by Nora Roberts
She hiked an elbow on his shoulder. He had a few inches on her five-seven. “It’s going to be even better once we plant it.”
Hallie wrapped an arm around Gabe’s other shoulder, gave him a quick squeeze. “Let’s get it done.”
“Roy, why don’t you go back and work with Ralph on the back wall. I’ll get Hallie and Gabe started.”
He took off his company cap, waved it in front of his face, settled it on his straggly hair again. “Miss Darby, you work me to death.”
“You look lively enough to me. Besides, we need to finish what we can this afternoon. It’s going to rain tomorrow.”
Roy frowned up at the sky, tipped back his cap. “Don’t look like rain’s coming.”
“Trust me. Or the National Weather Service. We’re getting boomers tonight, and a soaker tomorrow. You can sleep late.”
He brightened right up. “Maybe sleep all damn day.”
She helped wheel over the plants, jumped down so Hallie could pass them to her, to Gabe. It took all three of them to muscle down the crepe myrtle she wanted for the far end.
When she’d placed them, she boosted herself back up, studied the effect. “Gabe, switch the mountain laurel, that one, with that azalea. Yeah, yeah, better balance. It’s going to look great. Man your shovels, team. I’m going to check on Roy and Ralph.”
She could see the good, solid bones of the wall as Roy and Ralph worked, communicating with grunts while Roy’s iPod played country rock.
There she’d plant Bloomerang lilacs for the all-season color, the wonderful scent, one on either end as anchors to all the flow of texture and color between.
And when Zane sat out on his pretty patio, with those scents, those colors, with the little kitchen garden she’d already started in pots, he’d remember.
She took a good glug from her water bottle, dived into the work.
When Hallie called out, “You want to take a look, boss, before we start hauling mulch?” Darby stepped back, checked the time.
“Yeah, let me take a look. We can get that done, then you can knock off.” She gave Roy a poke in the ribs. “All of you.”
“I’m ready for that!”
“Zane’ll be home before much longer,” Hallie commented as she started back with Darby.
“Won’t he get an eyeful?”
“Are you going to hang around till he does?”
“Depends.”
Hallie stopped, out of earshot of Gabe in front and the men in the back. “You know, mornings when he wanders up to watch us working before he leaves for town, you can’t help but feel the…” She wiggled her fingers in the air.
“The?” Darby mimicked the gesture.
“I know how to keep quiet, girl, but I’m telling you it’s probably not as big a secret as you think that you and Zane are … spending time.”
Darby honestly hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. “It’s not a secret, it’s just, ah, discretion.”
“That’s a word.” Hallie gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Anyway, he’s what my granny would call a prime catch.”
“I’m not playing catch.”
“Boss, we’re all playing catch. It’s just nature.”
Darby thought about that as she cleaned up, as the crew left. Maybe, just to test things out, she needed to push discretion a bit.
She hopped in her truck, drove home. Pausing on the road below, she looked up. And seeing that long curve of wall, the plants rising, fanning, she sighed.
“That’s good work,” she said aloud. “That’s damn good work.”
She’d barely showered off the day when the text came in from Zane.
Wow. Seriously wow. I owe you a beer, a bottle of wine, half my take-out lasagna. Come back.
Oh, she wanted to, maybe a little too much. But she looked around at so much in her own space she’d neglected.
Wait until dusk when the lights come up. Even more serious wow. Must pass on the beer or wine and lasagna. Gotta catch up on paperwork. Take a walk outside for me after dark.
I will. Don’t work too hard. See you tomorrow.
Didn’t anybody check the weather forecast? But she only typed back:
Night.
* * *
The storm crashed in with a flash and a boom. A solid sleeper, Darby slept right through the war of it. Then popped out of a dead sleep a full hour before her internal alarm. She lay in the dark, watching the electric slaps, listening to the echoing bangs and the thunder of flooding rain.
With sleep a fond memory, her mind circled from waterfalls—couldn’t wait to start on it—to paperwork—all nicely current—to Zane. Was he awake, too?
If she’d gone back as he’d asked, she’d have company right now through the big, bad storm.
And her paperwork wouldn’t be all nicely current.
Trade-offs, she supposed, as her mind continued to wander.
When lightning lit up the bedroom like a Broadway stage, she decided to get up. In the kitchen, she made coffee and drank it in the open doorway, absorbing the wrath of the storm.
Something to see, she thought, all that energy rolling and pounding, the cracks over the sky like shattered glass, the rocket flashes that threw the mountains into eerie relief before plunging them into the black again.
Still, it brought home to her just how isolated she was. She might be on an island somewhere on a raging sea.
With plenty of food, she reminded herself, a solid roof over her head, and power. At least she had power for the moment.
Thinking of that, she gathered up flashlights, checked the batteries, filled a couple of jugs with water, and thought about getting a small generator.
And a dog. Dogs were good company, she mused. She should definitely consider getting a dog.
But right now seemed a great time to attack ugly wallpaper.
