Garden of Scandal

by Jennifer Blake

  “Not my style, anyway,” he said with a shake of his head. “A trait I picked up from you, I guess.” His grandmother wasn’t a quitter, either. She had never given up on her daughter or her grandchildren. No matter how far away they were, she had always been there for them.

  She came up behind him, putting her arms around his waist to give him a quick squeeze. “You’re a good man, Alec,” she said. “I’ve always been proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Gran.” He leaned into the hug, grateful for her affection and acceptance, as he put one hand over her wrists that were clasped above his belt buckle. He was warmed by it, even if he did have to breathe lightly against the pressure of her clasp on his sore ribs.

  “I just wonder—” She stopped.

  He felt his stomach muscles tighten at something he heard in her tone. “What?”

  “Do you know what you’re doing? I mean, just what’s really keeping you at the Bancroft place? Is it the job, the money? The woman? Or is it, as they say, déjà vu all over again?”

  He went still. “You think I’ve got something to prove?”

  “I think you’ve got a bad case of needing to make things come out right for a change.”

  “Could be,” he said, staring straight ahead at nothing. “Or maybe it’s all of the above.”

  “Whatever it is, you’ll be careful, won’t you? I—wouldn’t like it much if anything happened to you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he repeated.

  “See that you do,” she ordered, then cleared her throat with a sharp rasp. Stepping back, she caught the long length of his hair that hung between his shoulder blades and gave it a tug. “Now, how about a haircut after supper?”

  It wasn’t the first time she had made the suggestion, and it wouldn’t be the last. He gave her a bland glance over his shoulder. “No way.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. The girls like it.”

  “Some of them,” he said, feeling again the shuddering pleasure of Laurel’s fingers threading through the long strands, her nails raking delicately along his scalp.

  “You’d be a handsome devil with about six inches less,” she said in coaxing tones.

  His grin was lopsided. “What am I now?”

  “A conceited jackass?” she suggested.

  “But you love me anyway, right?”

  She sighed. “Don’t we all.”

  “Not quite all.” He laughed, a soft, short sound.

  “Not to worry,” she said, giving him a comforting rub across the back before moving away to check the progress of her corn bread, which was beginning to perfume the air with its homey smell. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  He stared after her, wondering if he was that easy to read. Or if it was possible she thought there was something to the gossip that he and the widow Bancroft were seriously involved with each other.

  If she could even begin to think so, then there was no telling what everybody else in Hillsboro thought, or what they could bring themselves to believe. No telling at all.

  At Ivywild the next morning, the first thing he heard when he got off his bike was the sound of hammering. It was coming from the rear of the house. He followed it around to the backyard.

  Laurel was there. She was pounding with more energy than effect at a nail stuck in a fence post, though that wasn’t what stopped him in his tracks. It was the way she looked.

  She had on turquoise knit shorts, a matching shirt with no bra, and strappy sandals so light she might as well be barefoot. Her hair was braided and hanging down her back nearly to her waist. Her skin was damp from her efforts, making her T-shirt cling so that every movement of her round, firm breasts could be plainly seen. She looked about sixteen and good enough to eat. And he felt as if he had been starving all his life.

  He walked up behind her, moving in close with an easy stride. As he reached around toward the hammer, he said, “Here, let me do that.”

  She screamed and whirled. He caught the hammerhead in time to keep from being decked with it, but it was a close call. He was going to have to be more careful around her for his own protection.

  She wilted visibly as a sigh of relief hissed through her lips. Then she straightened. Eyes flashing blue fire, she demanded, “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that!”

  “Offering a hand?” he suggested. The words were bland, but he couldn’t help the smile that went with them, or the warmth in his eyes.

  For a long moment, the memory of the kiss they had shared the day before hovered between them. It was there in the strained silence, in the way his fingers and lips tingled, the way her lips parted. He looked away at last. So did she. He thought that she must have decided, as he had, that it was a subject best ignored. That maybe it would go away if they didn’t make too much of it.

  As he averted his gaze, however, it brushed over the front of her shirt. That wasn’t good. It was all he could do to keep his hands to himself as he noticed what her deep breathing was doing to the tender curves under their draping of knitted cotton. He put one hand in his back pocket while he took a death grip on the hammer with the other.

  “I didn’t expect you for another hour at least,” she said with a trace of accusation. “Why are you so early?”

  He had wanted to catch her, of course. He had figured out that she got up at daybreak to work in the garden, then retreated into the house when it was time for him to show up. However, confessing didn’t seem like a good idea at the moment. He said, instead, “I didn’t give you a full day yesterday.”

  Her brows drew together and she looked him up and down. “Are you sure you should be working at all?”

  “Positive. I’m a fast healer.”

  “You don’t have to do this. The job will wait. It’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now,” he answered with a silent groan for his private double entendre. “I’m good—I mean, I’m fine, just fine.”

  He looked away again, less than comfortable under her assessing gaze. He caught sight of the box on the ground beside her. It held what appeared to be a piece of sculpted terra-cotta. “What’s this?”

