Like Sweet Potato Pie (20 page)

“Oh. Him.” He ran his hand along the gilded lip of the basin. “You painted this?” he asked again, scratching his head in disbelief. “For me?”

“I mean … sort of. Yes. It’s garden art, or something like that. And you’re a landscaper. I guess the birds will like it.”

“Shiloh, it’s …” He squatted there a few minutes and ran his hand over his jaw, eyeing the blue birdbath. Then without warning grabbed my hand, pulling me along toward the house. “Come with me!”

I had no idea what his reaction meant, but I figured it must be … uh … good.

It took my stunned brain a moment to realize he was
holding my hand
—warm, strong fingers laced between mine—and to catch the rising breath that fluttered in my throat. Adam’s hands were hardworking hands. Hands that hauled boulders and heavy bags of gravel and soil. Dug postholes and planted trees. Hoisted heavy posts into the ground and nailed trellises. I felt lightheaded.

“Where are we going?” My breath puffed out in a little cloud as we came around a bright corner of porch light and dim fire glow to the wooden back deck. He pulled me up the steps, and I shivered as he dug around in the shadows by the pine tables.

“Hold this.” Adam plopped a chilly pot of scarlet chrysanthemums into my hands, and the heat dissipated from my fingers immediately.

He picked up another matching pot and headed back to the truck, Becky staring after us with a sneaky, open-mouthed smile.

“I’ve got an idea!” He beamed his flashlight on the birdbath. “Can you help me bring it over here, Tim?”

And they hauled it over to a shadowy spot on the other side of the house, all landscaped with flat stone walkways and juniper shrubs. Faint light from the lanterns in the front cast a pale yellow glow.

“Here.” Adam gestured with his work boot. “Right next to this patch of Irish moss.” And they dumped it upright in a swirl of white gravel, tamping it down around the base.

“Todd, can you fill one of those buckets out back with water?”

Todd sprinted off. Adam clicked open a pocketknife and sliced off some deep red chrysanthemum blooms right under the flower head, making a pile on the gravel. Todd returned with the bucket, grunting and sloshing, and Adam helped him pour the water into the birdbath. It glinted there like black satin ribbons shot through with gold from the flashlight beam.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, shivering. Pulling my jacket collar as tight as it would go and wishing I’d brought my scarf.

“Watch.” Adam set a concrete brick in the very center and set the pot of whole flowers on top, making it appear to float on the water. Then he sprinkled the cut blooms right-side up in the water like little crimson suns. They drifted there lazily, bobbing around the rim in a gorgeous contrast of deep red and blue. Almost Asian, like colors on a bright lacquer vase.

“Wow,” said Tim, scratching his head. “I reckon that looks perty nice if I do say so myself. Ya done good, Yankee!”

Adam crossed his arms with satisfaction. “It looks fantastic! I can use it as one of my trademark gardening displays for my website. Or even better—my flyers! Come take a look.”

We tramped inside, cheeks and hands red from cold, to Adam’s cramped bedroom upstairs, which groaned with stacks of files earmarked with yellow stickers. Bags of advertising flyers and posters. A tiny desk crowded with Bible, pencils, and markers, and rolls and rolls of blueprints in various states of unroll and completeness. Paper sketches taped up all over the walls.

The rest comprised an odd array of gardening tools, bags of gravel samples, color swatches, and leather work gloves.

I felt sorry for him. He barely had room to pull out the desk chair and offer it to me then unfold a chair for Becky. Who promptly scooted it over to Adam’s ancient desktop computer and checked her e-mail.

“Hey, check yers real quick,” she giggled, pulling me around to the screen. “I jest sent ya something.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. It’s real funny.”

While Adam dug in the closet for his buried flyers, I tapped in my password and dragged the mouse down my inbox list. Clicked on Becky’s message, which blared red flashing hearts. Something about love advice and Adam’s name …? I gasped and clicked out of it, hissing something at Becky under my breath.

She doubled over with laughter. “Read it!” she whispered.

“Read it yourself!” I started to close my inbox in a huff and then froze right next to the name in bold black and white:
Ashley Sweetwater.
I clicked on it.

And then the room seemed to still. I leaned back in my chair with a gasp, knocking a book off the shelf.

“What’s a matter?” Becky crowded around. “What, yer half sister send ya somethin’?”

“Well, I’ll be. She wasn’t kiddin’.” Tim stroked his chin, poking his head around Adam’s.

