Suzanna's Surrender tcw-4

by Nora Roberts

  He hadn't realized that putting a tree in the ground could be soothing, even rewarding work. But when it stood, young and straight in the dazzling sunlight, he felt soothed. And rewarded.

  “I was thinking about what you said yesterday,” he began when they set the second tree in its new home.

  “And?”

  He wanted to swear. There was such patience in the single word, as if she'd known all along he would bring it up. “And I still don't think there's anything I can do, or want to do, but you may be right about the connection.”

  “I know I'm right about the connection.” She brushed mulch from her hands to her jeans. “If you came out here just to tell me that, you've wasted a trip.”

  She rolled the empty wheelbarrow to the truck. She was about to muscle the next two trees out of the bed when he jumped up beside her.

  “I'll get the damn things out.” Muttering, he filled the wheelbarrow and rolled it back to the rear of the yard. “He never mentioned her to me. Maybe he knew her, maybe they had an affair, but I don't see how that helps you.”

  “He loved her,” Suzanna said quietly as she picked up the shovel to dig. “That means he knew how she felt, how she thought. He might have had an idea where she would have hidden the emeralds.”

  “He's dead.”

  “I know.” She was silent a moment as she worked.

  “Bianca kept a journal – at least we're nearly certain she did, and that she hid it away with the necklace. Christian might have kept one, too.”

  Annoyed, he grabbed the shovel again. “I never saw it.”

  She suppressed the urge to snap at him. However much it might grate, he could be a link. “I suppose most people keep a private journal in a private place. Or he might have kept some letters from her. We found one Bianca wrote him and was never able to send.”

  “You're chasing windmills, Suzanna.”

  “This is important to my family.” She set the white pine carefully in the hole. “It's not the monetary value of the emeralds. It's what they meant to her.”

  He watched her work, the competent and gentle hands, the surprisingly strong shoulders. The delicate curve of her neck. “How could you know what they meant to her?”

  She kept her eyes down. “I can't explain that to you in any way you'd understand or accept.”

  “Try me.”

  “We all seem to have some kind of bond with her – especially Lilah.” She didn't look up when she heard him digging the next hole. “We'd never seen the emeralds, not even a photograph. After Bianca died, Fergus, my greatgrandfather, destroyed all pictures of her. But Lilah...she drew a sketch of them one night. It was after we'd had a séance.”

  She did look up then and caught – his look of amused disbelief. “I know how it sounds,” she said, her voice stiff and defensive. “But my aunt believes in that sort of thing. And after that night, I think she may be right to. My youngest sister, C.C. had an...experience during the séance. She saw them – the emeralds. That's when Lilah drew the sketch. Weeks later, Lilah's fiancé found a picture of the emeralds in a library book. They were exactly as Lilah had drawn them, exactly as C.C. had seen them.”

  He said nothing for a moment as he set the next tree in place. “I'm not much on mysticism. Maybe one of your sisters saw the picture before, and had forgotten about it.”

  “If any of us had seen a picture, we wouldn't have forgotten. Still, the point is that all of us feel that finding the emeralds is important.”

  “They might have been sold eighty years ago.”

  “No. There was no record. Fergus was a maniac about keeping his finances.” Unconsciously she arched her back, rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache. “Believe me, we've been through every scrap of paper we could find.”

  He let it drop, mulling it over as they planted the last of the trees.

  “You know the bit about the needle in the haystack?” he asked as he helped her spread mulch. “People don't really find it.”

  “They would if they kept looking.” Curious, she sat back on her heels to study him. “Don't you believe in hope?”

  He was close enough to touch her, to rub the smudge of dirt from her cheek or run a hand down the ponytail. He did neither. “No, only in what is.”

  “Then I'm sorry for you.” They rose together, their bodies nearly brushing. She felt something rush along her skin, something race through her blood, and automatically stepped back. “If you don't believe in what could be, there isn't any use in planting trees, or having children or even watching the sun set.”