  She told him, though she seemed self-conscious and even wary about it, as if she expected some snide comment.

  “Mouth of Truth, neat,” he said as he knelt to study the piece. “I’ve seen Green Men based on Bacchus or the four seasons, but not this. Yours suits you. It’s softer, not quite so fierce.” Afraid he might have said too much, he nodded at the nail she had been driving into the post. “That where it goes?”

  At her nod, he came erect, then stepped up to the post and drove the nail in to the right depth with a couple of hard taps.

  “Show-off,” she said.

  He gave her a sidelong smile, knowing full well she was right. Though between her and his gran, he would be lucky if he had any ego left.

  He lifted the heavy plaque and hung it on the nail, adjusting it to her instructions as she squinted from a distance. Then he stepped back beside her to admire it. Except being too clean and new, it looked as if it belonged there. And it gave him an idea.

  In thoughtful tones, he said, “You know what you need?”

  “No, but I expect you’re going to tell me.”

  He let that pass as he replied. “Columns.”

  “Columns?” she repeated blankly.

  “Tall posts, you know? Greek, Roman, maybe Mayan?” As her features cleared with comprehension, he went on. “They make great bases for hanging plants, or I could use one for a trickle fountain that would cover itself with moss before you know it. Add a lintel to a couple, and you’ve got a gate, an entrance for any kind of garden room you might want—maybe something with an Italian or Spanish flavor.”

  “Or English, if you did a Stonehenge look?”

  “Exactly,” he said, gratified by how easily she followed him.

  “Where would we get these columns?”

  He liked the sound of that; the “we” business. “Make them
out of cast stone, with reinforcement from concrete and steel for the taller ones. The longer they stand the harder they get, once they’re out of the molds, until they actually become like stone. It wouldn’t cost that much if the two of us did the work.”

  She gave him a long look, as if she knew what he was up to, or suspected it. He wondered if it was good psychology, trying to expand her surroundings, pull her more outside the house. The way he saw it, it couldn’t hurt.

  “You know where to find the makings for this cast stone?” she asked finally.

  He nodded, hiding his smile. “No problem. Leave it to me.”

  She didn’t go back into the house. Pulling on a pair of work gloves, she helped him stack and burn the limbs from the cut pine, along with the brush and debris from the garden. He wasn’t too sure whether she did it because she knew how stiff and sore he was and felt sorry for him, or if it was guilt. Not that he objected. He was too glad of the company, even if it was pure torture.

  Watching her gather armloads of trash made him feel light-headed. Every time she stooped from the waist, her shorts rode high on the backs of her legs, testing his sanity. They never hiked quite as far as the curves of her trim backside, but that didn’t keep him from hoping.

  He thought about climbing the trunk of the big tree that still stood, finishing the job as well as taking himself away from temptation. He wasn’t sure his knee could stand it, however, even if his resolution would. He abandoned the idea while he gathered the strength to look in some other direction besides at his helper.

  The temptation disappeared, anyway, when Maisie drove up. Laurel went inside with her to discuss the lunch menu and didn’t come back. It galled Alec more than a little, mainly because he had thought they were making progress. It seemed Laurel had been looking for an escape from his company.

  He finished piling the last of the pine tops on the fire. Then, since he could watch the blaze from the garage, he went back to the job of working on her car, which he had abandoned the week before. He didn’t like much being finished. He would bring the tires tomorrow; his finances would stretch that far.

  It was after lunch when he found the footprint. Pressed into the soft dirt under Laurel’s bedroom window where he had dug up a sassafras sapling by the roots, it appeared to be a track made by a running shoe. He fitted his work boot into it without disturbing the pattern, just to be certain it wasn’t his print. The answer was no. No, indeed. The footprint was a shade shorter than his ten and a half and the markings were entirely different. On the other hand, it was way too large for Laurel to have made it, and Maisie wore the smooth-soled leather shoes favored by nurses and waitresses.

  Laurel had a prowler.

  Should he keep the news to himself, or let her know? Alec hated to scare her, but there was no choice.

  She answered his knock with one eyebrow raised. As soon as she opened the door, he asked, “Do you have a minute to look at something?”

  “What are you up to now?” she replied, putting a hand on her hip.

  He had already turned away as she spoke. Now he swung back. “Nothing,” he said, his voice curt. “Just come take a look, will you?”

  “You handle it. I’m busy.” She started to shut the door.

  He flung out a hand to hold it open. Maybe she had a right to be suspicious, and maybe she didn’t, but he was in no mood to play games. His voice hard, he said, “This isn’t a joke and it’s not a trick to get you outside. I have something I want you to see. You can come willingly, or I can carry you. Whichever.”

  To Laurel, it almost seemed Alec Stanton had two distinct personalities and could switch back and forth between them at will. Sometimes he was a boy grinning with a mischievous light in his eyes, and sometimes he was hard and predatory and a thousand years old. Either way, he disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

  Narrowing her eyes, she said, “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s so important you can’t be civil about—Hey!”

