by Nora Roberts
She set her coffee down on a table and drenched a jardiniere bursting with verbena and heliotrope.
At a rustle, she looked over. And watched a heron rise like a king over the high grass, over the brown water.
“I’m happy,” she said out loud. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
She decided to forgo the bagel and catalogues and changed into gardening clothes instead.
For an hour she worked on the sunny side of the house where she was determined to establish a combination of shrubbery and flower bed. The bloodred blooms of the rhododendrons she’d planted the week before would be a strong contrast to the blue of the house once they burst free. She’d spent every evening for a month over the winter planning her flowers. She wanted to keep it simple and a little wild, like a mad cottage garden with columbine and delphiniums and sweet-faced wallflowers all tumbled together.
There were all kinds of art, she thought smugly as she planted fragrant stock. She imagined Seth would approve of her choices of tone and texture here.
Not that it mattered, of course. The garden was to please herself. But it was satisfying to think an artist might find her efforts creative.
He certainly hadn’t had much to say for himself the day before, she remembered. He’d whipped in just after she opened the doors, handed over the agreed amount, looped his signature on the lease, snatched up the keys, then bolted.
No flirtation, no persuasive smile.
Which was all for the best, she reminded herself. She didn’t want flirtations and persuasions right at the moment.
Still, it would have been nice, on some level, to imagine holding the option for them in reserve.
He’d probably had a Saturday-morning date with one of the women who’d pined for him while he’d been gone. He looked like the type women might pine for. All that scruffy hair, the lanky build.
And the hands. How could you not notice his hands—wide of palm, long of finger. With a rough elegance to them that made a woman—some women, she corrected—fantasize about being stroked by them.
Dru sat back on her heels with a sigh because she knew she’d given just that scenario more than one passing thought. Only because it’s the first man you’ve been attracted to in . . . God, who knew how long?
She hadn’t so much as had a date in nearly a year.
Her choice, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t going to change her mind and end up with Seth Quinn and steamed crabs.
She would just go on as she was, making her home, running her business while he went about his and painted over her head every day.
She’d get used to him being up there, then she’d stop noticing he was up there. When the lease was up, they’d see if . . .
“Damn it. The key to the utility room.”
She’d forgotten to give it to him. Well, he’d forgotten to remind her to give it to him.
Not my problem, she thought and yanked at a stray weed. He’s the one who wanted to use the storage, and if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to go, she would’ve remembered to give him the key.
She planted cranesbill, added some larkspur. Then, cursing, pushed to her feet.
It would nag at her all day. She’d obsess, she admitted as she stalked around the house. She’d worry and wonder about whatever it was he had coming in from Rome the next day. Easier by far to take the duplicate she had here at home, drive over to Anna Quinn’s and drop it off.
It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, and she could go by the nursery while she was out.
She left her gardening gloves and tools in a basket on the veranda.
* * *
SETH grabbed the line Ethan tossed him and secured the wooden boat to the dock. The kids leaped out first. Emily with her long dancer’s body and sunflower hair, and Deke, gangly as a puppy at fourteen.
Seth caught Deke in a headlock and looked at Emily. “You weren’t supposed to grow up while I was gone.”
“Couldn’t help it.” She laid her cheek on his, rubbed it there. “Welcome home.”
“When do we eat?” Deke wanted to know.
“Guy’s got a tapeworm.” Aubrey leaped nimbly onto the dock. “He ate damn near half a loaf of French bread five minutes ago.”
“I’m a growing boy,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m going to charm Anna out of something.”
“He actually thinks he’s charming,” Emily said with a shake of her head. “It’s a mystery.”
The Chesapeake Bay retriever Ethan called Nigel landed in the water with a happy splash, then bounded up onshore to run after Deke.
“Give me a hand with this, Em, since the jerk’s off and running.” Aubrey grabbed one end of the cooler Ethan had set on the dock. “Mom may water up,” she said to Seth under her breath. “She’s really anxious to see you.”
Seth stepped to the boat, held out his hand and closed it around Grace’s. If Aubrey had been the first person he’d loved, Grace had been the first woman he’d both loved and trusted.
Her arms slid around him as she stepped on the dock, and her cheek rubbed his with that same female sweetness as Emily’s had. “There now,” she said quietly, on a laughing sigh. “There now, that feels just exactly right. Now everything’s where it belongs.”
She leaned back, smiled up at him. “Thank you for the tulips. They’re beautiful. I’m sorry I wasn’t home.”
“So was I. I figured I’d trade them for some of your homemade fries. You still make the best.”
“Come to dinner tomorrow. I’ll fix some for you.”
“With sloppy joes?”
She laughed again, reached back with one hand to take Ethan’s. “Well, that hasn’t changed, has it? With sloppy joes. Deke will be thrilled.”
“And chocolate cake?”
“Guy expects a lot for a bunch of flowers,” Ethan commented.
“At least I didn’t swipe them from Anna’s garden, then try to blame it on innocent deer and bunny rabbits.”
