B008KQO31S EBOK (14 page)

Elaine warmed to her theme. “If it does break, though, even if you can’t find the pattern locally, they have an eight-hundred number to track down stuff for customers.”

The lawyer tapped his toe.

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.” Elaine smiled. She was pretty, in that manicured, blond, high-maintenance way that did nothing for him. City girl. She needed the bright lights and modern conveniences to survive.

She’d be a lot of trouble if forced to backpack.

Whereas Phil, well, Phil struck him as the kind of woman who would cheerfully put up with a lot, enjoying the good bits and ignoring the bad.

With her family, it sounded as though she had lots of experience.

“It’s expensive for a reason.” Elaine’s words dragged him back to the conversation at hand.

“Huh.” He fanned through the catalog, not in the least bit interested in its contents. He felt McAllister fuming and was honest enough with himself to enjoy it.

“I demand to know what reason you have for seeking Philippa out,” McAllister finally sputtered.

Nick and Elaine regarded him as one. Nick waited, one beat or two, then shrugged. “I told you, she’s special to me.”

“How
special
?”

Nick smiled slowly and lowered his voice, as though he was recalling her many charms. “Oh, Phil is about as special as a lady can be.”

Truth be told, Nick was thinking about Phil’s charms. She’d put a lot behind her and come out fighting. He was beginning to sense how hard she’d had to buck her family’s expectations at every turn to chase her own aspirations. She was making a success of her business despite them all.

And this pompous ass had been sent down by her daddy to tell her what to do next.

He knew whose side he was on.

“Funny,” he said with a telling glance. “She’s never mentioned you.”

Dull red rose up the back of the other man’s neck. “We’ve never actually met.”

“Ah.” He nodded as though that explained everything because it did explain a lot. “You just thought you’d show up and take her to lunch? Let me guess—was this your boss’s idea?”

“No, her moth...” McAllister shut up, his keen legal mind discerning that any further confessions could be used against him.

“Wow, I haven’t had anyone’s mommy set me up in a long time,” Elaine mused.

“Hardly a surprise,” the lawyer snapped. “Women tend to be protective of their sons.”

Nick looked between the two of them and wondered what had happened before he got here.

Or whether something had happened a long time before that.

Elaine’s eyes glittered coldly. Then she summoned a smile and sauntered over to the more chaotic of the two desks. She threw Nick a quick, conspiratorial wink. He noticed that the desk was stacked with gardening magazines, half-rolled drawings and one cold cup of something pink that might well be herbal tea. There was lipstick on the rim, lipstick the same pale hue that made Phil’s lips look so soft.

Phil’s desk.

Nick’s heart began to pound as he recalled the way Phil had turned, the curiosity in her eyes when she had asked him about Bhutan. He could see the wonder lighting her features, the yearning to see the world’s wonders for herself.

That was part and parcel of what made Nick travel—the need to see and smell and experience for himself—though he had lost his grip on that lately. The look on Phil’s face had awakened his dormant urge to explore, as well as giving him a sudden tug of commonality with her.

Which was why he had almost kissed her again.

He wished now that he hadn’t pulled back. He stared at the lipstick stain and relived the taste of Phil, the smell of her skin, the warmth of her against his chest. He might have come back to apologize and set things straight between them, but he decided then and there that he wanted one more taste before he left.

Just to make sure he hadn’t imagined how good it was.

With an effort, he managed to track what Elaine was saying. “You know, just the other day, Philippa was talking about you, Nick.” She lied so smoothly that he almost believed it was the truth.

He told himself sternly to not even go there.

Elaine poked beneath a hardcover book left open and frowned in apparent concentration. “She had the cutest pictures of the two of you on vacation, you know at that nude beach?” She cast Nick a wide-eyed glance and he nearly laughed at loud at her improvisation. “Well, Philippa didn’t let me see all of them, of course—” Elaine even managed to blush a bit “—but oh, that sunburn must have
hurt
...”

“What?” McAllister made a strangled sound. “What nude beach? What vacation? Her family said nothing about Philippa having a past!”