  Her breath left her as he scooped her up as if she weighed no more than an armload of pine boughs. Swinging around, he strode with her down the steps and around the side of the house. There was a slight halt in his stride from his injured knee, but a night’s rest seemed to have helped it immensely. She held on with an arm around his neck and a handful of his shirt clutched in her hand. At the same time, she fought to control the erratic thud of her heart and the slow seep of something in her veins that should have been terror, but definitely was not.

  She had made a mistake, that much was clear. But she wasn’t going to add to it by fighting him. Dignity, that was what was needed here. Dignity, composure, and a firm grasp on just who had the upper hand.

  Her voice sweet and soft, lips a fraction of an inch from his ear, she said, “You’re fired.”

  He flinched, though she couldn’t tell whether it was from what she had said or the feel of her warm breath. Still, he answered without a beat. “You can’t fire me because I quit.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. Only the next time you hire somebody, you might at least try not to hide from him.”

  She stiffened. “I have not been hiding from you!”

  “Could have fooled me. Why else do you shut yourself up?”

  “I can choose not to see people without it being called hiding.”

  “Oh, yeah? I think you’re afraid.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “You’re scared people will stare at you. You’re terrified of what they’ll say—never mind that the only reason they talk about you is because their own piddling little lives are too boring for words.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about it!”

  “Don’t I just?” he retorted with a scathing look from the corners of his eyes. “But if that isn’t it, then you’re afraid of me.”

  “Now that is really stupid. You’re the only person besides Maisie who doesn’t make me feel…”

  “What?” he demanded as she trailed off. “As if you don’t have the right to live because your husband died? That you should shut yourself away like a criminal because you don’t deserve to be running around free?”

  “I don’t feel that way.” The words were ragged.

  “I think you do. But who is it who causes it, if it isn’t Maisie or me? Your mother-in-law? She shouldn’t have the power. Your kids? Why should you care when they have so little time for you?”

  She was shaking as if the words he spoke were blows. “I like my privacy,” she said, tilting her chin, “and I like my house. Everything I want or need is here. Why in the world would I want to leave it?”

  “It makes you feel safe,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” she cried in triumph.

  “Well, don’t get to feeling too safe,” he said as he stopped at the rear of the house where her bedroom lay and set her on her feet. “Any place can be invaded.”

  For an instant, she couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. Then, with a brusque gesture, he indicated the footprint under her window.

  She drew a deep, hard breath while she stared at the indentation in the soft earth. Fear brushed her with cold fingers. Releasing the air from her lungs with a shudder, she said, “A Peeping Tom?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe,” he added softly, “just somebody mighty interested in what you do when you’re shut up inside. Have you ever had anything like this before?”

  She shook her head. “Not with Sticks around.”

  “But he isn’t here anymore.” His words were freighted with meaning.

  “You don’t think somebody got rid of him just so they could…”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Who?” she asked in despair. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Anybody,” he answered, his voice hard. “You’re a beautiful woman who lives alone out here away from everybody. The amazing thing is that the problem hasn’t cropped up before.”

  Clenching her hands into fists, she whirled from him as
she cried, “Why is all this happening now—Sticks, the horrible talk, somebody sneaking around spying on me? What have I done?”

  He caught her arm, swinging her to face him. His voice rough, he said, “You haven’t done anything! Get it out of your head that any of this is your fault.”

  “Then whose is it?” she demanded, trying without success to free herself from his grip.

  “Maybe it’s mine. Maybe it’s nobody’s. Who knows? But it isn’t yours!”

  “How do you know? You don’t have the slightest idea what I’m like, or what I did or didn’t do. You can’t even begin to guess what I’m capable of when I have the right reason!”

  A faint smile curved his lips and he shook his head. “Oh, I know you,” he said in a low tone. “And I’d be willing to bet everything I own that you would never willingly hurt anything or anybody. But you’re right about one thing—I don’t know you well enough to guess all the things you are capable of doing. This much I’ll promise you, though. One day I will.”

  The words he spoke sank into her like a benediction. She wanted to believe them, needed it more than she had ever dreamed possible.

  But she didn’t dare. There was too much against them, even if she could trust him to mean what he seemed to be saying. The knowledge left her defensive and testy.

  With emphasis, she said, “Don’t press your luck.”

  His smiled widened, hardened. He released her, propping his fists on his hips. “What are you going to do?” he asked in quiet derision. “You already fired me.”

  “I can call the police.” Where that threat had come from she wasn’t sure. She only knew she couldn’t let him under her guard.

  “Do it,” he said, dark shadows swirling in the depths of his eyes. “It won’t be anything new.”

  She hadn’t meant it. Or had she? And what was he saying? That the rumors were right, that he was well acquainted with the police because he had been jailed for the murder of his wife, his much older wife?

  “Of course, if you did,” he continued after the briefest of pauses, “you might have to deal with your good friend Sheriff Tanning. Are you sure that’s what you want?”