by Nora Roberts
But now, stuck together in this ugly box of a house, coming home from humiliating work to find her putting some disgusting excuse for a meal together night after endless night?
She reminded him, every day, every hour, every minute, of all he’d lost. Her fault, too. If she’d handled the little brat upstairs, he would have dealt with the disappointing, disrespectful son she’d given him.
Then she’d turned on him, betrayed him, told their secrets in exchange for a lighter sentence.
He’d done eighteen goddamn years due to her weakness.
It was past time she understood she’d cost him everything. Past time she accepted the punishment for it.
If she’d done what she’d been supposed to do, he’d still be Dr. Bigelow. Still be someone important. Still have his life, and not wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat as he dreamed of prison.
Yes, she’d cost him everything, and he should never have let himself forget that. She and the children they should never have had were responsible. She’d cost him nearly twenty years, and she had the nerve to whine to him—again—about getting a car, a job, moving.
Then that sad, sad look she’d given him when she’d come to.
Still, she’d done the dishes—he hadn’t had to tell her that a second time—while he’d watched TV, because what else was there to do with the endless evenings in this shack they rented like a couple of losers?
He hadn’t noticed her slurred speech immediately—he hadn’t been listening to her endless whiny chatter. Then she’d said his name, like a question, before she’d collapsed, before she’d seized.
He’d watched for a moment or two, more fascinated than alarmed before he’d gone to her, dealt with her. But he knew, made his diagnosis, as he watched her slide away.
Subdural hematoma. A brain bleed. Head blows were tricky that way, with all those tiny veins in the meninges. When she died in his arms, he stroked her hair, even wept.
Then the truth struck. Walking out of the prison gates hadn’t given him freedom. But this did.
He had cash in the house. He’d instructed her to withdraw cash every week, every week for all these years. Some instinct, he decided, must have foreseen this very day.
He could get more, would need more, as credit cards left a trail. He’d need two days—report to his probation officer on Friday, report to work on Saturday. He had Sunday and Monday off.
He could—as he’d yet to take a day—call in sick Tuesday and Wednesday. He doubted his supervisor would report him right away, so he would have as much as a week’s head start.
He had a car, and would keep to back roads, to the speed limit, use cash. As steps and purpose ran through his mind, he realized under it all that he’d planned for this all along.
He knew not only what to do, but what had to be done.
He’d spent years saving lives, and they’d taken that from him. Wasn’t it true justice for him to now take lives? To take the lives of the people who’d stolen his?
“You freed me, Eliza.” He stroked her hair, her cheek. “Be happy for me.”
Rising, he went to the bedroom, took a blanket, a pillow and arranged them in the tiny second bedroom. He carried her in, laid her carefully down on the floor, then covered her with a sheet.
He wasn’t an animal.
* * *
Darby consulted with a client at the woman’s pretty lakeside cottage. Noting the dock, the boat, the slope and rickety wooden steps leading down to both, Darby already had ideas.
“I bet when you’re not out on the water, you’re sitting up there looking at it,” Darby mused.
“You’d win that bet.” Patsy Marsh, a cheerful woman in her fifties, just smiled. “My Bill and I love living on the lake. Our kids are both in college now, but when they’re home, they’re right out there with us. Do you like to sail?”
“I haven’t tried it yet. Busy season for me.”
“So I see and hear. I’m hoping you can help us out, even though it’ll make you busier. You can see,” Patsy said as she gestured at the slope. “We just can’t keep mowing that. Bill kept saying leave it be, then he had a fall with the mower, and I put my foot down. He wasn’t hurt, but he could’ve been. He finally threw up his hands and said to call that girl who did Emily’s place.”
“I’m glad he did, because you’re right, he could’ve been hurt. You said you were thinking ground covers.”
“Something that we don’t have to mow, but isn’t unsightly, doesn’t get too tall.”
“I can give you some recommendations there, but—”
“Uh-oh!” Now Patsy laughed. “Emily told me to watch out if you said ‘but.’”
“She knows me too well.”
“I’m willing to listen.”
“I like to think about what I’d do if a client’s place was my place. And what I’d do here is, first, replace those steps with stone. Widen them another foot.”
“I’ve been telling Bill somebody’s going to go right through one of them and break an ankle. Keep going.”
“On the slope, I’d continue this really nice patio by doing a couple terraces of raised beds, matching the stone on the steps. Curved terraces to mirror the curve of the lake, low shrubs and perennials. And at the base, I’d do river rock.”
“I’ve seen that wall you built up at Zane’s place, and it’s gorgeous. But it’s so structured. It feels like it wouldn’t work for the cottage.”
Ah, Darby thought, a woman who can see what’s good, what’s not.
Excellent.
“You’re right, it wouldn’t. You want something pretty, but a little more, well, cottagey—like the soft, sand brown of your patio. I’d want that same look.”
“I’ve never been able to plant anything on this damn slope.”
“Your front garden’s beautiful, and so are your patio planters. You do it yourself?”
“I do, and I love to garden. I’d love plants out here. Curved,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t that just look sweet?”
