“The cherry tree.”
He bent down for a cloth lying on the ground and wiped his hands, then straightened and reached for the bag. She leaned over the banister and he took it.
“What do you want it for?”
He stared at the picture. “I want to look at it. And think.”
Well, at least he wasn’t thinking about her. Not that she wanted him to. But she’d never have suspected a guy might prefer looking at a picture of a cherry tree to looking at her. Wesley wouldn’t.
“You want me to put the picture up here on the table?”
“Yes, please.” He handed it to her. “Obviously, you told Miss B I’m here.”
“Let’s see,” she mused, looking out at the velvety lawn, then back again at his level gaze. “She was pleased. Said you are welcome to stay. And you’re not obligated to work.”
“In that case—” He brushed at the dirt on the knees of his pants. “You can finish up here.”
Gaping at him, she stepped back from the banister.
“However,” he said and picked up the empty water bottle. “You refill this for me and I’ll consider getting this bed ready for a colorful array of spring like you’ve never seen.”
She closed her open mouth and took the bottle, then turned and put the picture on the table. Going inside and filling the bottle, she began to wonder if she needed to lighten up a bit and not take every word from a person’s mouth seriously.
She returned and handed him the water, which he began to drink. “By the way, Aunt B said she’ll be back in a few days but if you want to visit with her at Tybee, that’s fine.”
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said, just then thinking of it. “I could give you wages if you want. I mean, you do have to eat.”
A stiff look settled on his face. “Miss B said that?”
An immediate thought was that he was as sensitive as Mudd. And Aunt B made it plain he was not a worker but a guest. Well, if he could say silly things while acting serious, so could she.
She looked around and made her eyes question. “I’m pretty sure Aunt B isn’t here, and that sounded a lot like me, so it must have been me, I mean, it must have been I who said it.”
She felt reasonably sure that was a grin forming at the corner of his full wide lips. Then he suddenly looked serious again and his brow, with that wayward wisp of hair falling over it, furrowed.
“That’s kind of you, Miss Annabelle. But would you believe I found a pirate’s treasure in the backyard? Mudd sniffed it out like a trained dog would sniff out a cadaver, so he dug down, wondering what might be buried down there and lo and behold there was a pirate’s chest, full of treasure. Should keep me in food for a while. But thanks for thinking of me.” He lifted a hand with his index finger pointing. “Finders keepers, you know.”
Annabelle laughed. Strange fellow, him. That expression she’d noticed before appeared in his slate-colored eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was a condescending look or an evaluating one. A measuring kind of look, as if he was trying to see into her soul, or at least asking, What are you? Who are you?
Her answer would have to be, I don’t really know.
Lest he try and make her walk some kind of imaginary plank, she decided to play along. “Please keep whatever treasure you find, as long as it doesn’t mean digging up the lawn you’ve just made look so pretty and smell so good.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned quickly, knowing her tone didn’t sound welcome.
She went inside and closed the screen door, then peered over her shoulder at him. He’d already kneeled down, concentrating on the flower bed. For some strange reason he made her feel like he was laughing at her. That was silly. Why would she care anyway what a...a caretaker’s son thought of her?
No matter how good-looking he happened to be!
Chapter 7
Not again!
After she’d anticipated this all day. All week, really.
Annabelle sat in one of the rockers on the front porch with her eyes closed, trying to assuage that feeling of disquiet since Wesley’s call. Hearing a car door shut she looked to her right and saw Symon turn his head her way. He lifted a hand, then switched on the engine, drove down the drive several feet, stopped and backed up.
SweetiePie, who’d been rolling around beneath the banister, sat up and looked. Mudd stared from the backseat and when SweetiePie rose up, he ducked down out of sight. Coward, that animal.
Symon turned off the engine and got out, then approached her. He looked good in his jeans and knit top. He stood at the bottom of the steps, next to the flower beds now devoid of weeds and ready for whatever he might do to them next. “Hi,” he said.
She echoed, “Hi.”
“Thought I’d go out for a bite to eat. You recommend any place?”
Remembering his quip about treasure, she shrugged and widened her eyes, trying to look as if it would be obvious. “The Pirate’s Cave. On River Street.”
He scoffed, “I’m not giving up my treasure chest.”
Annabelle laughed. “Believe me, they have plenty.”
He nodded. “If you’re not otherwise occupied, want to show me where that is?”
She knew he probably knew, having lived here. “Do I look otherwise occupied?”
“Well, yes. Like you’re enjoying all this peace and quiet.” That little twitch occurred at his mouth, as if one of these days he might really grin.
“Frankly,” she said, “I’m fuming. Friday night is my big night out, but my fiancé just called and said he’s working late.”
“Umh” accompanied his single nod, could well be saying she didn’t exactly look ready for a big night out, dressed in beige knee-length shorts and a raspberry-colored short-sleeved knit sweater. She and Wes had their share of dressing up and going out. And Wes had worked particularly hard and long hours in the past few weeks. They both had looked forward to this night being in Aunt B’s house, alone, talking about their future, maybe watching a movie and just enjoying each other.
