Garden of Scandal

by Jennifer Blake

  He wanted her to do this little chore for him. Why? So he need not look as if he were backing down, so it would seem like her idea? Or did he think that Alec might not like having to answer to her in front of him? Was it one more snide dig at his brother?

  Rising, she walked to the railing. Lifting her voice in clear appeal, she called, “Alec?”

  At the first sound of her voice, he looked up from the ditch he was digging, his dark eyes flashing like obsidian caught by the sun. He lifted a brow in inquiry.

  “I believe your brother would appreciate it if you could take him home now.”

  He met her gaze for a long moment before he gave a slow nod. It might have been no more than an acknowledgment, but it felt like an instant of intense communication. The two of them, she thought, understood each other very well. Possibly too well.

  She heard Gregory’s curse from behind her, but she didn’t care.

  It was later, after Alec had returned from seeing his brother home, when she noticed the low rumble of thunder. She looked up from the catalog in front of her where she was reading about Monsieur Tillier, an old-fashioned red tea rose she thought she might like to order for her garden. The rumble came again—closer now, and louder, as if it meant business. From the corner of her eye, she caught the flicker of lightning through the lace curtains over the windows. She counted only to five before thunder rolled again. The lightning strike was close, at least according to country wisdom.

  Was Alec still working in the front garden? Maybe he should take shelter on the veranda. Or he could step into the safety of the garage if he was in the side yard.

  She might have to let him in the house if the wind got too high. He would get wet on the veranda since the rain sometimes swept in under the overhanging roof, wetting the floor all the way to the inner wall. The garage, of course, was tight enough and perfectly safe, if he only had the sense to head in that direction.

  On the other hand, being brought up in California he might not realize what a late-spring storm could be like in Louisiana. It was possible he didn’t know how quickly it could blow up, or how strong it could become. She hesitated, flipping her pen between her fingers in a nervous gesture, as she considered checking on him.

  He was a grown man, for pity’s sake; surely he could take care of himself! He didn’t need her to baby him. Or did he?

  Wasn’t that what some younger men were supposed to want when they sought out an older woman? He could be a classic case since he had lost his mother while still young, and had been forced to nurture others instead of being nurtured himself.

  Yes. And just maybe she was attracted to him as a substitute for the son and daughter Mother Bancroft had virtually taken away—or some such psychological claptrap. It made about as much sense, didn’t it?

  She could hear the first drops of rain rattling in the hard glossy leaves of the magnolia outside her window. Pushing back her chair in sudden decision, she walked quickly toward the front door.

  Alec wasn’t in the front garden. She stood for an instant, absorbing the moist coolness of the rain, listening to its patter on the roof and breathing in the wet-earth smell of it. The wind lifted her hair and swirled under her skirt, cooling her in places she hadn’t even known were warm. Then, in the distance, she heard the hissing advance of a stronger downpour as it marched over the woods toward the house. Glancing toward the sound, she saw the heavy, dragging curtain of dense rain.

  She swung toward the steps, hastening down them, ducking her head against the rain splattering from the roof. Turning right at the bottom, she followed the curving steps around to the side yard. At the gate, she leaned to stare into the garage.

  It was empty. Alec wasn’t there.

  She swung back the way she had come, taking the path to the other side of the house. There was no gate here to block the brick walkway that rounded the curving end of the veranda and continued to the back. As the rain increased, she started to run.

  Then she saw him. She stopped dead still.

  He was sitting on top of the cistern, balanced on its concrete cap with his feet folded and hands resting on his bent knees in what she recognized vaguely as the lotus position. His fingers were lightly cupped, his eyes closed, his face perfectly still and upturned to the rain.

  It beat down on him, wetting his hair, beading on his shoulders, then running in rivulets over his bare chest and the flat surface of his abdomen. It glistened, sheeting his muscles and the corded veins of his body, washing over him as naturally as if he were no more than a fence post or a tree. It was cool now, especially with the wind, but he seemed not to feel the chill. His skin shone, smooth and golden brown, without the goose bumps that beaded her own flesh.

  Peace. Pleasure. Passionate joy. These radiated from him in waves, reaching out to her as if to draw her nearer. She took a step. Another.

  Abruptly, he opened his eyes. And the emotions she felt coming from him increased a hundredfold. They were frightening in their intensity as he held her gaze. But most frightening of all was how much she wanted to respond, how deep her need was to go to him and join him in his rain bath. In his warmth and peace. In his burning passion for life.

  She forgot to breathe as she hovered there. Then she remembered with a soft gasp. Sanity returned along with the air in her lungs. She whirled with her wet skirt swinging around her calves, spraying water. Ducking her head against the rain, she ran for the safety of the house.

  6

  Laurel studied the bowl she had taken from the kiln. It was as large as she could make it, yet fairly shallow like a birdbath. She had bisque-fired it on the outside first, then glazed it with ripple shadings of a pellucid blue-green on the inside. She was proud of the way it had turned out. It was actually one of the best things she had done since she had begun to concentrate on her pottery in the years after Howard died.