“Nope. It’s a real law firm.” I clicked through the website again and shook my head. “They’re legit.”

“I can’t believe it, Shah-loh! She ain’t really gonna …” Becky’s voice trailed off. “Why, I thought she was jest full a talk!”

“Maybe she is, but if she’s really hired somebody from this firm, then I’m in big trouble.” I scanned through her brief e-mail, which told me to expect a letter from J. Prufrock.

“That guy from the T. S. Eliot poem? No way. She made this up!” I laughed out loud, scrolling through the list of attorneys on the site.

“Who?” Becky peered up at me. “Don’t he drive fer Shell?”

There it stood, in block letters: J
AMES
R
EUBEN
P
RUFROCK
III, A
TTORNEY AT
L
AW.
I skimmed his bio then rested my forehead on my hand. Closed my eyes and mentally pounded the keyboard. “What am I supposed to do now? Hire somebody, too? You know I can’t afford a lawyer.”

Shoot, I couldn’t afford the frozen chicken on sale at Wal-Mart last week. I bought eggs instead and ate them scrambled over rice.

“Shucks, Shah-loh, yer always in trouble,” Tim teased, noogie-ing my hair and trying to make me smile. “Ain’t nothin’ new.”

“Don’t do anything.” Adam reached over me and clicked through the site. “Wait until they contact you. You’re not obligated to do anything at this point. If you do, it’ll just make a bigger mess.”

I made a face at Tim, trying vainly to smooth my hair. “A bigger mess hardly sounds possible.”

“You shore she ain’t pullin’ yer leg?” Tim ran his hand through his brown mullet as I clicked out of the site and closed my e-mail.

“No, but how can I be sure? I can’t trust Ashley for two seconds.” I played listlessly with the mouse, remembering Adam’s “you’re not alone anymore” speech. I sure felt like it sometimes. Especially now, when the last person in my family had deserted me. “Mom’s house isn’t worth much, but she’s right. Fifty thousand is still a sizeable chunk. Which is why I need it to sell.”

Because the IRS is going to carve a huge chunk out of my front porch if I don’t.

I turned my chair away from the computer. “So where are your flyers, Adam? Let me look at something positive for a change.”

“Ha. Then you don’t want to see these. They’re pretty bad.” He dug a pile out of a box and plopped it in my lap. “See what you think.”

C
ARTER
L
ANDSCAPING
, they read in a basic (ugly) font. Cheap-quality paper. A faded ink foldout part with information about the kinds of landscaping and light construction jobs Adam did. But I had to squint to make out the dark, fuzzy pictures, several sizes too small. The whole thing needed a dose of good old Virginia fall color.

“I think I’ll go back to that lawyer site,” I teased.

“I know.” He rubbed his forehead. “Not that great, huh?”

“How old are they?”

“Old enough. I’d like to update them this year, but I don’t have much experience with all that.”

“That birdbath thing’d make a nice pitcher,” said Tim, picking his teeth with a toothpick he found somewhere. “All them colors. Whadja think, honey bun?”

“Real nice,” said Becky. “With them red flowers. Looks kinda Asian.”

Before I could comment, Adam stuck a business card in my hand. A
DAM
J. C
ARTER, LANDSCAPER.

I turned the flyer over again. “What’s your budget for these?”

“Dirt cheap,” he said with a wry smile.

“Can you be more specific?”

He pointed to some numbers in a ledger. “Basically paper and printing. I do all the layout on my computer.”

“I could help you with design if you want,” I said hesitantly. “I did take some photography and design classes in college. Just about every reporter does. I mean, I’m not great, but …”

“You could do that?” Adam took a step back, blinking in surprise. “You’re serious?”

“Me? Sure.” I leaned forward. “I mean, you wouldn’t mind if I tried? I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ve got some ideas.” My heart pounded suddenly, thinking of something—anything—I could do that wouldn’t fall flat on its face here in Staunton, Virginia.

Adam leaned against the bookshelf, eyes bright with excitement. “I’d pay you, of course.”

“Fine. And I’ll pay you for painting my kitchen.”

He smiled briefly and arranged some papers on the desk. “Well, if you designed these for me, I could print out some new ones to include my new services. And take them to some new businesses that will probably need work soon.”

I looked around his room at the hanging plans and rolls of blueprints. The Bible half covered by receipts and colored pencils. I tapped a pen thoughtfully to my chin.

“You need a new name,” I blurted. “Something catchy.”