Symon followed that “Umh” with, “That happens.”
“No.” She laughed lightly, beginning to catch on to his different way of communicating. “It’s not an excuse. It’s real.”
He lifted a finger. “Ah, that’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking that you’ve established you have a fiancé. Even if you forgot to put on your ring.”
She gasped. “You’re terrible. Don’t you know a commitment is more than something one wears on a finger?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s something like we have for Miss B. We’ve both known her for a long time, you know. We’re not exactly strangers here.” He looked off to his left and sang softly, quite well, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind.”
She laughed. “We weren’t exactly friends.”
He looked at her beneath narrowed lids. “Acquaintances,” he said. “Worlds apart.”
She thought of that. She’d felt privileged, thought he was poor. She hadn’t given it conscious thought, but his dad had been Aunt B’s employee. A fact. But he’d lived on this property. She’d visited. And what was he doing here...now? Her mind questioned, Who is he and what is he?
That quickly changed to, Who am I? What am I?
Avoiding any kind of answer, she rose from the rocker. “I’ll put SweetiePie inside, and be right with you.”
He turned. “I’ll put Mudd in the cottage.”
Establishing SweetiePie inside and making sure she had food in her dish, Annabelle wondered what Symon was to Miss B. She’d seemed elated that he had returned, as if it was some wonderful event. And she’d said not to treat him like a worker, but a guest. She would do this...for Aunt B.
When she went to the car, he
remained in the driver’s seat but leaned over and opened the passenger door for her. With one glance inside she was aware of the awesome contrast of the slate gray interior with the tawny color seats. She sank into the comfortable leather and fastened her seat belt.
She looked over at him. “This,” she said, “is gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” he said. “My only luxury. Other than Mudd, of course.”
She rather expected to smell dog. Instead, she smelled leather. The car might be fairly new. And mingled with it was a hint of what? Not cologne or aftershave. Maybe soap or shampoo? She smiled, thinking he didn’t seem the kind to wear a fragrance, or at least not a very noticeable one.
His black leopard purred down the long drive and out to the road. “Could we stop by Jones Street? I want to pick up a few things.”
“You mean rob the place?” He widened his eyes in mock excitement. “Sounds like this will be anything but dull.”
She laughed. This was much better than sitting around sulking about not seeing Wesley until later, if then. “Well, we could break in, but since I have a key I might as well use it.”
The way his attention quickly turned to talking about the squares, the architecture of the historic homes made her realize how much she took for granted. Many times she’d driven along the streets, taking for granted all her blessings. His words punctuated that thought. “There are some really nice homes on Jones Street.”
“I’ve roomed there with two of my friends since college days. Except for a few weeks after my parents were killed.”
His head turned to her. “I didn’t know that. How long ago?”
“About three years. Oh, turn left, then go straight. Aunt B was my lifesaver.”
“I know the feeling,” he returned.
There it was again, the implication of a relationship with Aunt B that Annabelle didn’t know about.
In between telling him where to turn, she told him briefly about the accident. The speeding truck driver had failed to stop at the stop sign and ran into the driver’s side of the car. The car rolled over. Her dad, her mom and the driver were killed. The truck driver’s cell phone indicated he’d been in the middle of a text message.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded but didn’t speak as he turned onto the brick street. For a moment she felt rather like one of those bricks was on her chest. But the feeling would pass. Aunt B had forced her to focus on the good memories. “Okay, a couple houses down.” She pointed to the left. “The one with the twin set of steps and the flag over the railing of the entry. The palmetto bush in front.”
“Got it,” he said, and slowed.
“Turn in and park at the back. Then we can walk to River Street and not have to find a parking place there, which is impossible anyway.”
He did and she went up the steps and in the back way. She went into her bedroom and gathered the clothes she’d wear to the studio in the morning and few other items. Returning to the back of the house, seeing Symon walking around, studying the view, waiting for her, she felt a little guilty for feeling good about this when Wes was working. He didn’t like long hours any more than she.
But she did have to eat. And there’d probably be more wrong with staying on the front porch than being friendly with Aunt B’s...whatever he was. Not worker. Friend? Guest?
“I wiped away all the fleas,” Symon said. He took the items and laid them across the narrow backseat. He locked the car with the remote and they began to walk around the house.
It occurred to her that the caretaker’s cottage could compare with the houses on Jones Street, in beauty and history. Maybe it was even more favorable in location. But not in size and grandeur compared with Aunt B’s antebellum home.
“Is this where your family lived?” he asked.
“Couple houses away,” she said. “And they had a place on Tybee.” She sighed, thinking of having gone through the financial situation with attorneys about her dad’s part of the law firm, and eventually selling everything that hadn’t been paid for, and leaving her with a small inheritance. “This house belongs to Megan’s grandmother. She’s in a nursing home now. Megan, Lizzie and I rent it. We get along great.”