  He had never liked her “messing around with pots,” as he called it. He seemed jealous of the time she spent at it, though she tried to stay out of the shed except when he was at work. He also claimed the clay dried her hands, making them rough and forcing her to keep her fingernails too short. Mainly, he was embarrassed by her artistic leanings. It wasn’t the kind of thing women around Hillsboro did in their spare time. Gardening was all right so long as it was something practical like growing vegetables; at least he could understand such a traditional female pastime. He could have accepted her taking up embroidery or crochet or even painting. But what, he asked, did she get out of pots?

  She could never provide an answer that satisfied him. She just liked forming things from the smooth, sensuous clay, enjoyed watching them come to life under her hands, loved the moment when she opened the kiln and could see how the colors and designs she had applied with metallic oxides were transformed by the firing. Making pots left her feeling confident and creative, and somehow well-formed within herself.

  The shed was also her retreat, though she hadn’t been able to explain that need, either. Howard would have considered it a silly affectation; yet he’d been one of the most withdrawn people she had ever seen. He had seldom gone anywhere except to work during their marriage; had had no use for leisure-time activities or socializing. He’d been such a stay-at-home that Laurel sometimes thought he had used Ivywild as his sanctuary. As she did, now.

  This week, she was using the shed mainly to stay away from Alec. From its windows, she could sometimes catch a glimpse of him as he rode the ditchdigger or laid pipe. She could monitor his progress with the fountain as she moved back and forth between the shed and the house. In a way, she could be a part of what he was doing while remaining hidden.

  At least she was working again with her pottery after several days away from it. Smiling a little, she ran her fingers along the inside of her bowl, which was still warm from the kiln, delighting in the silky-smooth slide of the glazing. She had intended to plant the piece with succulents and put it beside the back door, but it would really be a shame to hide the gorgeous color with potting soil. Sh
e would leave it on the cooling table while she considered what other use she might find for it. Something would come to her; it always did.

  Turning back to her workbench, she looked at the three-foot oval of clay she had prepared earlier. Next to it was propped a page from an artifact catalog showing a plaque inspired by the Bocca della Verità, or “mouth of truth.” Taken from the original in the Santa Maria in Cosmedin church in Rome, it showed the gargoyle-like face of a man with his mouth open and tongue exposed, and with hair and a beard formed of stylized leaves. According to legend, the mouth of the Italian original would snap closed on the hand of anyone who told a lie while touching the tongue. The illustration also resembled the traditional Green Man of Europe, the sculpted face signifying the more lusty aspects of Beltane, or Midsummer’s Eve, the night of the summer solstice when the ancients celebrated the fecundity of nature.

  The face and the idea behind it intrigued Laurel—had from the moment she’d first seen it. Just as fascinating, however, was the notion of sculpting one in clay. Rather than send off for a Green Man from the catalog, she was in the process of making her own.

  Placing her hands on the clay, she began to pinch and form it. She wasn’t copying the catalog picture, but rather using it as a guide for general size and proportion. It was such a pleasure, watching the face form under the strong push of her thumbs. She dipped her fingers in water, stroking, pulling, forming the nose and brows in relief. Reaching for a trimming tool and scalpel in turn, she carved the curves and grooves of graceful leaves.

  Time lost its meaning as she worked to refine and perfect her clay man’s features, adding texture, creating contrast. She was oblivious to Sticks lying at her feet, the hungry growl of her stomach, or the increasing heat inside the shed as the day advanced. She was content, as happy as she had been in years, perhaps in her whole life, with the exception of when her children were small.

  Maisie brought her a snack in the middle of the afternoon, grumbling with every step because Laurel had missed lunch. Laurel thanked her absently and ate a piece of cheese, then followed it with a couple of bites of apple while she studied her plaque. After a moment, she put her apple down to adjust a curve. When she glanced up again, Maisie was gone and the apple was covered with sugar ants.

  It was some time later when a shadow moved at the doorway. Sticks looked up, but only thumped his tail and put his head back on his paws. Alec. It could be no one else.

  She looked at him over her shoulder as he stepped inside. A faint smile touched his mouth as he saw her, saw what she was doing. The gladness of it held a vivid reminder of the afternoon of the rainstorm—one that made her uneasy.

  She returned her gaze to the slab of sculpted clay in front of her. Shock moved over her. Her fingers curled around the trimming tool she still held, gripping it tightly.

  The face of the Green Man she had rendered so painstakingly in soft, malleable clay bore a striking resemblance to Alec. It was his wide forehead, his thick brows and high cheekbones that she had depicted there, his hair that flowed in loose curves to mingle with vines and leaves. His pleasure and glowing yet quiescent life was carved into the clay just as she had seen them when he looked at her through the falling rain. But there was also something of him that she had taken from that first night, when he had appeared from out of the tangled growth of her front garden. It was an impression of latent danger along with a warm satyr’s smile on the slightly parted lips, a promise of rare and forbidden delights.

  Laurel put down the tool she held and dipped her hands in water before reaching for a towel. With elaborate unconcern, she dried her hands, then dropped the towel over the sculpture. Only then did she turn toward him.

