Jennifer's Garden (12 page)

“Oops, sorry,” he said in feigned chagrin, as though it hadn’t been a purposeful ploy for a laugh.

It was moments like this when she adored Michael the most.  “Try a crumpet, Michael.  They’re truly divine.”

“Don’t mind if I do!”  He reached up and plucked a make-believe biscuit from the tray extended before him.  With great show he bit down, chewed with exaggerated motion, his mouth politely closed.  He swallowed.  “That’s the best crumpet I’ve ever tasted.”

“I made it!”

Michael followed the direction of the voice and spotted the girl with curls.  “Her name is Beverly.”  Jennifer quieted her voice.  “She’s new.”

He nodded.  “Thank you, Beverly.  It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, and went back to her busy work at the stove, a remarkable replica in a kitchen complete with refrigerator, counter and sink, dining table and chairs.  She wiped down the area around her mixing bowls, busy preparing for another batch.

Michael looked to Jennifer for explanation.

Maintaining her pleasant expression, she tapped a finger to her chest and mouthed, “Transplant.”

His eyes registered the hit.  He knew the odds.  They were tough.

Three hours later, Michael walked Jennifer out.  Strolling passed an enormous Banyan tree, the two came to a stop beneath its canopy.  Long finger-like roots fell from the leaves to crawl along the ground, forming an intricate foundation around the base of the trunk.  “Same time next month?”

“You bet.”  She smiled, picking through the contents of her purse in search of her keys.

“So how’s Jax working out?  Did you two overcome your differences?”

“We did.”  Conscious of the sensitive subject matter, she added, “He’s already begun work, in fact.”

“You’re going to be real happy with what he does for you.”

She slid on a pair of black sunglasses.  “I’m sure I will be.”

“You know,” he glanced back at the hospital, flanked by Poinciana trees, their brilliant red-orange blooms striking against the cream of flat stucco.  “I should tell Jax about this place.  He might want to donate some of his time here.”

“Would he be interested in such a thing?  I mean, he seems to be a very busy man, do you really think he has the time for visits to the children’s hospital?”

“Jax runs his own schedule.  In fact, he volunteers down at the boys and girls club already and who knows,” he slid brown tinted sunglasses onto his nose, “he might want to squeeze this place in to his list of benevolent endeavors.”

The thought of Jackson Montgomery sitting around with a bunch of kids, laughing and playing, seemed like the most normal thing in the world.

“Kids love him.”

“I’ll bet they do.”

“Besides, once he sells his house he’ll have plenty of time on his hands, between trips to the islands, that is.  He’s set to retire soon and this may be just the thing he needs to fill his days stateside.  Anyway,” Michael swiped a glance at his watch.  “I’ve got to get running.  Laurencia’s waiting for me.”

“Go, please,” she told him.  “Don’t let me hold you up.”

He leaned over and pecked a kiss to her cheek.  “See you at the hospital.”

“See you at the hospital,” she replied, her mind still picking through Michael’s remark. 
Retire
?  Was he serious?  She stood immobile, her gaze trailing Michael across the parking lot as he hurried to his Mercedes.  How on earth could Jackson retire?  He couldn’t be much older than her and she was nowhere near retirement.

Still sorting through the significance of Michael’s revelation, Jennifer arrived home to find Jackson hard at work.  Wednesdays were her half-day, the afternoons assigned to catching up with paperwork, attending to any personal affairs, and once a month, a trip to see her kids.  But for Jackson, it was just another day on the job.

She parked and walked to the edge of her drive, but stopped.  She wasn’t about to soil her expensive leather heels in the black, inky dirt.  Bringing a hand to her brow, she blocked the late afternoon sun and asked, “How’s it coming?”

Jackson turned.  Tucked into khaki shorts with more pockets than one had a use for, his white T-shirt was soaked through, muddy brown dirt smudged the small green emblem embroidered on its pocket.  His legs were crawling with black grime, the sweat acting like glue for the dirt to adhere to his skin, his socks no longer white above tan leather work boots.

Retirement?  Really?

I hear bartenders make pretty good money
.

Sam may be right after all. 

He straightened. “Hello, Dr. Hamilton.”

“Hello.”  She took a quick survey of the area and noticed that weeds were gone, dirt was raked and organized into beds.  It seemed he’d been busy, but did he really expect to complete this job himself?  “Wouldn’t it be quicker if you had help?”

“I did, but I have other jobs that need completing so I sent them there.  I’m finishing up here today.”  He wiped the back of his hand against his brow.  “But don’t worry.”  He smiled.  “We’ll have it done on time.”

Glancing around once more, she wished she shared his optimism.  “Yes,” she murmured. 
One can only hope
.

With nothing left to say and more than a few questions swirling in her mind, she retreated into the house.  Moving to a window hidden from view, she watched as he dumped a bag of dirt onto the ground, then moved it around with a metal rake.  It looked grueling, and by the way his muscles were contracting and expanding, it seemed his body agreed.

His body
.  It was the first time she ever really looked at him, at Jackson the man, and here alone in her home and sheltered from view, she took the moment to linger.

Filling the back of his shirt was a large green tree, an intricate array of branches and leaves with the name
Montgomery Landscape
running across the bottom.  The man was filthy and to look at him, one would think the stench would knock you down from ten feet away, but she had noticed none of it when he had stood nearby moments before.  Not a waft.

Lifting and heaving what had to be forty-pound bags, Jackson was handling them as if they were filled with Styrofoam, as though he had the strength of a bull.  Granted his arms were well-defined, the hard line profile of his broad shoulders and lean torso revealing not an inch of fat, but those bags had to be heavy!  The rate at which he was working through them was incredible.

