All They Need (6 page)

She let her hand fall to her side and retreated from the hole. “Okay. If you insist.”

He set to it again, his biceps flexing powerfully as he drove the shovel into the earth. Mel watched him, twitchy and uncomfortable with being forced into the role of spectator.

“You're about to break out in hives, aren't you?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“I'm used to doing things for myself.”

He drove the shovel into the ground and left it there. “Then you'll be pleased to know I'm done.”

Mel bit her lip and looked at him, aware that there was a very real chance that she was coming across as a surly ingrate. “I do appreciate the help. You've been incredibly generous…?.”

He waved a hand, effectively dismissing her words. “Let's get this baby in the ground where she belongs.”

She didn't even bother arguing with him this time. Between the two of them they lifted the tree upright so it sat on its root ball. She squatted to get a grip on the roots, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt and clay, while Flynn did the same on the other side of the tree.

“Okay. One, two, three,” she said.

They both lifted and shuffled toward the hole at the same time.

“Slowly,” Flynn said as the tree started to slide into the hole.

Mel shifted her grip to the trunk to try to control its descent, earning a face full of leaves for her efforts. She felt rather than saw the tree hit bottom and sat back on her heels with a relieved sigh. Flynn did the same on
his side of the hole. After a beat he leaned to one side so he could make eye contact with her around the foliage.

“Thanks for letting me help.”

She couldn't help smiling. “Thanks for insisting.”

He pushed himself to his feet and then they filled in the hole and watered the tree into its new site.

“There. Done,” Flynn finally said, thrusting the shovel into the earth one last time.

Mel pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and considered her orange tree. In its new position, it would get close to eight hours of clear sunlight a day. With a bit of luck, she might even get fruit this summer.

Reaching out a hand, she patted the trunk affectionately. “Over to you. Show us what you've got, baby,” she said quietly.

Then she remembered she had an audience. When she glanced at Flynn, he was trying to hide a smile.

“Okay. So I talk to my plants occasionally,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I read my tomatoes Shakespeare one year.”

“Yeah, right.” She squinted at him, sure he was making fun of her.

“I did, I swear. My mother's housekeeper swore her grandmother used to do it and got bumper crops.”

“And?”

“I think I should have gone for one of the comedies instead of the Scottish play.”

Mel's laugh was loud and heartfelt.

Flynn grinned, then checked his watch. “Whoa. It's nearly eleven. I'd better get going. I'm supposed to be doing the final inspection on Summerlea.”

“You bought it? Oh, wow.”

Usually the local grapevine was good for gossip, but
she hadn't heard a whisper about the old estate being sold so she'd simply assumed that Flynn and Hayley had walked away from their inspection unimpressed.

“It's going to be a money pit, but I couldn't let Edna Walling's last great design slip through my fingers.”

Mel couldn't hide her surprise. It was one thing to know how to transplant a tree, but to know the name of a long-dead, highly influential garden designer took his interest in gardening to a whole new level.

“What's wrong? Having visions of polo ponies again?” he asked wryly.

“No.”

But he was right—she was. Mel was the first to admit she had some pretty set ideas about what people with money were like. She'd learned them firsthand at the feet of her husband and her in-laws. She'd seen the hypocrisy, the judgment, the insularity. She'd absorbed the politics, the values, the social mores. She knew where women of a certain income bracket liked to shop, who they allowed to cut their hair, how they preferred to keep their bodies lean and slim. She knew where the men lunched, the football clubs they supported, the charities they were happy to fund in return for a piece of the glory.

She'd assumed Flynn was like the rest of them, but apparently she'd assumed wrong.

He checked his watch again. “I'd really better get going.”

“I'll walk you up.” It was the least she could do after he'd saved her considerable effort and offered her what was clearly expert advice.

They walked side by side in silence. Mel wracked her brain for something innocuous to say, but the edgy feeling was back now they didn't have the task of trans
planting the orange tree to occupy them. She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye but he seemed perfectly at ease.

“I can give you your key now if you'd like,” she said. “Save you from having to collect it later.”

“Sure, if that makes life easier for you.”

“I was trying to make life easier for you.”

They were approaching the house and Flynn stooped to collect his jacket and sweater. He washed his hands on the garden tap at the bottom of the stairs as she raced into the house to grab the keys.

“You're not in Red Coat this time, I'm sorry. I had a previous booking, so you're in Tea Cutter, the cottage we passed on the way to plant the tree,” she said as she descended the steps to rejoin him.

“I noticed there was another car in the parking lot. Interlopers.”

She smiled at his small joke and handed the key over. “Good luck with your inspection. When do you take possession?”

