by Irene Hannon
He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”
Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”
“But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”
She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”
“You might not think it’s so much fun after you start getting blisters on your hands.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Besides, gardening is hard work. It takes a lot of strength. Lifting, digging, pulling. You’re just a little thing.”
A wry smile lifted her lips. “Henry, I’ve spent half my life juggling heavy trays of dishes and glasses. I’ve moved tables, hauled and stacked chairs, and run up and down stairs balancing plates of food. At Ronnie’s Diner, I’m known as the Bionic Blonde. Trust me, being a waitress is a tough job. I’m a whole lot stronger than I look.”
“Well, I sure would like to see this place the way it used to be. And I know Marjorie would be pleased.”
“Then it’s decided. Heather and J.C. said I could use their car every afternoon, so I can bike to a beach and play in the sand in the morning, then head out here and play in the dirt after lunch. Are you game to show me the ropes?”
A slow grin creased his face, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand beside her. “Let’s do it.”
Christopher wheeled his bike behind his cottage, glanced toward Henry’s backyard—and came to an abrupt halt. He had only a partial view of the woman on her hands and knees between two hydrangea bushes, but he’d recognize that blond hair anywhere.
What in the world was Marci Clay doing in Henry’s garden?
As she began to tug on something out of his line of sight, Henry’s voice rang across the yards. “Hey, Christopher! Look what we’re doing!”
Marci lost her grip and fell back with a plop. A second later she twisted toward him with a startled expression.
“Hi, Henry. Hello, Marci.”
Scrambling to her feet, she wiped her hands on her jeans.
“We’re cleaning out the garden,” Henry told him, brandishing a shovel as he gestured toward a large pile of wilting weeds and ivy.
Setting his mail on the railing around his tiny back porch, Christopher strolled over to the picket fence that separated the yards and surveyed Henry’s garden. In the far corner, plants had emerged from the cacophony of weeds. He’d never been much of a gardener, but his mother had enjoyed the hobby and he’d learned a few things from her. Enough to recognize the peony buds and coral bells. The other plants Marci had unearthed were a mystery to him.
“Looks like you’ve made a good start.” He turned his attention to Marci, who’d kept her distance. Her jeans were grimy, her fingernails caked with mud. Sweat had wiped her face clean of makeup. One of her cheeks sported a long streak of dirt.
She looked adorable.
Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, Christopher summoned up what he hoped passed for a casual smile. “I see Henry put you to work.”
“I volunteered.”
“She’s a hard worker, too.” Henry rested the shovel against the fence. “Why are you home so early?”
Christopher checked his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty!” Shock rippled across Marci’s face. “Henry, I’ve got to go. I told Edith and Chester I’d have dinner with them tonight. At seven.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans again and dashed for the porch. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Are you still sure about doing this, Marci?”
“Yes.” She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. “I never leave a job unfinished.” Snagging her keys, she sent Christopher a quick glance, tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away.
Why was she nervous around him? He didn’t think it had anything to do with their rough start. Her present behavior bore no resemblance to her cold, aloof response when he’d insulted her in the restaurant. Today she reminded him of the island deer that bolted when anyone got too close.
For more than two years, he’d gone out of his way to discourage any woman who tried to cozy up to him. And a lot of them had. But Marci was at the opposite end of the spectrum. She was sending clear no-trespassing signals.
He should be grateful, Christopher told himself. This way he wouldn’t have to worry about fending off unwanted attention.
Except he wasn’t.
When the silence lengthened, Henry shot Christopher a pointed look. “Maybe you could walk Marci to her car.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right, Henry.” Marci dropped her keys. Bent to pick them up. When she rose, her cheeks were flushed. “I’m right in front. He doesn’t need to bother.” Before either man could respond, she jogged toward the gate. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”
Less than thirty seconds later, an engine started. Christopher heard the crunch of car tires on the oyster-shell lane and listened as the sound gradually receded into the distance.
When silence descended, he regarded Henry, gesturing toward the garden. “How did all this start?”
His neighbor scratched his head. “Beats me. One minute we were talking about Marjorie, and the next thing I knew Marci was pulling weeds. She’s strong, too, just like she told me. Claims it comes from all those years of waitressing.”
“Marci was a waitress?”
“Yep. That’s how she put herself through school. You’ve got to admire her spunk.”
“What else did she tell you?” Though Christopher did his best to keep his question nonchalant, a twinkle appeared in Henry’s eyes.
“Mostly we talked about flowers. But I expect we’ll get into a lot of other things as we work on the garden. Maybe you could stop by one afternoon and join us for lemonade.”
Not a good idea, Christopher decided. Contact could lead to connection, and he wasn’t in the market for a romantic relationship—even if the woman was willing. And Marci obviously wasn’t.
Besides, he couldn’t erase the image of her tears that first night in the restaurant. Or the defeated look in her eyes. Or the dejected slump of her shoulders as she’d walked home. All of which told him she had issues.