Impressive, really.  And his hair, well, his hair never seemed to change.  It looked as if the sun had raked its fingers through, massaged the mess, bleached the ends and pulled them straight out by the tips.  She leaned against the wall.

Amazing.  It struck her how different Jackson was from Aurelio.  Slim and refined, his limbs lithe, his fingernails manicured, Aurelio was an elegant man—not a pile of brawn.  He moved with grace, not the swagger of a bundle of testosterone.

Apparently finished, she continued to observe as Jackson tossed plastic bags into his wheelbarrow followed by his metal rake.  Tugging the gloves from his hands, he pitched them in too.  Then, wheeling the contents over to his truck, he opened the tailgate and put the bags in a heavy box, ostensibly his mobile trash bin, and followed with the rake and wheel-barrow, securing them with straps.

Another swipe of his forehead and he jumped into his truck, igniting the engine to life.  As he threw it into reverse, the customary
pow
blew smoke from the exhaust pipe and away he went.

Moving from the window, she mulled over the enigma the man presented.  Retirement.  She couldn’t imagine what that life would look like for him.  And islands?  What did Michael mean?

The telephone rang, pulling Jennifer from her thoughts.  Strolling into the kitchen, she answered.  “Hello?”

“Hey Jen.”

“Hey, Sam.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she replied, her gaze drifting back out the windows.  “Why?”

“You sound like hell.”

Jennifer blew a heavy sigh, slipping loose bangs behind an ear.  “Well, if you must know, it’s your bartender friend from Michael’s party.”

“What?”

“He’s my landscaper.”

“You lost me.”

“He’s the landscaper Michael recommended.  Seems bartending is not his only skill.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Me, too,” Jennifer replied, none to happy about the bouncing grin she heard in Sam’s voice.

“He’s a talented thing, isn’t he?”

Jennifer spoke pointedly into the mouthpiece and said, “The jury is still out on that one, counselor.”

“Not
this
jury.  I can’t wait to see him!  What time should I be over?”

“Nice try, but he’s already left for the day.”

“Damn,” she said, her voice laced with disappointment.

Jennifer brushed her hair behind an ear.  “Was there something else?”

“No.  Just called to chat.”

She sighed.  “Do you mind if we do so another time?  I’m exhausted and want nothing more than to soak in a hot bath.”

“You want to fantasize, don’t you?”

“
Please
?”  She hardened her tone.  “I don’t need this right now.”

“No problem.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”  Too tired to protest, she could only be thankful Sam let it go without a fight.  But that was Sam.  Easy on, easy off.  Heading for the bathroom, Jennifer yearned for the same effortless state of mind.  Yes, Sam had a legal career and dealt with hard and fast deadlines every day, but the stress was different.  It wasn’t personal.  Dealing with someone else’s problems was a heck of a lot easier than dealing with your own.

Chapter Eleven

Jennifer arose early on Saturday morning, more out of habit than necessity, but sleeping in had never been her style.  Lying around in bed once she was awake was a waste of time.  She had too many things to do and not enough time to do them and tonight was Aurelio’s grand opening.

Pleasure coursed through her.  Tonight marked the completion of years of hard work and she couldn’t be more pleased.  Completely naked, she strolled across hardwood floors, opening the back porch door on her way to the kitchen, inviting the sunrise and bird chatter to filter indoors.  April was her favorite time of year.  Days grew longer, temperatures were cool and the humidity relatively low; perfect for filling the house with fresh morning air.

Brushing tousled hair behind one ear, she turned on the coffeemaker, then poured herself a glass of orange juice.  Roaming nude through her home was simply an indulgence, her privacy ensured by a wooded backyard, a thick overgrowth of bougainvillea reaching almost ten feet above the back wall.  Especially important in her case.  It wouldn’t do for people to know the conservative Dr. Hamilton was a closet nudist!  Enclosing her hands around her glass she chuckled and shook her head. 
Wouldn’t do at all
.

But moving about her house undressed gave her a sense of abandon.  Liberating really, from the confines of her role and position of authority within the community.  She strongly doubted anyone would suspect she had a free-spirited side, a wilder side, but she did.  And the secret gave her great satisfaction.

Leaning comfortably against the counter, she gazed through the plate glass windows of her breakfast nook and noted the yard was clean, the dirt raked.  Everything seemed to be coming together, but in time?

She took a sip from her juice and pushed the negative memories aside.  Dawn was breaking overhead, the sun sprinkling its soft light through gracefully arched branches of an ancient live oak.  Down below, a squirrel darted about in the dapple of light, collecting its treasure for the day.  She smiled.

Morning was her favorite time of day.  She enjoyed watching nature at work.  It reminded her of the business of living, of getting things done.  Despite her neglect, hers was a beautiful piece of property, though at the moment she had a hard time imagining Jackson’s drawings as reality.  Not in one month’s time.

Sudden doubt pulled at her. 
Was she deluding herself?  Was it insane to believe it could be done
?  This idea of landscaping a yard in a matter of weeks and expecting satisfactory results?  It was nothing short of wishful thinking, wasn’t it?

Something she was not prone to do.

The realization hit hard.  But that’s exactly what she was doing, wasn’t she?  Creating a scenario almost certain to fail?

Thoughts drifted to her mother.  So frail, so hopeful...

Jennifer withdrew her focus from the yard, releasing it to a soft blur on the breakfast table.  Her mother was so ill, yet so full of spirit.  It shone in her eyes every time she spoke of the impending ceremony.  She inhaled deep and slow, tempering the fleeting beat of her heart, then blew it out with a sigh.  Wishful thinking or not, she had committed.  She had chosen her course and must now see it through.  It was the last gift she could bestow upon her mother and come hell or hurricane, she was going to get it done.