“Next weekend.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don't muck around.”

“You know what they say, life's short. It suited the vendors to have the sale go through quickly and it suited me.”

He pulled his car keys from his jeans pocket and she realized she was holding him up.

“Take notes on the orchard grove for me.” She took a backward step to signal she was letting him go. “I'm basing my new orchard on memories of my last visit to Summerlea so I might quiz you on it later.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to shamelessly ripping off my new garden's design, Ms. Porter?”

“Um…yes?”

He laughed. “I'll take some photos for you.” He turned to go, then swung back. “Unless you want to come to the inspection with me?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Sure. I could give you advice on your renovations. Tell you how a pro would do it.”

“I'm serious. I'd actually appreciate hearing your opinion.”

He
was
sincere, she could see it in his face. Once she got past her surprise, her first impulse was to say no—she'd gotten into the habit of saying no to a lot of things during her marriage, for a number of reasons—but it had been ten years since she'd seen the gardens at Summerlea. It would be beyond helpful to see how Edna Walling had designed the orchard and how the garden had matured.

Mel hesitated for a moment, then caught sight of her muddy jeans. She was caked from the knees down, her sweater blotched with yet more muck. The Lord only knew what was going on with her hair—something bad, she suspected, because it rarely behaved itself.

“Thanks for the offer, but I'm not really fit to be seen in public right now.”

She indicated her muddy clothes.

“It'll only be me and the real estate agent. No film crews or paparazzi.”

She opened her mouth to issue another polite excuse.

“All right. If I wouldn't be in the way,” she heard herself say. “I'd love to come.”

“Do you need to lock up?”

“I do. I won't be a tick.”

She went into the house to secure the front door and grab her house keys, and all the while a voice in her head screamed at her to go back and tell him no,
thank you, and send him on his way. The voice told her he was simply being polite, that he couldn't possibly really want her tagging along, that even if they'd had a perfectly nice, perfectly normal conversation, she was bound to say or do something wrong because that was what she always did.

She ignored it, because it was her husband's voice, and her mission over the past twelve months had been to get him out of her head now that she'd gotten him out of her life.

An ongoing challenge, obviously. But she was getting there.

Coat in hand, she pulled the door closed behind her and started down the stairs. “I'm ready.”

“W
HEN WAS THE LAST TIME
you saw Summerlea?” Flynn asked as he reversed out of the driveway.

Mel glanced at the man sitting beside her. “I guess about ten years. I attended the last open garden weekend they held.”

“Really? So did I.” He shot her a speculative look and she knew he was wondering if they'd crossed paths all those years ago.

She was almost certain they hadn't. Even though she hadn't known a Randall from a rhododendron then, she would have noticed him if she'd seen him. He was a strikingly handsome man, and she'd been twenty-one and constantly on the lookout for anyone of the opposite sex who was taller than her. He would have stood out as prime flirting material to her younger self.

“All the tea tree benches are gone,” he said as he turned out of her street. “The roses are a thorny mess. And the herb garden is a flat-out disaster.”

“I loved that herb garden,” Mel said, remembering its pleasing mix of orderly English box hedge, sandstone paving and flourishing herb varieties. Edna Walling was famous for designing garden “rooms,” and in Mel's opinion the herbal one had been among the most beautiful of the “rooms” at Summerlea.

“I'm telling you all this so you can be prepared,” he said. “The old girl ain't what she used to be.”

“I'll brace myself.”

A silver car was parked beside the open main gate when they arrived. A portly, middle-aged man emerged from the driver's side and waved them onto the grounds. The gravel driveway was rutted and choked with weeds, and the car dipped from side to side as Flynn drove slowly past the house to where a dilapidated double garage stood.

“Okay. Let's go see what I've gotten myself into,” Flynn said.

Mel unfolded herself from the low bucket seat and followed him as he walked down the driveway. The real estate agent was huffing and puffing his way toward them, his face already flushed with exertion. “Spencer.”

“Flynn. Good to see you again.” The other man's grin was broad as he greeted Flynn. As well it might be—Flynn had guaranteed this man a very healthy payday by buying a property that had to be well into the millions.

“This is Mel, a friend,” Flynn said easily.

“As you can see, Flynn dragged me away from the garden,” she said when the other man glanced at her muddy clothes.

“More power to you. Draw the line at wielding the lawn mower myself, and even then I usually pay one of the local kids to do it.” The agent switched his focus to Flynn. “I'm sorry to do this to you, but we've had a bit of an emergency come up and I need to cover another agent's open home. If it suits you, I thought I could leave you with the keys so you could look around at your leisure, then drop the keys at the office either today or tomorrow.”

