“Valerie carried out Daddy’s wishes.”
Grandmother humphed. “Cremation, then scattering his ashes in Colorado… Never in the history of the Howard family—”
“It was what he wanted.”
Reece’s interruption earned her a tight-jawed look. “Death rituals are for the living, not the dead. It didn’t really matter what he wanted.”
That certainly explained Grandmother’s refusal to be swayed on the garden project by Mark’s insistence that it went against Grandfather’s wishes.
Or maybe she’d just spent so many years giving in to Grandfather’s wishes that she’d decided it was time for her own wishes to matter.
She seated herself on the bench, facing the opposite direction. “Why are you here?”
“I came to look at the church.”
“So you’re sitting with your back to it.”
Reece started to swing one leg to straddle the bench, decided against the criticism sure to follow and stood to turn around properly. “I remember it a little.” Stiff dresses, shoes that pinched her toes, best behavior, a little white leather-bound Bible with her name engraved in gold.
She couldn’t recall ever seeing the Bible again after that summer.
Granted, she’d never gone to church again, either. Valerie had liked sleeping in on Sundays.
“Your father’s memorial service was held here. Can’t rightly call it a funeral without a body, not even ashes.” Grandmother scowled at the steeple atop the church. “Cecil’s funeral was held here, also, as well as your grandfather’s. If you’d like to visit their graves, you know where the family plot is.”
Reece didn’t admit to her visit with Jones the day before. She certainly didn’t admit that her only interest in Grandfather’s grave was making certain he was in it.
Abruptly, Grandmother stood, more energetically and gracefully than most women half her age. “It’s time to go. Come along. You can follow me home.”
Reece considered refusing just to be difficult, but what was the point? She’d seen everything she wanted in town, anyway, finding few memories of any substance, and all of them from her first month there. The answers to that summer were at Fair Winds, with Grandmother, Mark, maybe even with the ghosts.
She stayed a comfortable distance from the Cadillac on the short drive home, then pulled into her usual space while Grandmother parked right beside the patio. Jones’s truck wasn’t in sight, but clearly he was home, since Mick lay curled on a sunny spot of patio, the warm stones of the fountain at his back. He opened one eye to identify the newcomers, then closed it again, unconcerned.
“You there,” Grandmother said, opening the Cadillac’s trunk as Reece crossed the road. “You can unload these flats.”
Reece blinked, never having been referred to as you there by the oh-so-proper matriarch of the Howard family, then by the reference to flats. Had one or more of her tires been vandalized, as well?
Then Jones stood up in a shady spot of the patio, laying aside a laptop, and Reece saw the contents of the trunk: flats of pansies in yellow and blue, the shades ranging from palest pastel to vibrant, deep hues. The trunk was full, and a glimpse showed the backseat was, as well. Had pansies had a place in the Fair Winds gardens of old, or was Grandmother planning her own touches?
If so, Jones didn’t seem to mind as he lifted the first box out. “Beautiful. Good, healthy plants.”
“The garden society sells them as a fundraiser. Of course they’re beautiful and healthy.”
The snippiness in her voice didn’t seem to bother him at all as he carried the flat to a protected corner of the patio. Reece watched him walk away, the light load no strain on his muscles, the long steps no strain, either, on his long, lean legs. When he turned but before he caught her watching him—she hoped—she shifted her purse under one arm and bent to pick up one of the flats herself.
Grandmother stood in her way. “Really, Clarice. Let the people who are paid to do the dirty work do it.”
Some little devil made her imitate the tone. “Really, Grandmother. People who belong to garden societies tend to get their hands dirty in the garden. And you know what?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “It washes off.”
Sidestepping Grandmother and Jones, whose grin disappeared before the old lady could see it, she deposited the flat beside the first, laid her purse on a table and came back for another.