He needed to keep his distance.
“She makes you nervous, doesn’t she?”
At Henry’s comment, Christopher frowned. The last thing he needed right now was an armchair psychologist analyzing him in his backyard.
Ignoring Henry’s remark, Christopher scanned the sky as a gust of wind whipped past. “Looks like a storm might be brewing.”
His neighbor stacked his hands on top of the handle of his shovel and squinted at Christopher appraisingly. “Yep. I’d say there could be some unsettled weather ahead.”
Disregarding the double meaning, Christopher motioned toward his porch. “I think I’ll rescue my mail and head inside.”
Henry grinned. “Dashing for cover, hmm? Good luck.” With a wave, he ambled back to his hydrangeas.
For a minute, Christopher watched as the older man putzed around among the bushes. It was clear Henry thought he was running scared. And truth be told, he was. Marci was way too appealing.
But if Henry and Edith thought they were going to match him up with the attractive blonde, they’d be disappointed.
No way was he ready to get serious about anyone.
Especially a woman whose eyes held secrets.
Chapter Four
Marci cast a wary eye at the clouds massing on the horizon as she drove down Milestone Road toward Henry’s house on Wednesday. They’d begun to gather while she’d lounged on the b
each this morning, and they’d grown more ominous during her brief stop at her cottage to grab some lunch and change into work clothes. If they continued to build, she suspected her gardening efforts would be curtailed this afternoon.
For now, though, the sun continued to shine brightly on the windswept moors and cranberry bog to her left. Already this long stretch of undulating road was becoming one of her favorite spots. Far less populated than other parts of the island, the pristine beauty and serenity of the simple, timeless landscape helped calm her. And she needed some calming—thanks to a certain good-looking doctor with eyes the color of a Nantucket sky.
Marci had no idea why—or how—he’d managed to get under her skin and disrupt her equilibrium in such a short time. And the first glance they’d exchanged in the restaurant had been anything but tender or romantic.
Yet from the day he’d apologized when he’d made the house call at The Devon Rose, she’d had difficulty controlling the attraction she felt whenever she was in his presence.
Or thought about being in his presence.
Like now.
Forcibly redirecting her attention to the bike path that followed the road toward ’Sconset, she saw that the cyclists were out in force today. Family groups for the most part, with a few couples here and there.
She did spot one solitary biker up ahead, though, on the outskirts of the village. A man in jeans, the wire baskets on the back of his bike loaded down. With what? she wondered. Paraphernalia for a beach outing? Picnic food? And why was he alone?
As Marci passed him, she caught a glimpse of his profile. And her mouth dropped open.
It was Christopher Morgan.
Yanking her gaze away from him, she pressed on the accelerator. Not until she’d put some distance between them did she risk another peek at him in her rearview mirror.
What in the world was he doing on a bicycle? Didn’t doctors usually drive luxury cars? And why wasn’t he working on a weekday?
With those questions echoing in her mind, Marci navigated the narrow streets of the tiny village and pulled to a stop in front of Henry’s cottage. For several seconds she sat there, engine running. She’d planned to be long gone by the time Christopher arrived home. Now, the only way to avoid another unsettling encounter with him would be to put the car back in gear, drive away and call Henry with her regrets. She hated to disappoint the older man, but that seemed the safest course.
Before she could follow through with that plan, however, Henry’s front door opened. Pushing through, he strolled over to the car and leaned down to peer in the open passenger-side window.
“Thought I heard a car stop. Everything okay?”
Too late for retreat.
“Yes.” Resigned, Marci shut off the engine, picked up her purse and opened her door just as Christopher rounded the corner on his bike.
“Hey, Christopher!” Henry straightened up and waved as he called out the greeting.
Christopher raised one hand in response.
Circling the car, Marci stood behind Henry. “What’s he doing on a bike?”
“Always rides it to work in good weather. Sometimes in not-so-good weather. Says it helps keep him in shape.”
Noting Christopher’s toned, fit form as he pedaled toward them, Marci couldn’t argue with that. Nor could she stop the slight quiver in her fingers as she took in his lean physique.
Get a grip! she warned herself, shoving her hands into her pockets and balling them into fists.
“So what’s he doing home on a weekday?” She strove for a conversational tone but couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice.
“He only has office hours until noon on Wednesdays. Then he works three to eleven in the E.R. Spends way too much time on the job, if you ask me. The man needs some diversions.” Henry shot her a quick look over his shoulder.
At the speculative glint in his eyes, Marci smothered a sigh. First Edith had thrown out hints about the two of them getting together. Now Henry seemed tuned to the same channel.
Which was all the more reason to keep her distance, Marci reminded herself as Christopher glided to a stop beside them. There were way too many sparks flying already; the last thing they needed was any encouragement.
Still straddling the bike, Christopher took off his helmet and smiled at her.