She laughed. “Maybe one reason is we rarely see each other. Megan has a steady guy named Michael. She leads afternoon and evening historic tours. Lizzie wants desperately to find Mr. Right, but hasn’t yet. You’ll meet her at the Pirate’s Cave. Her family owns it.”
He nodded. “What does your fiancé do?” he said as they walked around the side of the house. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No reason to mind.” She looked up at him. He was tall. Taller than Wes. Maybe a half foot taller than she. “Wesley is an attorney with the Yarwood Law Firm.”
“Ah,” Symon said. “Your dad’s firm.”
Yes, he would know that. “Wes has been there less than a year and is hoping to become junior partner. His loyalty for the firm seems to be tested constantly, if you know what I mean.”
He acknowledged that with another nod. “Working his way up, huh?”
“He’s trying. Wesley hopes to be a senior partner someday. Maybe even go into politics.”
“Like Miss B’s dad,” he said.
An attorney like her dad. A state senator like her granddad. “Yes,” she said slowly. Those weren’t his reasons, but if so, they were good ones. “Once he proves his worth, he won’t have such an erratic schedule.”
“Time and effort,” he says. “That’s what it takes.”
Suddenly he stopped and looked up. Her gaze followed his. “What?” she said.
“Just absorbing all this. I had to get away to really appreciate it. Not take it for granted. It’s all I knew when I was young.”
“I suppose I sort of take it for granted, too. You’re right. It is beautiful. I haven’t walked along the squares in a long time. I think of it as being for the tourists. I suppose we can thank Sherman for not destroying it during the Civil War.”
“And those who keep it beautiful.”
“Like...landscapers?” she asked coyly.
He grinned at her. “That, too. There’s not a lot of demand for landscapers where I live. Just concrete sweepers. But they keep the cement looking wonderfully gray.”
Surely he wasn’t a street sweeper. “Where do you live?”
“New York.”
“What do you do there? I mean, your occupation.”
“I write.”
“What do you write?”
“Novels. Mysteries. Thrillers.”
“Oh. Like Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil that was filmed here in Savannah?” She laughed.
He didn’t. “Not exactly. Nothing made into a movie yet.”
Ooops. She should be more careful. Everyone knew being in the arts was a hard way to make a living.
“Sorry...” she said low.
He chuckled then. “No problem.” That look came onto his face again. Just a hint of amusement or reserve or something that gave her that uneasy feeling. He was...different. From what, she didn’t know. Well, yes, she did. From those who tried to impress her. How many times she’d grown tired of others trying to impress her. Now that this one didn’t, she wondered about it.
She’d walked this street, these squares, these cobbled stones, and she’d seen the statues, but somehow as Symon began to talk about them, it was as if she’d never really thought about them before. Sort of as if she’d taken her parents for granted until they were gone.
Symon pointed out, and she noticed how the lazy afternoon sun cast slanting shadows and made lacy patterns as they strolled along. The azaleas were abundant with buds ready to burst forth with their vivid hues of purple, pink and white. New life, ready to happen.
Then he said, “Do you know how Savannah got its name?�
��
She thought. Surely she’d read that. Studied that. But somehow the knowledge eluded her. “From the Savannah River?”
His look was playful and seemed to say, “Try again,” so she said, “Oh, the Savannah River would get its name from the city. Okay, a general? No...” He waited as she pursed her lips in thought, then gave him a sidelong look. “Savannah’s a Native American name, isn’t it?”
“Where did you go to school?” He shook his head. “A private one?”
“Frankly, yes.”
He shrugged. “So did I. Miss B’s private school.”
She knew Aunt B had no private school, but she was rather enjoying his playful manner. “Tell me,” she said. She liked his voice. Deep, resonant, precise, as if he were an accomplished speaker, and yet warm, informative. She could tell he liked to talk. She liked to listen.
“I was about five years old,” he began and as he talked she could see it, feel it, and she pictured that little boy she’d seen in Aunt B’s picture album.
“I had just told Miss B a lie so she began to educate me. She asked if I knew what a myth was. I thought it might be something like a hickory stick I’d seen Willamina use to switch her children. But I just looked down, feeling dumb as the board on the front porch that was good for nothing but to be walked on.”
Annabelle laughed lightly. “Sensitive, weren’t you?”
“Very. She didn’t use a hickory stick, but my daddy made it clear that one word from her and he could lose his job. Anyway, Miss B kept on talking, like it didn’t matter if I didn’t know things.”
He stopped when Annabelle chuckled. “Go on,” she prompted.
“Well, she told me a myth is a story. Sometimes there’s truth in it, sometimes not. She said a little girl about my age didn’t mind her parents and went down to the creek.” Symon shook his head. “I didn’t like stories about children not minding their parents. They always got punished.”
She laughed again when he placed his hand on his backside as if remembering.
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