His imagination was sometimes too damn good for comfort.
“What you have there are flowers made of colored wax, the Victorian lady’s version of an artificial arrangement,” he said as he moved to stand beside Carla. “They’re under glass because they were the devil to dust. Still are, or so Eloise tells me.”
Cool humor lit the hazel-green of her eyes as she turned to him. “Who made them? Do you know?”
“The women who show the house during the pilgrimage would tell you it was that illustrious ancestress of mine over there, in the portrait above the mantle.” He nodded toward the rather tired looking beauty in a pink gown that held a ribbon bedecked straw hat on her lap. “Personally, I’ve never been so sure.”
“You think she bought the flowers ready-made?”
“She had nine children of her own and brought up five others that belonged to a sister who died in childbirth. I doubt she had that much time or was ever that bored.”
Carla met his eyes, her own brightened by natural daylight through the lace curtains beneath looped back draperies. “So your family was once more prolific than in recent years?”
“The current baby drought is totally misleading, I promise. I have cousins all over the parish who are busily making up for the shortfall.”
“But you live alone in this huge house. Have you no plans to remarry?”
Was that question for the magazine article or her own information? He’d give a lot to know the answer. “One day. Maybe.”
“Not exactly a ringing endorsement for wedded bliss.”
Sardonic amusement lifted a corner of her mouth as she spoke. His smile matched it exactly. “I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger, either.”
“No.” Her lashes came down like shutters, concealing her thoughts.
“Your career got in the way?”
“You could say that,” she said evenly. “But this interview is about you, not me.”
“What, you don’t like people asking questions about your personal life?” He couldn’t help the irony in his voice, didn’t really try.
She was silent for a long moment while she held his gaze. Finally, her lips parted for a sigh. “If it looked as if I was prying earlier, I’m sorry. My boss wants something more than a shallow fluff piece. That means digging a bit deeper. But if you’d rather I didn’t—”
“My ex-wife is off limits,” he said before she could get around to telling him what she would and wouldn’t question. “Leesa has enough problems without seeing what happened in the past spread out in print for strangers to cackle over.”
“You’d protect her?”
“Call it that if you like.”
Carla tilted her head to one side so her hair slid over her shoulder with a golden blond shimmer. “Or is it that you’d rather people didn’t know she basically kissed off being married to you?”
Beau took a breath so deep it stretched the seams of his T-shirt as he clamped down on the anger pouring through him. Unclenching his teeth enough to speak was a real effort.
“Leesa was young. She’d been kept under her Baptist preacher dad’s thumb all her life, had it pounded into her that music, dancing, movies, and every other kind of fun led straight to hell. Her mother was one of those that lecture so hard on the evils of alcohol that their kids think its whole purpose is to get stinking, falling down drunk. If she went a little wild, there’s your explanation.”
“You’re more forgiving than most.”
“I’m realistic. Blaming Leesa, holding a grudge for something that wasn’t her fault, never made sense.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “But not forgiving enough to stay married to her.”
She didn’t shy away from the tough questions, he’d give her that much. His laugh was tight. “As I said, I’m a realist. I wasn’t what she wanted or needed. She’s moved on, I’ve moved on, and that’s the end of it. Now, it looks as if the rain has slacked off for a while. How about the official guided tour of Windwood?”
Carla’s eyes narrowed. Beau thought she was going to refuse, but then she gave him a crooked smile. “By all means. If I can’t get answers for what I ask, I can at least look.”
He’d given her all the answers he had. If she didn’t like them, he couldn’t help it. He’d made it clear in the beginning that there were things he wouldn’t discuss. He’d meant it when he said it, and he meant it still. If she wanted to rethink her interview, fine. He wouldn’t look that gift horse in the mouth.
He hadn’t forgotten his half-formed intention of convincing her she had the wrong man. If he was going to do that, it had better be soon, before she got too tangled up in his personal business and his life.
The best way to see the place was on his ATV, all-terrain vehicle, the way he had come from the cane field after catching sight of Carla on her way to the house. The four-wheeler was parked out back, but he took her out the side door from his study rather than through the kitchen. It was worth the detour to avoid one of Eloise’s black looks. She wasn’t used to being dismissed or making extra coffee for nothing, and wouldn’t mind letting him know it.
“What’s this?” Carla asked in tones of deep suspicion as he stopped beside his chosen transport.
“The way I get around here on the farm. You don’t mind, do you?”
“It looks like a grown-up toy.”
“You could call it that.”
“They never seem quite this big in the TV commercials.”
She was right, in a way, he thought as he swung into the seat. “You’ve never been on an ATV before?”
“Not a lot of use for them in downtown Baltimore.”
That was right, no doubt, as they were off-road vehicles, not licensed for the street. “First time for everything. Hop on.”
“Hop on where?” A frown drew her brows together as she ran her gaze over the four large wheels, engine, mud grip tires, carrying rack, and the single seat.
“Behind me.” He scooted forward a bit and waited expectantly.