The way her heart melted, you’d think she was some innocent, starry-eyed teen in the throes of her first crush, Marci thought in disgust. And she was none of the above.
“Hi, Marci.”
“Hi.” Her reply came out stiff. Almost unfriendly.
If he noticed, he didn’t let on. But Henry pursed his lips and gave her an odd look before turning his attention to Christopher.
“Was the prescription ready?”
“Yes.” Twisting around, Christopher snagged two grocery bags out of one of the wire baskets and handed them to the older man. “I think I got everything else on your list, too. And I threw in a couple of sugar doughnuts from The Flake.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Grinning, Henry reached for the bags. “But I’m glad you did.”
“I thought you might be.” Christopher winked and swung his leg over the bar on the bike. “There’s a pair of garden gloves in there, too. For your new assistant. Gardening is hard on the hands.” He turned to her. “How’s the scratch?”
Was there anything this man didn’t notice? Marci shoved her right hand deeper into her pocket to hide the long scratch down the back, a souvenir of yesterday’s tussle with a rose bush.
She gave a slight shrug. “It’s fine. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for the gloves.”
“No way,” Henry protested. “If anyone’s going to repay him, it’s me. The cost of a pair of garden gloves is a small price to pay for all the free labor I’m getting.”
“Forget it. It’s no big deal.” Christopher checked his watch. “I need to grab a quick bite, then head to the hospital. See you later.”
Without waiting for a response, he pushed his bike around the corner of his cottage.
“He’s a good boy. Been almost like a son to me these past two years.” Henry started toward the gate to the backyard.
“Let me take a bag, Henry.” Marci gently tugged one of the plastic sacks out of his hand as they went through the gate, her curiosity piqued. “Have you only known him for two years?”
“Yep. That’s when he moved to the island from Boston. Marjorie and I used to rent out the cottage to summer people, but when Christopher offered to sign a one-year lease, I grabbed it. It’s a whole lot easier than having new people come and go all the time, and now I have income for the whole year, not just for the summer. It’s worked out real fine. He renewed it for the second time last month. Can’t imagine not having him around anymore. But I expect one of these days he’ll go home.”
Why? And why is he here in the first place?
Marci had to bite back the questions as they reached the back porch.
“Would you like me to bring this inside for you or hand it through the door, Henry?”
“Come on in.” He pulled open the screen door and stepped aside to let her pass. “Don’t mind the dust. I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
Crossing the threshold, Marci walked through the small mud room and set the bag on the Formica counter in the kitchen. Though the room was dated, she liked its warmth. Yellow curtains added a bright spot of color, and a pine table for four was tucked into a windowed alcove that offered a view into the backyard and the sea beyond. Although she spotted some dust on the lower cabinets, the countertops were clutter free and the sink had been wiped clean. A dishrag was draped over the chrome faucet, and a neatly folded towel had been tucked into the handle of the oven.
A framed photo on the wall near the table caught her attention, and Marci moved closer to examine the scene of Henry’s backyard. The gazebo was still in place, its weathered patina the color of driftwood. A slim older woman, a basket of cut flowers in hand, a pleasant smile softening her lips, stood at the e
ntrance below a band of lattice.
“That’s my Marjorie. I put that picture there so I can look at her while I eat. I never did like to eat alone.”
At Henry’s wistful tone, she shifted toward him. “Do you have any children, Henry?”
His expression grew melancholy. “A daughter. She lives in Boston. Doesn’t get down this way much.” He gave her a smile that seemed forced. “How about we get to work on that garden? With the clouds rolling in, I expect this will be a short day.”
“Okay by me.”
“Let me find those gloves Christopher bought. Mighty thoughtful of him. But that’s the kind of man he is.” He rummaged through the bag as he spoke. “Last winter I had a nasty bout of pneumonia. Was weak as a kitten for weeks. Christopher came over to see me twice a day and brought me food every night. Watched a lot of old movies with me, too, even though he had better things to do.” He withdrew the gloves and handed them over.
Marci took them, fingering the soft leather. No cheap cloth gloves for Christopher Morgan. These were good quality. Expensive.
In other words, too nice for her.
She knew what J.C. would say about that sort of thinking. But even though her self-esteem was improving, her first reaction to such acts of kindness still tended to be that she wasn’t worthy of such generosity.
For once, however, she didn’t mistrust the gesture, as was her typical reaction with gifts from men. Christopher hadn’t made her feel she was in his debt for the house call. Nor, she suspected, would he expect anything in return for this considerate gesture. His motives weren’t suspect.
He seemed, as Henry had indicated, to simply be a good man.
The kind of man she’d always dreamed of finding.
But those dreams weren’t likely to be fulfilled.
Because she didn’t think she would ever feel worthy of someone like Christopher Morgan.
“So, where have you been keeping yourself? We’ve hardly seen you since we got back from our honeymoon.” J.C. passed a bowl of mashed potatoes to Marci.