Ethan winced, sent a wary look toward the house to make certain Anna wasn’t within hearing distance. “Let’s not bring that up again. Damn near twenty years ago, and she’d still scalp me for it.”
“I heard you got them from the very pretty florist on Market Street.” Grace tucked her arm around Seth’s waist as they walked toward the house. “And that you’ve rented the place above the shop for a studio.”
“Word travels.”
“Fast and wide,” Grace agreed. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
“Nothing to tell, yet. But I’m working on it.”
* * *
SHE was running behind now, and it was her own fault. There was no reason, no sane reason she’d felt compelled to shower, to change out of her grubby gardening clothes. Certainly no reason, she thought, irritated with herself, to have spent time on her precious Sunday fussing with makeup.
Now it was past noon.
Didn’t matter, she told herself. It was a lovely day for a drive. She’d spend two minutes on Seth Quinn and the key, then indulge herself at the nursery.
Of course now she’d have to change back into her gardening clothes, but that was neither here nor there. She’d plant, then make fresh lemonade and sit and bask in the glow of a job well done.
Feel the air! Brisk with spring, moist from the water. The fields on either side of the road were tilled and planted, and already running green in the rows. She could smell the sharp edge of fertilizer, the richer tones of earth that meant spring in the country.
She made the turn, caught the glint of the sun off the mudflats before the trees took over with their deep shadows.
The old white house was perfect for its setting. Edged by woods, with water hemming its back, and the tidy, flower-decked lawn skirting its front. She’d admired it before, the way it sat there, so cozy and comfortable with its front porc
h rockers and faded blue shutters.
While she felt the whimsy and the privacy of her own home suited her perfectly, she could admire the character of the Quinn place. It gave a sense of order without regimentation. The kind of home, she reflected, where feet were allowed to prop on coffee tables.
No one would have dreamed to rest a heel on her mother’s Louis XIV. Not even her father.
The number of cars in the drive made her frown. A white Corvette—vintage, she assumed—a sturdy SUV of some sort that appeared to have some hard miles on it. A snappy little convertible, a dented, disreputable-looking hatchback that had to be twenty years old, a manly pickup truck and a sleek and muscular Jaguar.
She hesitated, then mentally assigned the vehicles. The SUV was the family car. The ’Vette was undoubtedly former race-car driver Cameron Quinn’s—as would be the truck as work vehicle, giving Anna the convertible and the old hand-me-down to the oldest boy, who must be old enough to drive.
The Jag was Seth’s. She’d noticed it, with some admiration, the night before. And if she hadn’t, she’d heard all about his recent acquisition from chatting customers in her shop.
She nosed up behind it.
Two minutes, she reminded herself, and grabbed her purse as she turned off the engine.
Instantly, she heard the blast of music. The teenagers, she figured as she started toward the front door, her steps unconsciously timed to the beat of Matchbox 20.
She admired the pots and tubs of flowers on the porch. Anna, she knew, had a clever hand for mixing flowers. She knocked briskly, then bumped it up to a pound before she sighed.
No one was going to hear her over the music, even if she used a battering ram.
Resigned, she stepped off the porch and started toward the side of the house. She heard more than music now. There were shouts, squeals and what she could only describe as maniacal laughter.
The kids must be having a party. She’d just go back, pass off the key to one of Anna’s boys and be on her way.
The dog came first, a cannonball of black fur with a lolling tongue. He had a bark like a machine gun, and though she was very fond of dogs, Dru stopped on a dime.
“Hi there. Ah, nice dog.”
He seemed to take that as an invitation to race two wild circles around her, then press his nose to her crotch.
“Okay.” She put a firm hand under his jaw, lifted it. “That’s just a little too friendly.” She gave him a quick rub, then a nudge, and managed one more step before the boy streaked screaming around the side of the house. Though he held a large plastic weapon in his hand, he was in full retreat.
He managed to veer around her. “Better run,” he puffed out, an instant before she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.
An instant before she was shot dead in the heart, by a stream of cold water.
The shock was so great that her mouth dropped open but she couldn’t manage a sound. Just behind her the boy murmured, “Uh-oh.”
And deserted the field.
Seth, the water rifle in his hand, his hair dripping from the previous attack, took one look at Dru. “Oh, shit.”
Helpless, Dru looked down. Her crisp red shirt and navy pants were soaked. The splatter had managed to reach her face, making the time she’d spent fiddling with it a complete waste.
She lifted her gaze, one that turned from stunned to searing when she noted that Seth looked very much like a man struggling not to laugh.
“Are you crazy?”
“Sorry. Really.” He swallowed hard, knowing the laugh fighting to burst out of his throat would damn him. “Sorry,” he managed as he walked to her. “I was after Jake—little bastard nailed me. You got caught in the cross fire.” He tried a charming smile, dug a bandanna out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Which proves there are no innocent bystanders in war.”
“Which proves,” she said between her teeth, “that some men are idiots who can’t be trusted with a child’s toy.”
“Hey, hey, this is a Super Soaker 5000.” He lifted the water gun but, catching the gleam in her eyes, hastily lowered it again. “Anyway, I’m really sorry. How about a beer?”