“Sure. No problem,” Flynn said.

“Terrific, much appreciated. I hate having to bail on you like this but there's no one else available to fill in.”

Mel drifted away as Flynn and the agent talked business for a few minutes. She was studying the bare branches of what she suspected was a flame azalea when Flynn joined her.

“The keys to the castle,” he said, holding out his hand to reveal a chunky collection of keys, many of them old-fashioned skeleton keys.

“I hope he told you which one opens the front door.”

There were at least twenty keys on the ring. Flynn looked alarmed for a minute before singling out a key that had been marked with an asterisk.

“What are the odds?”

“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” she asked, doing her best Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Well, are you?”

He grinned. “Let's see.”

There was a new energy in him as he led the way toward the house. She studied him surreptitiously. She'd always thought of him as the epitome of sophistication—unfailingly well dressed, never at a loss. Yet right now he looked like a little boy on a visit to Disneyland.

He glanced her way and caught her looking. She racked her brain for something to say so he wouldn't think she'd been ogling him.

“I've never been inside Summerlea before, even though I think I've probably attended four or five open gardens over the years.”

“You weren't missing much. I think Brian and Grace saved all their passion for the garden. Not that the place doesn't have good bones. They're just really well hidden.”

They'd arrived at the foot of a set of six wide, brick steps. Mel tilted her head and shaded her eyes against
the morning sun to examine the facade of the house. Built from the same mellow red brick as the steps, the house boasted a deep porch, with twin stained-glass doors for a suitably grand entrance. Matching bay windows lit the rooms on either side of the entrance, and wood fretwork decorated the eaves.

Flynn started up the steps. She followed him across the chipped and broken terra-cotta tiled porch. He glanced at her as he slid the key into the lock, eyebrows raised with comic trepidation.

“Dum, dum, dummmm.” He turned the lock. The door opened with a mechanical snick.

“Phew,” he said, but she knew he'd never been seriously worried.

Another thing she'd never expected of Flynn Randall—he was playful.

He stood to one side and gestured for her to precede him into the house.

She stepped into the front hall, breathing in the smell of damp and dust. She paused to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. After a few seconds the world assumed shape and form again and she took in the wood-paneled walls, scuffed and discolored wooden floors and the high ceiling with its ornate, elaborate cornice and moldings and original light fittings.

“The living room's through here,” Flynn said, directing her to the right.

She entered a large, light room. To her right was a large bay window, its curve fitted with a seat, to her left a rather grand marble fireplace. The carpet was a faded Axminster floral. Darker patches near the walls and in the center of the room indicated where furniture had once sat. The far wall was punctuated by a series of French doors that looked out over the garden—not
original, Mel suspected, but they offered a great outlook over the house's best feature.

“So. Am I nuts or what?” Flynn asked, and she realized he'd been watching her as she inspected the room.

“It needs a lot of work.”

She glanced around the room again. The chimney breast was streaked with smoke stains, a sure sign that the chimney was either blocked or poorly constructed. There were two large, dark marks on the ceiling, which almost certainly meant a leak, and even from across the room she could see the rot in the French door frames.

“But you were right, it has great bones. This could be a very special house—once you've poured the equivalent of the GDP into it.”

He laughed, then glanced around, his expression wryly self-aware. “Don't I know it.”

He crossed the room to inspect the fireplace, crouching to peer under the mantel. His jeans stretched tightly across his thighs, revealing powerful muscles. Mel caught herself looking and glanced away, frowning.

“I might go check out the garden,” she said.

“Sure. Take your time. I want to take some notes, start to get my head around the size of the renovation.”

She crossed to the French doors and tried the handle. It gave beneath her fingers and she stepped out onto a paved patio area. Her shoulders dropped a notch the moment she felt fresh air on her face and she headed for the garden proper, feeling like a dog that had been let off its leash.

Her memories of the garden had blurred over the years, like slightly out-of-focus family snapshots, and she discovered it again as she walked. The herb garden, with its box-hedge border grown wild and woolly, and its pavers obscured by weeds; the lily pond, complete
with bridge, and the water beneath a tangle of weeds. The rose garden, with its arbors and unkempt rows of roses.

She found the orchard where she'd remembered it, in the far southeast corner of the property. The trees had all grown enormously, and Mel guessed they hadn't been pruned in years. Long grass grew between them, and there was evidence of some sort of fungus on the peach trees. Sadness swept over her as she remembered how beautiful this place had once been, how much pride Brian and Grace had taken in maintaining a certain standard. It must have burned to let things slip this much as their aging bodies failed them. And now they'd had to give up their precious garden altogether.