  He'd felt it, too. And resented and feared it every bit as much as she. “If you don't keep your eye on what's real, right now, you end up dreaming your life away. I don't believe in the necklace, Suzanna, or in ghosts, or in eternal love. But if and when I'm certain that my grandfather was involved with Bianca Calhoun, I'll do what I can to help you.”

  She gave a half laugh. “You don't believe in hope or love, or anything else apparently. Why would you agree to help us?”

  “Because if he did love her, he would have wanted me to.” Bending, he picked up the shovel and handed it back to her. “I've got things to do.”

  Chapter Three

  Suzanna pulled up to the shop, pleased that she had to squeeze between a station wagon and a hatchback in the graveled parking area. There were a few people wandering around the flats of annuals, and a young couple deliberating over the climbing roses. A woman, hugely pregnant, strolled about, carrying a tray of mixed pots. The toddler by her side held a single geranium like a flag.

  Inside, Carolanne was ringing up a sale and flirting with the young man who held a ceramic urn of pink double begonias. “Your mother will love them,” she said, and swept her long lashes over doe – colored eyes. “There's nothing like flowers for a birthday. Or anytime. We're having a special on carnations.” She smiled and tossed her long, curling brown hair. “If you have a girlfriend.”

  “Well, no...” He cleared his throat. “Not really. Right now.”

  “Oh.” Her smile warmed several degrees. “That's too bad.” She gave him his change and a long look. “Come back anytime. I'm usually here.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He shot a glance over his shoulder, trying to keep her in sight, and nearly ran over Suzanna. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That's all right. I hope your mother enjoys them.” Chuckling, she joined the pert brunette at the cash register. “You're amazing.”

  “Wasn't he cute? I love it when they blush. Well.” She turned her smile on Suzanna. “You're back early.”

  “It didn't take as long as I thought.” She didn't feel it was necessary to add she'd had unexpected and unwanted help. Carolanne was a hard worker, a skilled salesperson, and an inveterate gossip. “How are things here?”

  “Moving along. All this sunshine must be inspiring people to beef up their gardens. Oh, Mrs. Russ was back. She liked the primroses so much, she made her husband build her another window box so she could buy more. Since she was in the mood, I sold her two hibiscus – and two of those terracotta pots to put them in.”

  “I love you. Mrs. Russ loves you, and Mr. Russ is going to learn to hate you.” At Carolanne's laugh, Suzanna looked out through the glass. “I'll go and see if I can help those people decide which roses they want.”

  “The new Mr. and Mrs. Halley. They both wait tables over at Captain Jack's, and just bought a cottage. He's studying to be an engineer, and she's going to start teaching at the elementary school in September.”

  Shaking her head, Suzanna laughed. “Like I said, you're amazing.”

  “No, just nosy.” Carolanne grinned. “Besides, people buy more if you talk to them. And boy, do I love to talk.”

  “If you didn't, I'd have to close up shop.”

  “You'd just work twice as hard, if that's possible.” She waved a hand before Suzanna could protest. “Before you go, I asked around to see if anyone needed any part – time work.” Carolanne lifted her hands. “No luck yet.”

 
It wasn't any use moaning, Suzanna thought. “This late in the season, everyone's already working.”

  “If Tommy the creep Parotti hadn't jumped ship –”

  “Honey, he had a chance to make a break and do something he's always wanted to do. We can't blame him for that.”

  “You can't,” Carolanne muttered. “Suzanna, you can't keep doing all the site work yourself. It's too hard.”

  “We're getting by,” she said absently, thinking of the help she'd had that day. “Listen, Carolanne, after we deal with these customers, I have another delivery to make. Can you handle things until closing?”

  “Sure.” Carolanne let out a sigh. “I'm the one with a stool and a fan, you're the one with the pick and the shovel.”

  “Just keep pushing the carnations.”