  “You’re through for the day?” she said, lightly. “I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

  He inclined his head. “I had something I wanted to show you. If you can find a stopping place.”

  “Yes, of course.” Relief at having an excuse to get him away from the shed and her sculpture made her more cordial than she had been in several days.

  Instead of swinging to leave as she moved toward him, he stepped farther into the open building. “What’s this?”

  She stiffened for an instant, then saw that he was talking about the bowl she had taken from the kiln earlier. Moving to block his view of the workbench, she picked up the bowl and handed it to him as she explained.

  “You really made this?” he asked, tilting the bowl to the light, then slanting her a look of surprised appreciation.

  “With my very own two hands.” The words were stiff.

  “Fantastic,” he murmured with a shake of his head.

  Gratification as foolish as it was impossible to resist spread through her. “It was just an experiment with color.”

  “Reminds me of the bottom of the sea,” he said. “Ripples in the sand with the sun sparkling through the water.”

  That was exactly what it looked like, she saw, though the most amazing thing about the description was his total lack of self-consciousness as he gave it. In any case, she refused to take credit. “An accident. I just liked the design.”

  “Some of the best things happen that way.”

  “You have an interest in pottery?” The astonishment in her voice, she realized, might not be as flattering as that he had shown her.

  He shrugged. “I’ve tried my hand at a few pieces. Mostly big things—urns, basins, columns.”

  “Mr. Wu taught you, I suppose.”

  “You got it.” His wry grin tipped one corner of his mouth. “The old guy liked arbors and small pools and so on. He called them a garden’s bones. Not much he found in garden centers or supply houses suited him, or else the prices were off-the-wall—you should have heard what he had to say about that, most of it in Chinese. He imported a piece or two from Europe or Asia, but mostly he built his own.”

  “An amazing man.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his lashes coming down over his expression like defense shields. After an instant, he said, “I have an idea for your bowl.”

  “What?”

  “I’d rather show you when it’s done. If you don’t like it, all you have to do is say so.”

  She gave him a dubious look, but his features revealed nothing. “You won’t put a hole in it?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  The firmness of his voice was reassuring. His instincts had been excellent so far. Besides, she was curious to see what he would do. “Fine,” she answered, then added briskly, “Now, about whatever it was you wanted to show me?”

  His face changed at her tone, and he set the bowl down. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a credible Southern drawl as he swept a hand toward the door. “This way, ma’am.”

  Moving ahead of him, she discovered she didn’t mind his mockery. In a peculiar way, she even appreciated it. Yet she could also see that it might be only a step from mockery to familiarity, and that could well be a step too close.

  She heard it before she saw it—the thing he wanted her to see. She flashed him a look and saw the corroboration in his eyes. She increased her pace, almost running toward the gate in the side fence. She skimmed through, rounded the oval end of the house.

  There it was. Her fountain, glittering in the slanting light of late afternoon as it sprang from its graceful fountainhead. It arched, leaping in liquid grace, dancing with the sunbeams and catching rainbow fire before splattering back down into the square brick pool Alec had built to catch it. Its water music warbled on the air, a sweet and natural sound. Clean, pure, endlessly flowing, captured yet free, the fountain held the spirit of the creek in its heart. It was everything she had wanted, yet so much more than she’d expected that fullness strained her chest. She could not stop smiling, smiling.

  Alec, coming to stand at Laurel’s side, watched the blaze of joy rising in her face. The backbreaking labor of the last few days fell away from him as if it had never been. He had his reward. If she never spoke a word of gratitude, he would still recall this m
oment and feel it was all worthwhile.

  Then she turned to him, her smile so brilliant, her face so clear and candid that he felt his heart jar in his chest. No conscious decision moved him, no rational cause and effect. It was instinct alone that made him step forward with his arms open.

  She stepped into them—he would always remember that—swaying against him as he pulled her close. Holding his breath, he fitted the slender and resilient softness of her body to the hardness of his own, matching curves and concaves as if they were a paired set meant to be brought together. He closed his eyes as he absorbed the feel of her, took the essence of her into the core of his being, savored the sense of completion. Then he inhaled slow and deep, letting the sweet yet sensuous scents of roses and jasmine and warm woman rise to his brain until he felt light-headed.

  Yes, and feverish. Desperate for more.

  He had only thought her smile was reward enough.

  Patience, patience. He mustn’t push it. He had to release her, should do it now. Ought to step back if he could only make himself move. Hide the pounding of the blood in his veins. Say something, anything, to release the tension that was bound to spring between them the minute she realized what he had done, and how she had reacted.

  God, but he wanted her. Wanted her smiling, always. Willing. Trusting. In his arms.

  Was it so much to ask?

  A small, inarticulate cry of protest sounded in her throat. He was released from the tight grip of the spell she had cast over him. His face smooth, he set her away from him. He lifted a brow, grinning as he said, “Got any more waterworks projects you want done?”

  The blue of her eyes was almost indigo. The soft denim of the work shirt she wore vibrated minutely with the throbbing of her heart. She was shatteringly close to tears. Or maybe it was rage; he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t really want to know because he wasn’t sure he could handle either one.