She was game. Though the look she slanted him was dark with suspicion, she put a foot on the bracing, swung her leg over and settled into place.
Her thighs were firm and warm as her jeans-clad legs framed his on either side. Her breasts pressed against him, and he could feel their soft curves against his back, not to mention softness elsewhere.
A shudder, quickly controlled, started at the top of his head and ran all the way down to his heels. He’d thought she might be uncomfortable with the intimacy of the arrangement, while he got himself a secret kick out of it.
Stupid move. He was the one about to suffer, while she seemed unfazed. It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
“So where are we going?” she asked, her breath tickling the back of his neck.
“To check out the fields first,” he answered between set teeth as he fired up the engine. “Grab hold of my waist and hang on tight.”
They whizzed down the trail that was no more than ruts worn through thick spring grass. The wind of their passage, with its smells of bruised vegetation, mud and a hint of honeysuckle, felt good on Beau’s hot face. It was unseasonably warm, he thought, and it wasn’t just the effect of his passenger’s pelvis squeezed against his backside, nudging him every time he hit a bump. Clouds were building up in the northwest, a long bank slowly turning dark blue-gray. They promised more rain before dark.
He started the tour with the far sugar cane field where green shoots, already knee high, waved in the rising wind. He planted cane from pure tradition; the men who owned Windwood before him had planted it, and that was good enough. Of course, it helped that he enjoyed home-grown cane syrup.
His real cash crop was closer to the house, though it took a trained eye to tell the difference between the two different stands of growth at this time of year. As he pulled up at the end of the long, even rows, satisfaction rose inside him. Or maybe it was pride. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
“You know what that is?” He nodded
at the field.
His passenger leaned out a little, maybe trying to see his face. “What do you mean? It isn’t sugar cane?”
“Not on your life. This is something far more valuable. You might call it a life’s work.”
“Sounds impressive, even if you don’t seem old enough to have such a thing.”
“Not my life’s work, but Aunt Tillie’s. She hybridized these plants, as well as thousands more like them.”
“Your great aunt? She was a horticulturist of some kind?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “She loved daylilies and enjoyed fooling with them, as she called it. She made crosses between those she liked best, putting pretty with pretty.”
“That’s what all those are, daylilies.”
He didn’t answer, couldn’t for the tightness in his throat. He sat breathing slow and deep, looking out over the fields he’d planted for the woman who had taken him in as a newborn and brought him up with such loving care. The woman who was now gone.
“You raise daylilies for a living.”
Carla’s voice was flat and somehow disparaging, or so it seemed to Beau. It touched him on a spot that was already raw. “I develop special diploids and tetraploids daylilies and sell the improved stock to other growers, mainly, but also to internet customers. I guess you could say I’m a daylily farmer, though my degree is in agronomy.”
She made a soft sound very like annoyance. “Something else that wasn’t in the resume your great-aunt sent. She called you a cane farmer, though all this acreage looks more like a plantation to me.”
“The old place might have been a plantation at one time,” he conceded with a shrug, “but a lot of it has been sold off. It’s a shadow of its former self.”
“It’s Windwood Plantation in the guidebooks.”
He sent her a quick glance over his shoulder. “Just a name.”
“And maybe the name of your company?” The suggestion had a chill edge.
“What else?”
“And I suppose you won’t mind if it appears in the article I’ll be writing?”
He caught his breath, holding onto his temper by a thread. “If you think I was proposed for this crazy contest with some idea of profiting from it, you’re wrong. Such a thing never entered Aunt Tillie’s head. She was proud of the daylilies we develop here, proud they help pay the bills, but she wasn’t mercenary. To her, having enough to get by without skimping was the same as having a fortune.”
The woman behind him was quiet for a minute or two before he felt her nod of acceptance. “Sorry. It was only a thought.”
“No problem.”
“So fine, you’re a daylily farmer. But surely you don’t—what was it you said? Put pretty with pretty?”
The change of subject was more than welcome, since it allowed him to unbend a little. “I cross for size and color like everybody else,” he said evenly, “but also for hardiness and repeat blooming. I guess you could say I put the best with the best.”
“And then what?”
“Then I send the most unusual or spectacular plants from the crosses out to the big daylily shows and conferences.” He couldn’t tell if she really wanted to know, maybe for her article, or if it was simply something to say. Either way, he wasn’t about to go through the whole seed harvesting, seedling sprouting and planting out process for her.
“For what? Display to buyers?”
“Awards,” he said with the lift of a shoulder. “Medals. Sales to high bidders during auctions, photos for promotion in the catalog.”
“Catalog?”
“In full color, mostly online but also in a yearly slick paper mailer. We don’t sell retail directly from Windwood, but do ship around the world—that big barn at the far end of this track is a packing shed. The best cultivars I develop aren’t usually sold, of course, but saved for breeding stock. Well, unless I’m offered top dollar.”
“And top dollar would be?”
Now she sounded intrigued. It soothed his annoyance somewhat. “Five to ten thousand and up.”
