as well be now.” She glanced back as Nathan came in.
“Sandy’s on alert. I called your mom. She’ll call your dad and the rest, and they’ll bring Fiona to the birthing room when we give them the go.” He sat beside her, leaned over to rub her belly. “I let the restaurant know I’m going to be busy, and they’re on it.”
Now Nathan grinned at Zane as if a baby wasn’t maybe going to pop out of his wife at any second. “So, what’s next?”
It took another half hour—and three more contractions that made the spit dry up in Zane’s mouth.
Maureen gave them both a hug, wished them good luck when Zane walked them to the door.
“I have to sit down,” Zane decided, and dropped into a chair in reception. “She—my first real girlfriend—was in labor, in my office.”
“Early labor.”
“Labor,” he repeated. “She’s walking to the clinic to have a baby. Walking.”
“Well, it stopped raining, and walking’s good during early labor. You know what else would be good? For her friend and lawyer to pick her up some flowers on his lunch break, and take them by the birthing center before he goes home today.”
“I can do that. It’s just weird. She was the first girl I ever—” He broke off when Maureen narrowed her eyes at him. “Not that. We never—no. I meant … We’ll leave it at weird.”
He laid the legal pad on her desk. “What they want is pretty straightforward. You can draft it up, shoot it to me. If you can’t read any of my notes, just let me know.”
“You have very legible handwriting for a lawyer. You have Mona Carlson in about twenty minutes. The divorce—which she may actually mean this time. Then Grant Feister at eleven-thirty, DUI. Only two appointments this afternoon, but that’s a good day, Zane, for your first full week up and running.”
The phone on her desk rang. “And that may be one more. Good morning,” she said into the receiver. “Zane Walker, Attorney-at-Law.”
* * *
He got flowers, dropped them off about three in the afternoon. The cheerful woman who greeted him said she would take the flowers in, or she could ask Ashley if he could go in himself.
He told her to just take them. Please.
Since the rest of the day was clear, he headed over to Emily’s with some paperwork she’d asked him to deal with.
He found her standing in front of the house, hands clutched together in her nervous pose as she watched Darby digging a trench with her little machine. Roy and Hallie planted some kind of tree on the other side of the front yard, now bisected with a flagstone path that ran to the front porch, where Gabe and Brody worked together to hang a porch swing the color of chili peppers.
He parked, and since Emily looked as if she might be sick, or run screaming, went straight to her.
Eyes a little wild, she grabbed his arms. “What have I done?”
“I don’t know. What’s happening?”
“She’s digging a ditch. In the yard. It’s for sprinklers or drip something, or—God. It’s irrigation for a shrubbery.”
“Like Monty Python?”
“Oh Jesus, oh God, it’s like Monty Python. She says it’ll have color from spring through fall, and texture all year, and balance the yard, and low-maintenance, and there’s no such thing as a black thumb.”
“If you don’t want it—”
“You don’t understand.” She gave him a desperate little shake. “She starts talking and you just start nodding and thinking, That sounds beautiful, that sounds great. Why didn’t I think of it in the first place? Then she starts doing it, and you’re, What have I done? Look, look at the color of that porch swing.”
“I did. It’s what, red-hot chili pepper?”
“Oh sweet baby Jesus, it is! I picked it. I picked it myself—or did I?” Still gripping him, Emily turned her head toward Darby, narrowed her eyes. “Did I really pick it? I think she has some sort of mind control. I’m not kidding.”
“Take a breath, Em.” To help her out, he gave her a hug. “I can say one thing for certain. The stonework looks awesome.”
She looked down at the walk. “It really does. She’s a genius. I mean, I see it in every bungalow she’s finished, but—”
“Keep breathing. You know what else? I like the swing.”
Emily breathed. “Damn it, so do I. Somehow she always ends up being right. Distract me from my madness. How’s it going with you?”
“Good. I’ve got a handful of clients. Maureen is pretty damn perfect, and I’ve got a line on a summer intern. If I pick the one I’m leaning toward, I’ll be outnumbered by women. Oh, women,” he remembered. “Ashley’s having her baby.”
“Now?”
“Now. She started having it in my office. It was beyond weird.”
Emily tipped her head toward his shoulder. “We’re having a day, aren’t we?”
“You could call it that.”
Her phone signaled, and after a glance at the readout, Emily kissed Zane’s cheek. “I have to run down to the office.”
“I have to get home anyway. Get some stuff done. But here’s that paperwork you asked for.”
“Oh, thanks. Come for dinner tomorrow night, when I’m less crazed.”
“It’s a date.”