  An hour later, Suzanna pulled up at Holt's cottage. It wasn't just impulse, she told herself. And it wasn't because she wanted to pressure him. Lecturing herself, she climbed out of the truck. It certainly wasn't because she wanted his company. But she was a Calhoun, and Calhouns always paid their debts.

  She walked up the steps to the porch, again thinking it was a charming place. A few touches – morning glories climbing up the railing, a bed of columbine and larkspur, with some snapdragons and lavender.

  Day lilies along that slope, she thought as she knocked. A border of impatiens. Miniature roses under the windows. And there, where the ground was rocky and uneven, a little herb bed, set off with spring bulbs.

  It could be a fairy–tale place – but the man who lived there didn't believe in fairy tales.

  She knocked again, noting that his car was there. As she had before, she walked around the side, but he wasn't in the boat this time. With a shrug, she decided she would do what she'd come to do.

  She'd already picked the spot, between the water and the house, where the shrub could be seen and enjoyed through what she'd determined was the kitchen window. It wasn't much, but it would add some color to the empty backyard. She wheeled around what she needed, then began to dig.

  Inside his work shed, Holt had the boat engine broken down. Rebuilding it would require concentration and time. Which was just what he needed. He didn't want to think about the Calhouns, or tragic love affairs, or responsibilities.

  He didn't even glance up when Sadie rose from her nap on the cool cement and trotted outside. He and the dog had an understanding. She did as she chose, and he fed her.

  When she barked, he kept on working. As a watchdog, Sadie was a bust. She barked at squirrels, at the wind in the grass, and in her sleep. A year before there'd been an attempted burglary in his house in Portland. Holt had relieved the would – be thief of his stereo equipment while Sadie had napped peacefully on the living room rug.

  But he did look up, he did stop working when he heard the low, feminine laughter. It skimmed along his skin, light and warm. When he pushed away from the workbench, his stomach was already in knots. When he stood in the doorway and looked at her, the knots yanked tight.

  Why wouldn't she leave him alone? he wondered, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He'd told her he'd think about it, hadn't he? She had no business coming here again.

  They didn't even like each other. Whatever she did to him physically was his problem, and so far he'd managed quite nicely to keep his hands off her.

  Now here she was, standing in his yard, talking to his dog. And digging a hole.

  His brows drew together as he stepped out of the shed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Her head shot up. He saw her eyes, big and blue and alarmed. Her face, flushed from the heat and her work, went very pale. He'd seen that kind of look before – the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim. Then it was gone, fading so swiftly he nearly convinced himself he'd imagined it. Color seeped slowly into her cheeks again as she managed to smile.

  “I didn't think you were here.”

  He stayed where he was and continued to scowl. “So, you decided to dig a hole in my yard.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Steady now, annoyed with herself for the instinctive jolt, she plunged the shovel in again, braced her foot on it and deepened the hole. “I brought you a bush.”

  Damned if he was going to take the shovel from her this time and dig the hole himself. But he did cross to her. “Why?”

  “To thank you for helping me out today. You saved me a good hour.” “So you use it to dig another hole.”

  “Uh – huh. There's a breeze off the water today.” She lifted her face to it for a moment. “It's nice.”

  Because looking at her made his palms sweat, he scowled down at the tidy shrub pregnant with sassy yellow blooms. “I don't know how to take care of a bush. You put it there, you're condemning it to death row.”

  With a laugh, she scooped out the last of the dirt. “You don't have to do much. This one's very hardy, even when it's dry, and it'll bloom for you into the fall. Can I use your hose?”

  “What?” “Your hose?”

  “Yeah.” He raked a hand through his hair. He hadn't a clue how he was supposed to react. It was certainly the first time anyone had given him flowers – unless you counted the batch the guys at the precinct had brought in when he'd been in the hospital. “Sure.”

  At ease with her task, she continued to talk as she went to the outside wall to turn on the water. “It'll stay neat It's a very well behaved little bush and won't get over three feet.” She petted Sadie, who was circling the bush and sniffing. “If you'd like something else instead...”