“It would—from your house, your patio, and from the water. I could do a rough sketch for you to show your husband.”
“Why don’t you do that? We’re going to need some numbers.”
“I can work that up. Let me get some measurements.”
“Emily told me you’d have ideas.”
She had a million of them, and dispensed more to another potential client in Lakeview Terrace.
Darby walked the lake-facing backyard—enormous yard—with the pert and perky Charlene. “Your house, your view, your gardens are absolutely stunning. Why do you need me?”
“I really want to keep the gardens stunning. I can’t take credit for them. We just moved in this winter, but Joe and I’ve done our best to keep them up. The thing is we both work full-time, have an active two-year-old—who’s with his grammy today—and we’re expecting our second in November.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. We’re excited. The thing is we need someone to do fall maintenance, spring cleanup, and, at least for a while, help us with what we’ve got here every couple weeks. The owners before us did a hell of a good job, but she was retired and an avid gardener. Before them, the owners had, I’m told, groundskeepers.”
“And that’s what you’re looking for.”
“More or less. But, both Joe and I want to work at it, too. It’s relaxing and satisfying—and it’s our yard. It’s just we sure need to learn more than we know now. We figure, when we can, to sort of shadow you.”
“That’s what I like to hear. If the goal is to have a beautiful landscape and have someone else deal with it? Nothing’s wrong with that. But better, to my mind, to take real ownership.
“You have busy lives,” Darby added. “That’s where we come in. I can put you on a schedule for the twice-monthly maintenance, and we’d follow the weather for the spring and fall.”
“Perfect.”
“Can I ask how you heard about us?”
“Britt Norten.
She and I both work at the clinic. I’m an urgent care doctor. And coincidentally, Britt used to live here.”
“She, oh…” Where Zane grew up. Darby turned to study the house again; all that beautiful glass made it seem so open. But it hadn’t been. The grounds, blooming, graceful, made it seem so gracious. It had been anything but.
How would he feel about her working here?
“You know Britt, right?”
“Yes, yes, I know Britt. I know the family. Why don’t I give you a price list, and if you want us to go ahead, I’ll send you a contract.”
“Perfect. While you’re here, there are a couple of plants I just can’t figure out. I tried books, internet. Maybe you can tell me what they are.”
“Sure.”
She walked around with Charlene, identified a few mystery plants as Charlene looked over the price list.
Surely Zane had walked here as a boy, maybe hit some fungoes, tossed up a baseball to snag. Had he wandered out to the dock to sit dreaming by the water?
Dreamed of pulling himself out of the grip of those undercurrents churning so violently inside the handsome house.
“This is exactly what we need.”
“I’m sorry?” Darby yanked herself back. “I was distracted.”
“I said this is just what we need. Why don’t you email the contract and Joe and I will look it over tonight?”
When they came to terms, Darby walked back to her truck torn between the elation of signing a twice-monthly client and worry over how Zane would feel.
She might not have noticed the Mercedes across the street—luxury cars peppered the development—but its engine turned over just as she reached her truck. She had a vague impression of a man behind the wheel in a ball cap and sunglasses before he pulled away from the curb and drove off.
It struck her as slightly odd that she hadn’t seen the driver walk to the car or get in, but she dismissed it. Still distracted, she thought.
She had a couple more stops to make before joining the crew. They’d finally squeezed in a full day’s work between guests at the next-to-last bungalow.
But the nursery came first, and since Joy of Best Blooms had already talked to her good friend Patsy Marsh, she wanted to talk about the planned terraces, the plantings.
The stop she’d estimated at ten minutes took closer to thirty, but she got what she needed. She hit the hardware store and another conversation. It was the South, after all, and she’d learned to roll with it.
Though she’d intended to go straight to the bungalow, when she saw Emily’s truck outside of reception, she pulled in. To check the rock garden, she took a winding route, gave a nod of satisfaction before winding back to the front door.
Inside, Emily crunched her phone between her ear and shoulder while she keyboarded. “Happy to, and I’ve got you booked, party of four, for tomorrow at eight a.m. That’s right. Yes, they’ll take good care of you. You’re welcome. Bye now.”
After pulling the phone free, she rolled her shoulders, tick-tocked her head.
“You should get a headset.”
“I keep meaning to.”
“Emily, your hair!”
Biting her bottom lip, Emily lifted a hand to her newly shorn bob. “Is it awful?”
“I love it. Seriously. It looks fun and breezy, and … you got some highlights,” Darby added as she moved closer.
“A few, just to perk it up.”
“It perked. It’s a great cut. Who did it? I’ve been trimming my own since I got here because, well, it’s hard to trust somebody with your hair. But I’d trust whoever gave you that cut.”
“Sarrie Binkum, down at Reflection Salon.”
“Do they do pedicures? I’m doing my own there, too. My work’s hard on the feet.”
“They sure do.”
“I’ll try them out. And I’m holding you up.”
“You’re not. In fact, you’re just in time, because I need a break. Come sit outside on my very pretty patio.”