“For a single plant?” Her voice rose a notch in surprise.
“For a single fan of a single plant,” he said with a private grin. “A grower from Malaysia paid $50,000 for exclusive rights to a cultivar last spring, but that was for one of my extra specials.”
“I’d like to see one of those!”
“They’re in the breeding greenhouse. I’ll show you in a few minutes.”
She seemed to accept that. After a moment, she said, “Is this where you were working earlier?”
“Over there, yeah.” He nodded toward the fallow field where he’d left the tractor sitting at the end of a row before heading to the house to meet her. He’d been opening a furrow, getting ready to plant it out before rain started pouring down again.
“Your housekeeper said you were behind because of—well, because. I hope I’m not too much in the way.”
Eloise had said a lot in the short time before he made it back to the house. Of course, his housekeeper was right. And Carla was definitely in the way, though he could hardly say so. “I’ll catch up.”
“It was good of you to spend so much time with your aunt while she was ill.”
“She was my mother in all the ways that matter. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I suppose I meant good in the sense of—well, of proving you are a good man, a gentle man, and so a gentleman.”
His frown was moody, though he was glad Carla was behind him so couldn’t see it. “She was under hospice care with nurses around the clock. It wasn’t as if I did much of anything worthwhile.”
“You were there for her, right?”
He’d been there, yes, and it wasn’t anything he wanted to think about, much less talk about to a woman with an agenda that included publication in a magazine. He revved the ATV’s engine as a sign the subject was closed, and then headed toward the greenhouses that lay spread out behind the big house.
The day was so warm and humid that the big fans in the ends of the greenhouses were running at top speed. They pulled in cool air and exhausted hot air currents through the roof vents. He should already have the bigger houses emptied of plants, have them set out in neat field rows. If he didn’t get to it soon, he’d need to add more overhead shade in the greenhouse or risk them being cooked by the sun. He could also lose a good portion if the weather turned dry before they had time to become established in the new ground he was preparing.
The doors at each end of the bigger houses were wide enough to drive a tractor and trailer through. He made a quick circuit through them to show Carla more of the operation. But it was the special house he wanted her to see, and where he cut the ATV’s engine and helped her off.
His most prized cultivars sat on stair-step staging, each of them in its own special pot. He’d noticed those in bloom earlier, of course; he had his first cup of coffee every morning while strolling through these houses to see what he had wrought. The one he wanted to show Carla was only a step way.
Silvery lavender in color, it had a deep purple heart, large, almost black eye, and close to half an inch of sparkling gold lace edging. Its petals were thick, heavily ridged and coated with diamond dusting. It was a monster in bloom size, though not nearly as big as his Aunt Tillie’s heart.
Carla made a low, crooning sound, as he reached for the pot and brought it close so she could get the full benefit. “You created this?”
“It’s called Tillie’s Dream. Her favorite color was purple.” He stared at the flower, not quite breathing, refusing to blink. “She never got to see it bloom.”
Carla searched his face then looked back at the flower. “I’m sorry. It’s a lovely tribute. I don’t know much about daylilies, but it’s one of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen.”
“Then there’s this.” He set the first pot back in place and picked up another.
This one’s bloom was vivid yellow with an enormous, diamond-dusted purple eye and almost flat, semi-doub
le petals edged in a crinkled ribbon of purple lace. It was also as big as a salad plate.
She breathed a quiet sigh, while her face relaxed in a smile of wonder.
It was enough. Beau was satisfied.
A tapping sound began on the glass overhead. Beau glanced up, but there was no doubt of the cause, even before the noise increased to a quick rattle.
“Raining again,” he said. “We’d better get back to the house.”
“I guess so.”
She sounded almost reluctant, as she sent a quick look at other blooms of yellow and bronze, coral and red that shone here and there on the benches. Still, she climbed on the ATV and eased back out of the way until he took the driver’s seat.
She was trying hard not to slide down against him; he could feel the tension in her muscles as she held back. She grasped a handful of his T-shirt as he started off at an easy pace along the greenhouse aisle, but didn’t ring his waist with her arm. Was she as aware of the heated, spine-tingling friction between their two bodies as he was?
He had no time to consider it as he neared the greenhouse doors and saw the rain that speared down beyond them. It was growing heavier by the second. The wind was picking up, too. He’d need to race back down here after he delivered Carla to the house, make sure all the greenhouse doors were secure.
“Hang on,” he said as he gunned the engine. Ducking his head, he let off the brake and sped out into the rain.
Carla gave a small cry as the rain hit her in the face. At least he thought that was it. But an instant later, he felt a sharp pull at the waist area of his T-shirt. Then suddenly, there was nothing.
He didn’t see her fall, didn’t hear her over the roar of the ATV’s engine. Her warmth was gone, though, replaced by wind and cold rain. Cursing himself for ten kinds of an idiot, feeling sick to his stomach from the sudden acceleration of his heart, Beau swung the ATV in a wide circle in order to look back.
Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Page 4