Disapproving, Grandmother stood by and watched as they completed the unloading. “The beds nearest the front porch were always planted with pansies in the fall,” she announced. “I realize it will be a long time before the entire garden is completed, but I’d like those beds done now. As I’m sure everyone’s realized, I may not live to see the final results, but I will have flowers in this yard for at least one season.”
She unlocked the door, then came back around the fountain, giving Mick an irritated look before pressing the keys into Jones’s palm. “Return the car to the garage—the code is the same as the gate—then send the keys back to me with my granddaughter.”
Reece might have been embarrassed by Grandmother’s imperiousness if she hadn’t become used to it so long ago. It was part of the Howard superiority over everyone else. Daddy hadn’t had a drop of it in him and hadn’t tolerated it from Valerie, either, but after his death, Valerie had proven almost as adept at it as Grandmother.
“Want to ride along?” Jones asked as he opened the driver’s door with a sweeping gesture.
She didn’t want to climb into the Cadillac where, unseen by their grandmother, Mark had so often pinched and poked at her, and she really didn’t want to go to the garage. But she agreed, anyway, sliding underneath the steering wheel and across the bench seat to the passenger side. Jones was just a breath behind her, filling the space with broad shoulders and adding his scents of sun and cologne to the aroma of fresh earth and plants.
The drive took all of thirty seconds. Jones pressed the electronic opener clipped to the visor, and the door lifted with a slow creak. The lightbulb overhead provided just enough illumination to make the space shadowy, cavelike, creepy. Goose bumps raised along her arms, and she suppressed a shiver by keeping her gaze firmly settled on Jones’s hands. Grandfather was dead. She wasn’t thirteen. She could handle this.
Especially with Jones an arm’s length away.
He eased the Cadillac into the space, squarely in the center. When he shut off the engine, the silence was overwhelming, the structure shadowier, creepier. Her mind’s eye saw that old pickup, Grandfather and Mark, the truck bed holding clods of dirt, something wet—oil?—and a tarp-covered lump. And, in a voice as real as her own, she heard Grandfather’s roar: Get back in the house now!
Chest tightening as it had that day, she fumbled with the door, then, too clumsy, she scrambled across the seat and climbed out the driver’s side so fast that she slammed into Jones’s solid back.
The impact knocked him a step off balance, but he recovered and reached back, taking hold of her arm, steadying her beside him. “You in that big a hurry—” His tone was light, to match his expression, until his gaze connected with hers. She must have looked as panicky as she felt, because his expression sombered and he led her out into the warm afternoon sunshine, not stopping until twenty feet of gravel and grass separated them from the garage.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded, not yet trusting her voice.
He studied her a moment longer, then asked, “You want to let go of me, or would you rather wait a minute?”
For the first time she realized her hands were clenched around his arm, her fingertips whitened from pressure. She tried to let go, tried to smile, to shake off the reaction, but all she managed was a faint whimper. That was enough to bring him closer, his free arm wrapping around her, pulling her until her body was snug against his, his voice a quiet murmur above her ear. It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.
Heat seeped into her, and security and comfort. After a moment, the shudders faded, leaving
her muscles tight and exhausted. The chill faded, too, and the echoes of Grandfather’s shout. Her pounding heart slowed, her legs steadied, her fingers unclasped and she thought inanely how different a nightmare was, even a waking one, when you had somebody to hold you and chase it away. After her father died, she’d never had anyone…until now. Until Jones.
She looked up at him and found him staring back, concern making his already dark eyes even more so. His other arm now loosed of her grip, he raised his hand, brushing one finger over her face, fluttering her eyes shut, skimming her cheek, feathering over her lips, as if he were wiping away the fright.
Then he bent closer still and kissed her. It wasn’t the hottest kiss she’d ever had, or the hungriest or the sweetest, but it was the best, because she needed it, and he knew it.
After a long, gentle moment, he raised his mouth, his forehead resting against hers. “Better now?” Soft words, tender.
