Blue Dahlia

its foundation repointed. A cutting garden over there, she thought as she stepped out, naturalized daffodils just inside the trees. And along the road, she’d do ground cover and shrubs, and plant daylilies, maybe some iris.
    The porch swing should be painted, too, and there should be a table there—and there. A garden bench near the weeping cherry, maybe another path leading from there to around the back. Flagstone, perhaps. Or pretty stepping-stones with moss or creeping thyme growing between them.
    She stopped herself as she stepped onto the porch. He’d have his own plans, she reminded herself. His house, his plans. No matter how much the place called to her, it wasn’t hers.
    She still had to find hers.
    She took a breath, fluffed a hand through her hair, and knocked.
    It was a long wait, or it seemed so to her while she twisted her watchband around her finger. Nerves began to tap-dance in her belly as she stood there in the early-evening breeze.
    When he opened the door, she had to paint an easy smile on her face. He looked so male . The long, muscled length of him clad in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was mussed; she’d never seen it any other way. There was too much of it, she thought, to be tidy. And tidy would never suit him.
    She held out the pot of dahlias she’d put together. “I’ve had dahlias on the mind,” she told him. “I hope you can use them.”
    “I’m sure I can. Thanks. Come on in.”
    “I love the house,” she began, “and what you’re doing with it. I caught myself mentally planting—”
    She stopped. The door led directly into what she supposed was a living room, or family room. Whatever it was, it was completely empty. The space consisted of bare dry-wall, scarred floors, and a smoke-stained brick fireplace with no mantel.
    “You were saying?”
    “Great views.” It was all she could think of, and true enough. Those generous windows brought the outdoors in. It was too bad in was so sad.
    “I’m not using this space right now.”
    “Obviously.”
    “I’ve got plans for it down the road, when I get the time, and the inclination. Why don’t you come on back before you start crying or something.”
    “Was it like this, when you bought it?”
    “Inside?” He shrugged a shoulder as he walked back through a doorway into what might have been a dining room. It, too, was empty, its walls covered with faded, peeling wallpaper. She could see brighter squares on it where pictures must have hung.
    “Wall-to-wall carpet over these oak floors,” he told her. “Leak upstairs had water stains all over the ceiling. And there was some termite damage. Tore out the walls last winter.”
    “What’s this space?”
    “Haven’t decided yet.”
    He went through another door, and Stella let out a whistle of breath.
    “Figured you’d be more comfortable in here.” He set the flowers on a sand-colored granite counter and just leaned back to let her look.
    It was his mark on the kitchen, she had no doubt. It was essentially male and strongly done. The sand tones of the counters were echoed in the tiles on the floor and offset by a deeper taupe on the walls. Cabinets were a dark, rich wood with pebbled-glass doors. There were herbs growing in small terra-cotta pots on the wide sill over the double sinks, and a small stone hearth in the corner.
    Plenty of workspace on the long L of the counter, she calculated, plenty of eating space in the diagonal run of the counter that separated the kitchen area from a big, airy sitting space where he’d plopped down a black leather couch and a couple of oversized chairs.
    And best of all, he’d opened the back wall with glass. You would sit there, Stella thought, and be a part of the gardens he was creating outside. Step through to the flagstone terrace and wander into flowers and trees.
    “This is wonderful. Wonderful. Did you do it yourself?”
    Right at the moment, seeing that dreamy look on her face, he wanted to tell her he’d gathered the sand to make the glass. “Some. Work slows down in the winter, so I can deal with the inside of the place when I get the urge. I know people who do good work. I hire, or I barter. Want a drink?”
    “Hmm. Yes. Thanks. The other room has to be your formal dining room, for when you entertain, or have people over for dinner. Of course, everyone’s going to end up in here. It’s irresistible.”
    She wandered back into the kitchen and took the glass of wine he offered. “It’s going to be