By midday the storm had long since turned into a steady, soaking rain and the air to a steam bath. After breaks to vent frustration, Darby scraped off the last stubborn strip of kitchen wallpaper.
“Eur-fucking-reka,” she muttered, and shoved her cap back to swipe at her face. “I won, you bastard.”
Maybe her kitchen resembled a war zone, but she’d won. Now all she had to do was wash down the walls, which revealed themselves in a hideous shade of moldy green, wait for them to dry—probably sometime in the next century—prime, and paint.
She stepped over a pile of defeated wallpaper, crouched down to get a bucket from under the seat. And lost ten years of her life at the rap-rap on her open kitchen doorjamb.
There stood Zane, hair a little damp and wearing a dark suit.
“God, you gave me a start. I didn’t hear you drive up in all this rain.” A dog, she thought again. She needed to look into getting a dog. “You’re wearing a suit.”
“I was in court this morning.”
“You look different. Good, but different.”
He glanced around her war zone, smiled. “Housecleaning?”
Straightening, she jabbed a finger at ragged strips, piles, scraps of wallpaper. “I killed it.”
“From what I can see, it looks like self-defense. I’ll get you off.”
“They wallpapered over wallpaper. Who knew?”
He studied the walls. “That paint color might be worse.”
“I know it. I know it. I may have to get a priest, a shaman, a white witch, whatever, to come in here and exorcise the spirits of evil decorating.”
“Are you doing this and lots of laundry? It smells like lots of laundry.”
“Fabric softener. One part to one part really hot water equals a good, nonchemical wallpaper solvent.”
“How do you know that?”
“Internet. Don’t get any of this crap on your shoes. They look like really nice shoes. Is there food in that bag?”
“You were on my way back, sort of, from court, and I’ve got a couple hours before I need to be in the office. I picked up Chinese.”
“You picked up Chinese.” She may
have fallen at least a little bit in love as he stood in her steam bath of a kitchen with its horrible walls in his lawyer suit and excellent shoes, holding a bag of Chinese takeout.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay. That was one bitch of a storm this morning. Branches and limbs all over the place. Plus, I wanted to see you.”
Straight-up honesty, she decided, on both sides. “Hallie mentioned she—and people—are speculating about you and me.”
“You’re not in Baltimore anymore,” he began, then angled his head. “Is having people speculate a problem for you?”
“No. I thought it might be for you.”
“Why?”
She puffed out her cheeks. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m out of practice, Zane, on how this all works. Plus, I’m the new girl around here, and you’re the returning son.”
And, he thought, their relationship, so far, almost exclusively consisted of evenings, nights, mornings at his house.
That he could fix.
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“I’ll have to check my busy social calendar.”
“How about you squeeze in dinner at Grandy’s?”
“I think I can juggle that in.”
“For now, how do you feel about sweet and sour pork?”
“I feel really good about it. Why don’t we eat out on the front porch. It’s probably cooler out there than in here. And it’s certainly less ugly.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Just let me wash up—No, no, don’t touch me. I’m disgusting.”
“I think there’s a clean spot right here.” He continued in, cupped her chin, kissed her.
PART THREE
FROM ROOTS TO BLOOMING
Kind hearts are the gardens,
Kind thoughts are the roots,
Kind words are the flowers,
Kind deeds are the fruits.
—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The earth remains jagged and broken
only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.
—WALT WHITMAN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The following evening, though she discouraged it, Zane came to her place to partner up in the battle of the wallpaper.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“You think I can’t handle it. I have my own scraper.” He held it up.
“Oh, it’s all shiny and new. Not for long. All right, come on up. I’ll show you the battlefield. And I’m letting you know right now, if you decide to back out at any time, I won’t hold it against you.”
“Obviously you doubt not only my skills, my endurance, but my … Holy shit.” He gaped at her bedroom walls. “What is it?”
“It is the beast. It’s what slouched toward Bethlehem to be born.”
“It’s…” Cautiously, he ran a hand down it, felt the weird texture. “It’s somewhere between abandoned bordello and fresh hell. How do you sleep in here?”
“With my eyes closed.”
“Even then. Maybe we need reinforcements. Or napalm.”
“I figured we’d start with the bathroom. It’s smaller.”
He followed her across the hall, stared at the fish. “It’s sort of oddly amusing.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’re in the shower and they’re all staring at you.”
“Bad, but not as bad. No, we go for the gold—and red and black. We take on the beast. Show me what to do.”
Thirty minutes in, Zane looked at his partially stripped wall—and the screaming blue paint uncovered. He glanced over to check Darby’s progress. Slightly better than his, but she’d had practice.
“Reinforcements,” he announced. “I’ll draft Micah.”
“Zane, I can’t ask him to—”
“You’re not. I am. You got beer, wine, snacks?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out his phone, so Darby swallowed objections. Especially when she looked at the walls, the room, and estimated hours before they’d eradicate her bedroom nightmare.
“He’s in. Cassie’s coming, too. She’s actually done this before.” He pocketed the phone. “She still has the tools.”