He started to walk up, say hi and bye to his cousins, when Darby stopped the machine, hopped off. So he crossed to her instead, studied the trenching.
“So. A shrubbery?”
“It’s always best to appease the Knights Who Say Ni.”
He had to grin. “So I’ve heard.”
She took off her cap to swipe her forehead.
Just what the hell color was that hair? he wondered. Not brown, not really red. But more red than brown in the sun, more brown than red in the shade.
“You’re just the man I wanted to see,” she said as she put the cap back on.
“Need a lawyer?”
“Not right
this minute, but I’m always looking for clients. How about I come take a look at your new place?”
He felt a little of Emily’s panic. “You look pretty busy.”
With a shrug, she pulled on work gloves. “You have to look ahead. I’ve got some ideas, but I want a better look at things, with you factored in. I can come by in a couple hours.”
She headed to her truck, called for the crew. He had a minute with his cousins before she pulled them in. He saw a lot of black plastic, a lot of black hosing.
And figured he should get gone before she tossed him a pair of gloves and sucked him into the work.
As he drove home he reminded himself he did want a few little things added to the exterior. And he wasn’t a pushover, so he wouldn’t end up with trenches and shrubberies.
Maybe a tree. He wouldn’t mind a nice shade tree he could watch grow year after year. Maybe put a hammock under it for lazy Sunday afternoons. Or a couple of trees with a hammock slung between them.
He’d give her a tree, Zane decided, possibly two. Maybe a couple of bushes or shrubs—was there a difference? They didn’t call it a bushery, right?
Anyway.
He’d hold the line on shrubbery/bushery. And that would be that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Darby admired the drive up to Zane’s. She knew just where the property line started, and knew she’d plant redbuds, or azaleas, maybe mountain or bay laurel. Scatter them up that drive so it looked as if nature put them there.
Not only would visitors have that “ah” moment as they ascended, but they’d show from the house, and from points below.
Gracious, lovely.
The house itself was, in her opinion, a kick-my-ass-sideways feat of architecture. All wood and stone and glass perched on the rise, just lording it over everything. Decks, porches, patios just begging for her touch. The big main entrance—and since they were in the South, that would be a veranda rather than a porch—screamed out for sleek stone urns—maybe concrete—filled with color and height.
Hell, she’d make friends with Zane just for the chance to spend some time up here as it was. But if she talked him into letting her get her hands on the place? She’d give him a mountain paradise.
She parked, looked up. The man didn’t even have a chair on the deck—and she’d call that a terrace—off the master bedroom suite.
Clearly, he needed her.
He stepped out the big double doors onto the covered veranda, and she felt the click. He suited the house, to her eye, and the house suited him. That made it easier.
He was a tall one, so all those high ceilings, the soaring windows, the wide-open floor plan on the main level worked well.
She’d fix it so the grounds worked well for him, too.
Long legs that didn’t have to hurry to cover ground, and a good, strong build that still hit the edge of lanky.
What woman didn’t give an mmmm over a long, lanky, green-eyed man?
“You’ve got a hell of a place here, Zane.”
“I’m not used to it yet.” He stepped up to her, turned around, looked as she did. “I drive up here every time and think: Whoa, how about that.”
“I have the same reaction to mine. Often add a little hip-shaking boogie. It’s good to be home, isn’t it?”
“You made the transition fast and smooth.”
She turned, gestured to the view of mountains, the lake, the town, the everything. “Why not? I bet you stand in one of those gorgeous windows and think: Whoa, how about that.”
“Every freaking day.”
“It’s a killer view. You know what it’s missing?”
He felt his shoulders tighten. Hold the line, he reminded himself. “I figure you’re going to tell me.”
“You need a stone retaining wall, along here.” She walked closer to where the ground began its long slope down. “Not only for erosion, but for structure—and safety. You might get married, have kids.”
A tree, he reminded himself. Maybe a couple bushes.
“It feels like a wall would close things in.”
“Not a high wall, nothing that would block the view from up here, or down there. Something to enhance. We’d go with man-made stone—I’ll leave you a brochure. You pick the tones, the design. We’d add lights.”
“Lights, but—”
“Not just for illumination, for magic.” She reached in one of the pockets of her cargo jeans, offered him a small copper strip. “We’d use them—your choice of finish—on both sides. I’ve got some pictures to show you how they look at night. Just a nice, pretty glow.
“I get the previous owners wanted the house itself to be the wow, didn’t want much else in the front. But they didn’t have small kids.”
“Neither do I.”