“Everyone has a past,” Nick said calmly. “At least everyone interesting does.”

Elaine laughed. McAllister spun to point an accusing finger at nick. “You’re the bad influence on Philippa. I demand to know who you are! I demand to know the full extent of your relationship.
I demand to know what the hell is going on here!”

Phil chose that moment to make her reappearance.

The Beast farted in the parking lot and ran on after the engine had died. The three of them turned as one to look. Phil hauled open the door, her hair in disarray, her lipstick gone and her cheeks kissed by the sun. She was wearing flat shoes and there was a smudge of dirt on her skirt, as well as more than one run in her stockings. She looked hurried, hassled and happier than Nick had expected.

He thought she looked fantastic.

I
pulled into the lot at eleven fifty-five, and couldn’t help but notice the gleaming silver beemer beside Elaine’s econo-box. The man was punctual, as predicted by Mom Radar.

And I was filthy. I’d had to dig up those hellebores myself. I’d run my stockings and had soil under my nails, I’d almost certainly eaten my lipstick and probably had some earthy souvenirs on my suit. You’ve got to love black for practicality.

But Mrs. H. was delighted. And making my client happy had made me happy.

To be honest, getting my hands into the dirt always makes me happy. I like the feel of the soil in my hands, I love seeing all the life teeming within it. The hellebores had been breathtakingly healthy, though they would shock with being moved. Mrs. H. had hovered like an anxious mother hen when I dug up the plants and we made a little bond there that surprised me.

Here I had thought she was all about show, but she loved those hellebores, possibly more than her own children. Maybe they were more deserving of her affection. Not my question to ask.

But I could relate to her concern for those plants.

Mrs. H.’s hellebores were in bloom, of course, being as they are one of the first hints of spring’s arrival. Hellebores like the sun in the spring but not in the summer, so they’re fond of corners like the one she had chosen. Here, a hardy hydrangea was cut back to a foot or so and still slumbering, but in summer, it would be a good six feet across and shelter the hellebores beneath its shade.

The hellebore has a striking flower with five petals. Mrs. H.’s all had huge white blossoms—the classic Christmas Rose—but you can find purple and pink hellebores, even chartreuse ones. The petals hang on over the summer, and turn green while the seed pods grow from the center. The plants have lovely leathery dark green leaves and are beautiful all year long.

In the spring, though, they’re pure magic.

Once Mrs. H. was convinced that I wouldn’t kill her babies, we talked about adding some bulbs to showcase them. There aren’t too many choices that bloom that early in Massachusetts, but some snowdrops would echo their white and green show. Or crocuses, either in giddy yellows, like Gypsy Girl, or purples like Prince Claus, or early buttery-hued
C. ancyrensis
.

My instinct was to go with both the snowdrops—the early, green-accented Flore Pleno would be perfect—and the purple crocus, maybe adding a second purple crocus patterned differently, like Barr’s Purple. We could save the hydrangea—it was a lovely white-blossomed Annabelle—to shade them all in the summer.

It got her thinking about color, which was a good thing because she was uncertain about it. She struck me as a woman who liked subtlety, who wanted the garden to look simple and uniform until you crouched down and really
looked
. She was going to love those blue hostas with the fine white outline on each leaf.

There’s something satisfyingly complex about garden design. Just as a choreographer has to make a beautiful whole from the movements and shapes of the individual dancers, so must I put together living things, nurture them, anticipate them, and arrange them to their own advantage through at least three seasons of the year. When a garden design works, I feel not like a creator but a facilitator.

And no garden ever feels done to me. It never can be done, because the participants aren’t static. The plants grow, they thrive or they falter, the weather favors one this year and another the next. The spotlight has to move seamlessly to highlight each one in its seasonal prime, providing a shifting and interesting show.

I still visit my “completed” works—the contract might be complete, but the living sculpture of the garden never will be—and suggest a trim here, another perennial there, an addition of a little toothy-leafed plant to brighten that corner.