“Five minutes.”
“That’s about all I’ve got, too. Time enough for a cold drink and a breath.”
Back in the kitchen, Emily poured tea, making the ice in the glasses crackle. “I was going to head over to Bungalow Eight, just to let you know the guests coming in tomorrow asked if they could check in at noon. Any way you can be finished?”
“I’ll make sure we are.”
“You’re a wonder, Darby.”
After carrying out the tea, Emily sat at the little table with its cheerful striped umbrella. “I’m taking part of our five minutes to repeat what I told you up at Zane’s the other night. I love what you’ve done, and you were right. I do look out the window and smile. Plus, bookings are up.”
With a sigh, she looked around. “I needed to get this place, and myself, out of the rut. You kicked us out of it.”
“And I’ll repeat my appreciation for the referrals. I got two new clients today.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“One of them is the family that lives in Zane’s old house.”
Emily paused, then nodded slowly. “I see. You’re worried that’s going to be a problem for Zane, for Britt, for the rest of us.”
“Yes. Well, I don’t think Britt, as she’s my referral. The client’s Dr. Charlene Ledbecker. She works at the urgent care at the clinic.”
“Good for Britt,” Emily stated.
“It couldn’t have been easy for her to make a connection with the woman who owns the house where so much happened to her.”
“Britt’s got spine. So does Zane.”
“I know it, but—”
“It’s a house, Darby. It wasn’t the house that hurt those children. Do you want my advice?”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“Talk to Zane, get it off your mind.”
“I will. I wanted to talk to you, too.”
“It’s a house.” Emily patted Darby’s hand. “I think of Eliza in it once in a while. Those moments when you can’t sleep, and your mind starts roaming to dredge up every mistake you ever made.”
“I know those moments.”
“I can wish I’d made more of an effort to be close to her, but then, would it have mattered? Would that have changed anything? I think of her now, once in a while, wonder if I should reach out to her. Our parents aren’t getting any younger, and there’s been no contact in nearly twenty years. Should there be? I’m never sure if that would matter or change anything.
“But I know Zane and Britt deserve my unwavering support and loyalty. So I don’t reach out.”
She shrugged it off. “I like seeing him happy. You make him happy.”
“I think we were both ready, both at a point where we were ready to be happy. Being happy with someone’s like a bonus. Now I’m going to go finish your bungalow.”
“I’ll come down and look as soon as I can.”
“Sit,” Darby said as Emily started to get up. She came around behind, rubbed Emily’s shoulders. “Finish your tea, smell your flowers.”
“Five more minutes.” Reaching back, Emily squeezed Darby’s hand. “Stay happy.”
“That’s the plan.”
* * *
Zane wasn’t sure what he was in for when Darby texted she planned to cook dinner. Especially since she put cook in scare quotes.
Still, he figured if it bombed, they had frozen pizza or canned ravioli.
When he walked in after a pretty damn good day, she stood in the kitchen chopping a bunch of stuff he assumed meant salad. And whatever she had in the oven smelled really okay.
A bottle of wine stood open on the counter with two glasses.
“This here’s what I’m talking about. My woman making me a hot meal.” He exaggerated the southern, gave her a light slap on the butt to punctuate it.
When she just rolled her eyes and laughed, he bent down to kiss the infinity symbol on the back of her neck. “What’s the occasion?”
“Besides being Tuesday? We finished the next
-to-last bungalow and started prep work for your water feature, and I signed two more clients.”
“Big day. Sounds like I should make you a hot meal.”
“Your turn next. But you sure could pour that wine.”
He liked coming home, finding her there. Maybe he got some twinges about just how much he liked it, but one look at her and they died away.
He supposed he could work up some twinges over how easily the twinges died away, but that edged into paranoid territory.
“So, what are we having?”
“This very healthy salad, which includes some of your own nasturtium.”
“I have nasturtium? What is it?”
She tapped her finger at the bold orange and yellow flowers on the counter.
“Flowers?” That one set him back. “We’re eating flowers?”
“They’re not only edible and pretty, but very tasty—as are their leaves, which are already in the salad.”
“Okay, but you go first.”
“Coward.” She plucked a petal off a flower, popped it in her mouth. “Yum.”
“Uh-huh. What are we eating besides flowers?”
“The amazing mac and cheese I made—not from a box, but from scratch.”
“Get out. How is that even possible?”
“I asked that question when Hallie and Roy started arguing about which of their mamas made the best mac and cheese in the history of mac and cheese. I made some comment about those handy microwave packages of same, and was met with serious disdain. I mean serious. Anyway.”
She picked up her wine, drank, gestured. “After my humiliation came inspiration. I went with Hallie’s because she called her mother right then and there, rattled off the recipe—adding any fool could make it. I am that fool.”
She gestured again, drank again. “And let me point out right now, there was nothing easy about it. You’d think, mac and cheese, how hard could it be? I can’t even talk about it.”
The oven timer buzzed. “Well, here we go.”
She went over, opened the oven door.
“It smells good,” Zane said over her shoulder. “It looks good.”