“Yet. Plus, your sister has a little girl, and she’ll be running around here. You don’t want her to go tumbling down this slope.”
He hadn’t thought of it, but now he could see it. And the image moved his line, then and there. “Okay, a wall. Low wall.”
“I’ll leave the brochure, do some measurements, give you an estimate. So, let’s stick with the front for now.”
She talked about planting stuff along his drive—who’d have thought of that? Of finishing off his veranda with big concrete urns, chairs, a table, with stuff planted along the front.
He found himself doing just what Emily had warned him of. Nodding. Nodding even when they worked their way around the side, and there was talk of massing hydrangeas, peonies, lilies.
It was the waterfall that broke his trance.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not talking Niagara. This house was built into the mountain, so it’s already got the rise and fall and drop. Look here, Walker, this area’s begging for a long, winding water feature. Natural stone, water tumbling down from the top grade, then meandering. We do plantings along that edge, sweeping them back into the trees. You put a stone bench here, some fragrant shrubs, do a loose stone walk, some pretty lights, mulch it, and you’d find yourself sitting here enjoying an adult beverage, the sound of the water, the view, the scents every single day.”
Her hands moved as she spoke. Strong, ringless hands with long fingers, short unpolished nails. How did they manage to paint pictures in the air?
“But … a waterfall.”
“Think of it as more of a spill,” she suggested. “It would be a great use of this underused space. We’d maintain the pump. You’d just enjoy it. Otherwise—it wouldn’t be my choice, but an option. Do you play golf?”
“No.”
“A lawyer who doesn’t play golf? I was thinking cute little putting green, but scratch that. Not a sports guy?”
“I used to play baseball.”
“Hey, me, too. I love baseball.”
It shifted his mind from waterfalls. “What’s your team?”
Her look held pity. “Zane, I’m from Baltimore. I was born an O’s fan, I live as an O’s fan, and I’ll die an O’s fan.”
He found himself smiling. “Me, too.”
“Really?” She shifted away from landscape talk, hooked the thumbs of those interesting hands in her belt loops. “You ever get to Camden Yards?”
“A few times.”
She sighed a little. “I wanted to live there.”
It came out of his mouth before he censored himself. “I wanted to play there.” It still brought a tug, one he made himself ignore.
“What position?”
“Short.”
“Hey, second base here.” She offered her fist to bump. “The town’s got a league, but spring and summer are my high seasons, so no go for me. Are you playing?”
“No.”
Something in the single syllable warned her to back off. “Well, I’m hoping to catch a couple innings of Gabe’s game on Saturday. So I’m going to draw you up what I have in mind, give you a better picture. Meanwhile.”
She talked about doing raised beds for herbs, for annuals, more shrubs, another
wall to mirror the one in front.
He lost track.
“Now that I’ve given you a whole bunch to think about, I’m going to get some measurements. And I’ll bring you some brochures to look through.”
“Great. Need any help?”
“I’ve got it.”
She walked back around to her truck, and Zane, more than slightly shell-shocked, went in the back through the kitchen.
He opened a beer, thought he should’ve offered her a beer. Decided he needed to recover from her first.
She smelled of earth and growing things, had strong, competent hands that drew pictures in the air. She painted them with words, too, so he could get a misty, mystical image of what she saw in her head.
But that didn’t mean he’d fall for it.
The walls, those he could see. Safety mattered, and he hoped Audra would spend plenty of time visiting her uncle. And he liked the idea of the lights glowing on the stone, so good.
Maybe some of the plantings—some of them. But the waterfall? That was ridiculous.
Even as he thought it, he walked over to the big window of the great room, looked at the space she’d imagined the ridiculous waterfall.
No. Absolutely not. No. But … maybe he’d think about it.
She had a point about needing tables and chairs and so on outside. The veranda, the decks, the back patio with its pretty awesome built-in, big-ass grill—that all needed seating to make it a real outdoor living space.
So, okay, she had a point there.
He could grill—Lee had seen to that—and he wanted to have the family up for a cookout. So tables, chairs all around.
With his beer and his laptop, he sat at the big breakfast counter, began to see what the internet had to offer on outdoor furniture.
He left the glass wall accordioned open, and had earmarked a few choices by the time Darby tapped a finger on a panel.
“Come on in. Want a beer?”
“God, yes, but I’m driving. Half a beer?”
“Half a beer.”
As he got up to pour her half a beer, she wandered in, circled the enormous kitchen. She admired the cabinetry, dark and rich, some with glass fronts, the acres and acres of counter in granite that flowed with sweeps of dull gold, rich browns, hints of woodsy green, bits of mica.