“You can take your beer and your Super Soaker 5000 and—”
“Seth!” Anna rushed around the house, then let out a huge sigh. “You moron.”
“Jake,” he said under his breath and vowed revenge. “Anna, we were just—”
“Quiet.” She jabbed a finger at him, then draped an arm around Dru’s shoulder. “I apologize for the idiot children. You poor thing. We’ll get you inside and into some dry clothes.”
“No, really, I’ll just—”
“I insist,” Anna interrupted, herding her toward the front of the house. “What a greeting. I’d say things aren’t usually so crazy around here, but I’d be lying.”
Keeping a firm hand on Dru—Anna knew when someone was poised for escape—she guided her into the house and up the stairs.
“It’s a little crazier today as the whole gang’s here. A welcome-home for Seth. The guys are about to boil up some crabs. You’ll stay.”
“I couldn’t intrude.” Her temper was rapidly sliding toward embarrassment. “I just stopped by to drop off the utility-room key for Seth. I really should—”
“Have some dry clothes, some food, some wine,” Anna said warmly. “Kevin’s jeans ought to work.” She pulled a blue cotton shirt out of her own closet. “I’ll just see if I can find a pair in the black hole of his room.”
“It’s just a little water. You should be down with your family. I should go.”
“Honey, you’re soaked and you’re shivering. Now get out of those wet things. We’ll toss them in the dryer while we eat. I’ll just be a minute.”
With this, she strode out and left Dru alone in the bedroom.
The woman hadn’t seemed so . . . formidable, Dru decided, on her visits to the flower shop. She wondered if anyone ever won an argument with her.
But the truth was, she was chilled. Giving up, she stripped off the wet shirt, gave a little sigh and took off the equally wet bra. She was just buttoning up when Anna came back in.
“Success.” She offered Dru a pair of Levi’s. “Shirt okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.”
“Just bring your wet things down to the kitchen when you’re ready.” She started out again, then turned back. “And, Dru? Welcome to bedlam.”
Close enough, Dru thought. She could hear the shouts and laughter, the blast of music through the open window. It seemed to her half of St. Christopher must be partying in the Quinns’ backyard.
But when she snuck a peek out, she realized the noise was generated by the Quinns all by themselves. There were teenagers of varying sizes and sexes running around, and two, no three dogs. Make that four, she noted as an enormous retriever bounded out of the water and raced over the lawn to shake drops on as many people as possible.
The young boy Seth had been chasing was doing precisely the same thing. Obviously, Seth had managed to catch up with him.
Boats were tied to the dock—which explained, she supposed, why the number of cars in the drive didn’t match the number of picnickers.
The Quinns sailed.
They were also loud, wet and messy. The scene below was nothing like any of her parents’ outdoor social events or family gatherings. The music would have been classical, and muted. The conversations would have been calm and ordered. And the tables would have been meticulously set with some sort of clever theme.
Her mother was brilliant with themes, and dictated her precise wishes to the caterer, who knew how to deliver.
She wasn’t certain she knew how to socialize, even briefly, in the middle of this sort of chaos. But she could hardly do otherwise without being rude.
She changed into the Levi’s. The boy—Kevin, she thought Anna had sa
id—was tall. She had to roll up the legs a couple of times into frayed cuffs.
She glanced in the pretty wood-framed mirror over the bureau and, sighing, took a tissue to deal with the mascara smudges under her eyes caused by her unexpected shower.
She gathered the rest of her wet things and started downstairs.
There was a piano in the living room. It looked ancient and well used. The red lilies she’d sold Seth stood in a cut-crystal vase atop it, and spilled their fragrance into the air.
The sofa appeared new, the rug old. It was, Dru thought, very much a family room, with cheerful colors, cozy cushions, a few stray dog hairs and the female touches of the flowers and candles. Snapshots were scattered here and there, all in different frames. There had been no attempt at coordination, and that was the charm of it, she decided.
There were paintings—waterscapes, cityscapes, still lifes—that she was certain were Seth’s. But it was a lovely little pencil sketch that drew her over.
It was the rambling white house, flanked by woods, trimmed by water. It said, with absolute simplicity: This is home. And it touched a chord in her that made her yearn.
Stepping closer, she studied the careful signature in the bottom corner. Such a careful signature, she recognized it as a child’s even before she read the date printed beneath.
He’d drawn it when he was a child, she realized. Just a little boy making a picture of his home—and already recognizing its value, already talented and insightful enough to translate that value, that warmth and stability with his pencil.
Helplessly, her heart softened toward him. He might be an idiot with an oversized water pistol, but he was a good man. If art reflected the artist, he was a very special man.
She followed the sound of voices back into the kitchen. This, she recognized immediately, was another family center, one captained by a female who took cooking seriously. The long counters were a pristine white making a bright, happy contrast to the candy-apple-red trim. They were covered with platters and bowls of food.
Seth stood with his arm around Anna’s shoulders. Their heads were close together, and though she continued to unwrap a bowl, there was a unity in their stance.