She liked Cassie, who taught yoga, made pottery, and added a kind of bouncy, New Agey touch to Micah’s laid-back geek.
“That’s beyond nice of them. I’m just a little worried.”
“What? They know you bought the house this way.”
“Not that. It’s … What if, in these close quarters, Micah’s distracted by my hotness and hurts himself?”
“Funny.” Zane grabbed her, pulled her in.
* * *
While Zane and Darby stripped wallpaper with the affable Micah and the chatty, cheerful Cassie, Eliza cleaned the dinner dishes.
Graham had actually complimented her attempt at chicken and rice, had eaten well despite the sticky rice and dry chicken.
No wonder she adored him.
She felt he’d adjusted very well. When he’d first gotten his driver’s license reinstated, he’d insisted she accompany him everywhere. But he’d gradually regained his confidence.
She knew he disliked his job. Working in a medical supply store was lowering, but it fulfilled the terms of his parole, and now that he could drive to and from the strip mall, he’d gained some independence.
She hadn’t cared for her job at first either—terms of her own parole. But now that Graham was back, and he’d insisted she quit, she found she missed the interaction.
She had no social contacts, and since he took the car, nothing to do all day but stay home.
Her old life, the parties, the club, the lunches with friends, all of it lived inside her like a dream.
Calculating his mood, the timing, Eliza mixed them both an after-dinner drink. The dishes could wait. After all, she’d have the entire next day, alone, to deal with them.
After carrying the drinks to the living room, she sat beside him. He kissed her cheek as she curled her legs up.
“Thanks, lover.”
“It’s such a nice night. Maybe we could take a walk.”
“Too many nosy neighbors.”
“I guess you’re right.” She tipped her head to his shoulder. “Graham, I’ve been thinking I should get a car.”
“What for?”
“To shop, run errands.”
“You do all that on my days off.”
“Yes, but sometimes I think of something in the middle of the day, and I know how you dislike me asking you to pick something up on your way home.”
The lines around his mouth only dug deeper. “You should be more organized. It’s all you have to do, Eliza. You don’t have to get up every morning and go to a humiliating, menial job, do you?”
“No.” Instinctively, she rubbed a hand on his thigh. “I hate that you do. I hate it for you, but it won’t be forever. When this is over, we’ll be able to go wherever we want, start a real life together again. It’ll be like it used to be, Graham. We’ll buy a lovely house, join the country club. We can travel. We can—”
“Are you just stupid?”
“Graham.”
“How are we supposed to pay for all that? Goddamn lawyers took nearly everything.”
“I know, I know.” She rubbed his thigh. “But we still have some money, and I have my trust. We—”
He threw the drink in her face, blinding her so she didn’t see the first slap coming.
“Don’t. Please. You promised after the last time you wouldn’t hit me anymore. It’s not like it used to be, Graham, and I can’t—”
“Nothing’s like it used to be.” He slapped her again. “Your trust, you stupid, selfish bitch.” He shoved her to the floor, hitting her again when she tried to scramble up and away. “You want a big house, the country club, a goddamn car so you can go wherever you please while I’m humiliated selling blood pressure cuffs?”
When he dragged her up, pushed her against the wall, she tried to twist away, but he wrenched her arm, shooting pain throu
gh her that buckled her knees.
“What do you do? What the fuck do you do? Sit around all day thinking of what to complain about? You can’t even make a decent meal. You useless cunt.”
“Stop, stop, stop.”
“You want a car? You want a car so you can drive to some motel with whoever you were fucking while I was locked up like an animal?”
“I never—not with anyone. I waited for you.”
“Liar.” The gut punch would have doubled her over if he hadn’t pinned her to the wall. “You could never go two days without sex. Who knows better?”
“With you. With you.”
“With me.” He shoved up her skirt, yanked down her panties. It hurt, it hurt. When he raped her against the wall, there was only pain, no thrill, no deep, dark excitement.
And when he’d finished, when she dropped weeping to her knees, he stepped back, zipped his pants. “You’re not even good at that anymore.”
He kicked her, but put no real force behind it. That glorious, energizing rage had faded. He walked into the kitchen, glanced with disgust at the dishes yet to be washed.
And mixed himself another drink.
* * *
After his clients left, Zane sat at his desk. Clint and Traci Draper had given him a bad feeling. The consult had been odd enough, a boundary dispute, with the potential clients’ desire to sue a neighbor over what amounted to about twenty-five square feet of land.
Seeing as Draper claimed the land after a self-conducted new survey, his case was shaky at best. But what concerned Zane were the clients themselves.
The fact that Draper—down to the rebel flag belt buckle—appeared to put the red in redneck didn’t bother Zane. His assertion that his neighbors had a faggot for a son did, considerably.
What had troubled him even more than Draper’s brash, bigoted bullshit was the fact that his wife spent most of the consult with her eyes cast down and her mouth shut.
He knew the Draper family—hill people who kept to themselves. They’d had a reputation as hard-assed, bigoted troublemakers even when he’d been a kid. It struck him that Clint, the youngest of them, wanted to keep that rep going.