“What do you have in mind?” Adam scratched his head, one wary eyebrow raised.

“Eden. Eden Landscaping.”

Tim nodded, and Becky hugged herself in excitement. “That’s perfect, Adam! The Bah-ble an’ the garden an’ all that! An’ you bein’ named Adam. Ain’t that funny?”

Adam reddened. “Yeah. I get that from time to time. Not exactly my idea of funny.”

“But that’s just it!” I looked up from the flyers. “That’s your tagline. People will remember you. It’s corny, but it sticks.” I grabbed a pencil and doodled on some scrap paper hanging off his desk. “Look. If you made a logo like this, like the tree in the garden”—I drew some roots sticking out—“or a leaf, or—”

“A fig leaf,” snickered Tim, and we all roared. Even Adam.

“A normal leaf,” I retorted. “Whatever. Make that your logo, maybe add in your initials like this and put it on everything you print, and people will start to remember you.”

“Look at Miss Artiste!” Becky cooed, leaning over my shoulder.

“Really? You think so?” I felt shy suddenly, nearly losing my courage. But this might help Adam, so I kept sketching an
A.
“I minored in art, but I don’t think I’m that great. What’s your middle name, Adam?”

Adam pretended not to hear. I slowly lowered my pencil. “You do have a middle name, right?”

“It starts with
J
.”

We all exchanged glances, and Becky shook her head. “Good luck gettin’ it outta him,” she grinned. “Y’all and yer weird middle names! Mine’s Louise if anybody’s askin’!”

“You’re really not going to tell?” Adam with a goofy middle name. It struck me as funny, the way he came off as so sober and proper about everything.

“If you tell yours first.”

“Forget it.” I sketched in a C. “You’ll just be middle nameless then.”

“Boy, do I wish,” Adam muttered under his breath, stacking up some boxes to make more room for Tim.

“Mercy, Shah-loh! I didn’t know ya could draw like that! Yer real good!” Becky crowed. “I can’t hardly do a stick man; although once I drew a donkey fer a Christmas program at church. Folks thought it was a cotton-pickin’ monkey!” Her eyes lit suddenly. “Hey, you could put a verse on yer stuff, Adam!”

“I actually had one here. Look.” He turned over the flyer. “In small print down at the bottom.”

“I see it. But it’s not connected to anything,” I said. “If you choose a nature verse—like one from the Psalms—then it would all fit together.”

Adam’s gaze pierced mine with that excited glow I saw from time to time. “ ‘The earth is the Lord’s,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘And everything in it.’ ”

“That’s it! You need a catchy theme to stick in people’s minds, with lots of colors and pictures. Ad stickers on your truck. Go on the radio. Do some free work for publicity.” I turned his card over. “And you should call yourself a ‘landscape designer.’ It sounds more professional.”

“Sheewwweeee!” said Becky, standing up and slapping me with a high five. “I think our little Shah-loh done hit another home run!”

And the way she said it, looking from me to Adam with that sneaky grin, I didn’t think she meant just the flyers.

“Then your business will have soul,” I said, ignoring Becky as color crept up my cheeks. “Unlike my house.”

“Your house?” Adam looked confused.

“Lowell told her it’s too empty,” said Becky. “That it don’t got no soul an’ that’s why folks ain’t buyin’ it. I offered her nice posters ‘n’ artwork, but I doubt she’ll take me up on my offer.” She snickered.

“And she ain’t takin’ Brownie!” glared Tim. “We done been through that a’ready. So don’t even ask!”

Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Is Brownie that … you know, that …?”

“Yessir! An’ he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Well.” Adam put his hands on his hips. “That does present a problem.”

His large, rough knuckles were close enough for me to touch, and I forced my eyes elsewhere. Mentally screamed at myself to
stop looking at Adam
and get my mind where it belonged—on staging Mom’s house and leaving Staunton.

“But they’re wrong, Shiloh,” said Adam, voice piercing my thoughts—which, at the moment, included throttling Becky for her sneaky grins. “Your house isn’t empty. It’s full of you. Your new life. Your mom’s life.”

“But I’m not supposed to show me. It’s supposed to be a blank slate. A canvas. A skeleton.”

“Impossible.” Adam crossed his arms. “A house reflects the heart. That’s what it’s made to do—to shelter and protect.” He gazed down at me in a way that made my pulse beat faster, despite my best intentions. “Just let your house reflect your new heart. It’s … well, beautiful.”