This time she managed a real smile, if somewhat shaky…though this time, the shakiness was from the kiss, the taste and feel of him, rather than fear. “I am.” Then she kissed him. She didn’t warn herself off, didn’t tell herself that this was a bad time and a worse place for any kind of intimacy. She didn’t let herself think at all.
She just acted.
And he reacted.
Jones was no idiot. He knew it was possible for a kiss to go from nothing to burning-hot-need-to-get-naked in half a second, but he still wasn’t prepared for it. Hell, he hadn’t been ready for Reece to initiate a kiss at all. She’d needed calming, and that was what he’d offered: a hug and a nothing little kiss to settle her fears.
And now he was combusting from the outside in. His tongue was in her mouth, his erection pressed against her, his hands cupping her face while her hands roamed all over him. His blood pumped hot, fire licking along his veins, his only thought now! and his only need privacy. The cottage was closest and his befuddled brain was trying to direct his body that way, without losing contact with her body, when some small, still-functioning part of his brain spoke up.
“Miss Willa,” he mumbled against Reece’s mouth, trying as he spoke to put some space between them. It was hard when he didn’t really want that space, and neither did she, judging by the way she clung to him.
His words, though, did the trick. Her hands still on his chest, one beneath his shirt, she drew back enough to focus her gaze on him. “When a man brings up my grandmother while I’m trying to kiss him senseless, I’m obviously not doing it right.” Her voice was husky, tinged with amusement and tempered with impatience.
“I passed senseless a while ago.” He tried for a rueful grin and thought he succeeded with the rueful part. “We’re not exactly being discreet, and your grandmother would give you hell for dallying with the hired help.”
She looked at the house, where rows of windows stared down on them. Jones hadn’t been inside yet, but he’d guess they could be seen there beside the driveway from at least two-thirds of the structure.
“She’s given me hell plenty of times before,” Reece said, taking a step back, then another. “It wouldn’t be anything new. But she wouldn’t fire you for dallying with her granddaughter.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Once voiced, it gave him a moment’s thought: leaving Fair Winds knowing no more about Glen than when he’d come.
But Reece was right, and it showed in her smile. “It’d be easier to send me away than to find another big-name landscape architect to handle her project.” There was only the slightest hint of self-pity in her voice before she went on. “A name that I think, after getting more intimately acquainted, I should know.”
He left her a moment to return to the garage and close the door, then came back, took her hand in his and started toward the house. “You know my name.”
“Jones. No Mister. Just Jones.” She gave him a wicked sidelong glance. “Don’t tell me your first name is Justin. Or Justice.”
“Nope. Though that wouldn’t be so bad.”
She laughed at the idea of something worse than Justice Jones. “I don’t even know whether Jones is your first or last name.”
She’d asked him that twice, fifteen years apart. The first time he’d always been on the lookout for trouble, and never giving anyone his full name, or sometimes even his own name, had been one safety measure. The second time he’d thought she knew who he was.
Now he believed she didn’t. He’d been wavering on the subject of her self-claimed amnesia, but at that moment he admitted he believed her. And she was right; after that, uh, intimacy, she deserved to know that much.
“It’s my last name. My first name is between me, my lawyers, my accountant and my mother. Everyone else in the world just calls me Jones.”
“Even your girlfriends?”
“When I have one.”
“Do they get tired of waiting for you back there in Kentucky while you travel all over working?”
As they got closer to the house, he released her hand and, in silent agreement, they put a few extra inches between them. “You’re assuming they all break up with me. That’s not always the case. Besides, long-distance relationships aren’t so tough anymore, not with the internet, smartphones and the money to make regular visits.”
“Yeah, it worked for your grandparents and parents.”
“And without the internet, smartphones or airlines.”
“Is that what you want? A long-distance relationship? To always be saying goodbye, sleeping alone, waiting for the next visit? Putting business first, wife and kids last?” Scrunching her face into a frown, she shook her head. “You’re no romantic, Jones.”