She'd been exploring the orchard, making mental notes for her own more humble project for nearly twenty minutes, before it occurred to her that Flynn might be waiting for her at the house.

She started navigating her way through the garden, her stride long and urgent. Panic fluttered in her chest. He'd be angry with her for keeping him waiting and wasting his time. He'd be wondering why he'd bothered asking her to come, regretting his impulsive invitation. She'd be lucky if he hadn't simply driven off and left her to find her own way home.

She was aiming for the side patio entrance when she spotted Flynn leaning against the low stone wall near the rose garden. He lifted a hand in greeting and she altered her trajectory and joined him at the wall.

“I'm so sorry. I lost track of time,” she said. “I was trying to work out what sort of fruit trees you've got down there and I guess I just got carried away—”

“Relax. I only got here myself. I've been exploring the outbuildings.”

He said it easily, with a shrug of his shoulder, and it took a moment for it to sink in that he meant it.

He isn't Owen. You don't have to answer to anyone anymore.

Sudden, hot tears pushed at the back of her eyes. She recognized the reaction for what it was—a hangover from her marriage, a mental shortcut her mind had slipped into out of habit—but the last thing she wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Flynn.

She ducked her head, letting her hair fall over her face, and did her damnedest to stop the tears from falling.

“So have you successfully ripped off all the best design elements from my orchard?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice sounded a little thick and she cleared her throat. She used the excuse of pushing her hair behind her ear to wipe a tear from her cheek. Then she took a deep breath, blinked a few more times and forced herself to make eye contact with him.

Like a normal person.

“You said outbuildings, plural. So there's more than the garage?”

His gaze swept over her face. She tensed, but when he spoke his tone was even and utterly casual.

“Yep. There's a little dark building I suspect was once a dairy. And way over in the north corner there's a rusting monster of a shed, filled with enough old garden tools to start my own kibbutz.”

“Really? I wonder if Brian and Grace realize they left them behind?”

“I'm going to talk to Spencer about it later, but I suspect they figured they wouldn't be needing them in a retirement village.”

“No, I guess not.”

Since he didn't seem inclined to leave yet, she leaned against the wall beside him and tried to regain her equilibrium. She stared at the toes of her work boots, angry with herself and a little scared. She'd thought she was over the worst of her divorce. She'd survived the dark early days, held her head high through the ugliness of the settlement, and now she had her own place, her own life, her friends and family around her.

So why was she slipping into old behaviors? Why, out of nowhere, had she suddenly lapsed into Old Mel?

Old Mel, who had run herself ragged trying to be good. Old Mel, who had developed the act of effacement into an art form.

“I know it's a jungle at the moment, but it's still bloody beautiful.”

Mel glanced at the man sitting next to her, pulled out of her introspection. He was gazing over the land, the edges of his mouth curled in an almost smile. She turned to consider the view, taking in the sweeping lawn and the nearby stand of silver birches, the overgrown garden beds with their flowing, natural lines, and the distant winter skeletons of a stand of oak trees. It
was
a jungle—overgrown and unruly, unbalanced and messy. But it was also calm and green and real.

The churning in her stomach slowed. She took a deep breath, let it out again.

“It's not bad,” she said, her tone deliberately low-key.

Flynn gave her a dry sideways look. Despite everything, she found herself smiling a little.

“It's a shame about those benches,” he said, his eyes on the view once more.

“There's a guy at the farmers' market in the village
sometimes. I don't know his name, but he works with local timber and driftwood.”

“When's the next market?”

“It's the first Sunday of every month, so you just missed it.”

“Huh.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Then Flynn gave a sigh and pushed himself to his feet.

“I guess I'd better hand the keys back,” he said with obvious reluctance.

“Don't worry, it's only ten days or so till settlement.”

“That's ten whole sleeps. Pure torture.”

Mel's laughter burst out of her, as unexpected as his comment. He was like a kid with a new toy.

Or someone fulfilling a lifetime dream.

She studied his profile, intrigued by the idea. “You've always wanted this place, haven't you?”

“I believe the correct word is
covet.
And yes, I have. I have coveted the hell out of this place ever since I was old enough to understand who Edna Walling was and how freaking amazing this design is.”

“Well, congratulations. That's very cool. It's not every day a man gets his lifelong dream.”

By unspoken accord, they turned and started walking toward the house.

“True. So why do I have this cynical voice in my head saying ‘Be careful what you wish for'?”

“Don't listen to that voice. Stick a sock in its mouth. There's nothing wrong with this place that you can't fix.”