It’s proof of my theory of incompletion that every garden I revisit surprises me in some way. It never matches my vision of how I expected it to grow—sometimes because of the plants themselves, or sometimes because the owner became a new choreographer and began making changes of their own.

And like all good dance, there’s a measure of magic in the mix. Unpredictable events make the magic. Plants don’t always bloom according to plan, or even in the color stated on the label. They surprise me constantly—and they amaze me in their endless variations.

Our talk got me all fired up about getting back to the office and working on those plans. I was whistling as I climbed the steps to the office, feeling much more my usual self, skeptics be damned.

Maybe I wouldn’t have to endure a date lunch after all. Though I hadn’t planned to look like the frump special, it could certainly play to my advantage. If Jeffrey recoiled from my less than perfect state, then he could eat lunch alone.

I fully expected him to do just that—I mean, he was working for my father.

I didn’t, however, expect Nick to be there.

But he was leaning against my desk, looking at me as though I held the keys to the universe. His arms were folded across his chest and he was pretty dusty, which made me feel a teensy bit guilty about kicking him out of the truck.

He also looked as though nothing short of a nuclear bomb would get him out of the office without having his say first.

Even that was touch and go.

My mouth went dry and my footstep faltered. And that meant that I was in trouble already. After all, I had been positive I’d never see him again, that he’d just hop back on a plane and head back to Seattle. Or somewhere even more exotic.

I told myself not to read too much into anything.

He must want something from me.

Before Nick could say anything, I turned to the only other man in the office. Jeffrey looked as I had expected—all turned out in Brooks Brothers, tall, lean, handsome and breathtakingly predictable. He seemed horrified by my appearance. Nick might prove tough to shake, but Jeffrey could be sent running in a hurry.

Elaine, oddly enough, didn’t look inclined to pitch relief.

“You must be Jeffrey.” I stepped forward to offer my hand, dirty nails and all. “I’m Philippa Coxwell.”

But it was Nick that caught my hand and stepped between us. He looked dangerous, disreputable and—as much as I didn’t want to admit it—bitably sexy. If my heart had been on a diving board, the lurch it made would have been a glorious belly-flop into the pool.

So much for immunity.

“Phil, we’ve got to talk.”

My habitual weakness for this man was making a encore that I could have lived without. “We
did
talk.”

“No. You’ve got to hear me out.”

I tried to pull my hand from his grip and lost. Still I tried to be sensible. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be angry, especially not with me.” His voice dropped in the way that made my knees turn to butter and he smiled that little smile I loved. His thumb moved persuasively across my hand, leaving a heat wave in its wake. “It would be one thing if I deserved it, but not this time.”

I tried to look unswayed.

“You’re my oldest friend, Phil. That’s not something worth chucking away over a misunderstanding.”

Oh, he was good. My defenses were crumbling fast—it was time to bail. “I
did
understand you. You thought I’d be useful to you, but hey, I’m not.” I forced a smile that was supposed to be perky. “Happy trails, Nick. See you in fifteen years, maybe. Maybe not.”

I tried to step past him but didn’t make it. His hands landed on my elbows and he looked annoyed as I’d never seen him before. “I’m not my brother,” he insisted, then bent and kissed me.

It was a bone melter of a kiss and put our only previous effort to shame. Every sinew dissolved right on cue. His tongue slid across my lips and I opened my mouth to him, and then it was too late.

The man tasted better than chocolate.

Which is saying something.

In fact, I could give up chocolate for kisses like that—and probably lose ten pounds in the process. I forgot whatever it was we were arguing about and didn’t care.

I don’t know how my hands got in his hair, but it was thick and well worth grabbing onto. He smelled like sunshine and wind and made me hungry for something I’d never much had a hankering for before.

I don’t know whether Nick meant to shut me up or to persuade me to agree with him or just to set my undies on fire, but he accomplished all three in record speed.

I was dizzy when he lifted his head and had to hang on to his shoulders to make sure I didn’t fall over.

His expression was no less intense than before. “Phil, I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t set you up. I’d never do that to you.”