Now it was him laughing. He’d learned all the gestures—the fancy restaurants, the flowers, the extravagant gifts, the celebrations for no reason. He could romance a woman with the best of them. It wasn’t his idea of fun, but if it was what a woman wanted, and if he wanted her, he could do it.
He didn’t think the gestures were what Reece wanted at all. Just genuine emotion. Knowing she was important and being shown in the ways that really mattered—the little ways. A massage. A shoulder to lean on when she was upset. A voice to ease the fear. Loving her dogs unconditionally.
Oh, yeah, and being there every night at bedtime.
“First, I’m talking about just a relationship at the moment, not marriage. And second, it’s not ideal, but life usually isn’t. Ideally, I’d want a wife who shared my interest in the business, who would travel and work with me. And ideally by the time we had kids, the business would be at a point where I could just run it and let other people do the traveling.”
“If you’re known well enough in this business to impress Grandmother, then you’re in that position now,” Reece pointed out as they reached the patio.
“I am,” he admitted, then parroted her own words back to her. “I’ve never met a woman I’d remotely consider tying myself to. At least…not yet.”
Their gazes locked, and again there was heat, need, hunger. It was sexual tension, he told himself. Lust. Any man in the world who’d just shared that kiss with her, whose nerves were still humming with little electric shocks, would feel the same way.
It didn’t mean she could be that woman. It didn’t mean they could share any sort of relationship beyond a temporary one. It didn’t mean she felt or wanted the same thing.
It didn’t mean a damn thing at all except that he was in sorry shape.
“I—I’d better get the keys back to Grandmother.” Reece’s voice was unsteady again, just a little quaver that hinted of her physical response.
“I’d better start on the front bed.” He handed her the keys and watched her go to the door. There she turned back to watch him until finally he forced himself to move.
Pansies. Flower beds. Mulch. Soil. Edging. Hard work.
Exactly what he needed.
Chapter 8
The clock in the hall chimed four o’clock, drawing Reece’s gaze from the book. Grandmother was resting, something she’d done e
very afternoon as far back as Reece could remember, and the house was particularly quiet with the housekeeper gone.
Quiet didn’t apply to outdoors, though. Shortly after she’d come inside, Jones had driven past on his way out. An hour later, he’d returned, parking the truck in the middle of the driveway about even with the porch. Yes, she’d gone into Grandmother’s study to peek through the lace curtains. Behind him was another truck, bigger, loaded with pallets of brick and mulch, bags of concrete mix and some type of equipment. He and the driver had unloaded, shaken hands, then the truck left and Jones turned to the front yard.
The equipment—a tiller, she guessed, not that she’d ever had the opportunity to need one—was noisy and distracted her from her reading. She’d finished four chapters of Southern Aristocracy without remembering a word.
Now she closed the book and sighed loudly. It echoed in the salon, as if a dozen souls joined in. Setting the book aside, she stood and stretched, looked around as if seeking something else to do, then gave up the pretense and went into the hall. A slight hum from the refrigerator, the swish of paddle fans in the salon and Grandmother’s study, the smells of wood polish and age and… Her nose twitched as she looked toward the front hall. She took a few steps toward the heavy closed door and sniffed again.
It was cigar smoke. Not the stale decades’ worth of smoke Grandfather’s study had seen, but fresh, almost sweet. She imagined as she stared at the door that she could even see the faint curl as the smoke escaped the room.
She took a few more steps, reaching the door in fits and starts. For a time she just looked, aware that everything in her had gone cold. The smoke was definitely seeping under the door in delicate wisps as if drawn out by an invisible vacuum.
Fingers trembling, she touched the door, solid ancient wood, neither warm nor cold, just a door. Slowly she slid her hand down and to the right, until her fingers brushed the intricate brass knob that the sea captain Howard had brought from India. She could turn it. Open the door. Go inside. Satisfy her curiosity that Grandfather assuredly wasn’t there.
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