  He wasn't going to let himself be touched by some idiotic plant or her misplaced gratitude. “It doesn't matter to me. I don't know one from the other.”

  “Well, this is a hypericwn kalmianum.”

  His lips quirked into what might have been a smile. “That tells me a lot.”

  Chuckling, she set it in place. “A sunshine shrub in layman's terms.” Still smiling, she tilted her head back to look at him. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was embarrassed. Fat chance. “I thought you could use some sunshine. Why don't you help me plant it? It'll mean more to you then.”

  He'd said he wasn't going to get sucked in, and damn it, he'd meant it. “Are you sure this isn't your idea of a bribe? To get me to help you out?”

  Sighing a little, she sat back on her heels. “I wonder what makes someone so cynical and unfriendly. I'm sure you have your reasons, but they don't apply here. You did me a favor today, and I'm paying you back. Very simple. Now if you don't want the bush, just say so. I'll give it to someone else.”

  He lifted a brow at the tone. “Is that how you keep your kids in line?” “When necessary. Well, what's it to be?”

  Maybe he was being too hard on her. She'd made a gesture and he was slapping it back in her face. If she could be casually friendly, so could he. “I've already got a hole in my yard,” he pointed out then knelt beside her. The dog lay down in the sunlight to watch. “We might as well put something in it.”

  And that, she supposed, was his idea of a thank you. “Fine.”

  “So how old are your kids?” Not that he cared, he told himself. He was just making conversation.

  “Five and six. Alex is the oldest, then Jenny.” Her eyes softened as they always did when she thought of them. “They're growing up so fast, I can hardly keep up.”

  “What made you come back here after the divorce?”

  Her hands tensed in the soil, then began to work again. It was a small and quickly concealed gesture, but he had very sharp eyes. “Because it's home.”

  There was a tender spot, he thought and eased around it. “I heard you're going to turn The Towers into a hotel.”

  “Just the west wing. That's C.C.'s husband's business.”

  “It's hard to picture C.C. married. The last time I saw her she was about twelve.”

  “She's grown up now, and beautiful.” “Looks run in the family.”

  She glanced up, surprised, then back down again. “I think you've just said someth
ing nice.”

  “Just stating a fact. The Calhoun sisters were always worth a second look.” To please himself, he reached out to toy with the tip of her ponytail. “Whenever guys got together, the four of you were definitely topics of conversation.”

  She laughed a little, thinking how easy life had been back then. “I'm sure we'd have been flattered.”

  “I used to look at you,” Holt said slowly. “A lot.”

  Wary, she lifted her head. “Really? I never noticed.”

  “You wouldn't have.” His hand dropped away again. “Princesses don't notice peasants.”

  Now she frowned, not only at the words but at the clipped tone. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “It was easy to think of you that way, the princess in the castle.”

  “A castle that's been crumbling for years,” she said dryly. “And as I recall, you were too busy swaggering around and juggling girls to notice me.”

  He had to grin. “Oh, between the swaggering and juggling, I noticed you all right.”

  Something in his eyes set off a little warning bell. It might have been some time since she'd heard that particular sound, but she recognized it and heeded it. She looked down again to firm the dirt around the bush.

  “That was a long time ago. I imagine we've both changed quite a bit.” “Can't argue with that.” He pushed at the dirt.

  “No, don't shove at it, press it down – firm, but gentle.” Scooting closer, she put her hands over his to show him. “All it needs is a good start, and then –”

  She broke off when he turned his hands over to grip hers.

  They were close, knees brushing, bodies bent toward each other. He noted that her hands were hard, callused, a direct and fascinating contrast to the soft eyes and tea rose complexion. There was a strength in her fingers that would have surprised him if he hadn't seen for himself how hard she worked. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he found it incredibly erotic.

  “You've got strong hands, Suzanna.”

  “A gardener's hands,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “And I need them to finish planting this bush.”