Blue Dahlia

just too small-town, too small-time, to fit into the urban landscape.
    He hadn’t thrived there, and neither had his marriage. Little things at first, picky things—things he knew in retrospect they should have dealt with, compromised on, overcome. Instead, they’d both let those little things fester and grow until they’d pushed the two of them, not just apart, he thought, but in opposite directions.
    She’d been in her element, and he hadn’t. At the core he’d been unhappy, and she’d been unhappy he wasn’t acclimating. Like any disease, unhappiness spread straight down to the roots when it wasn’t treated.
    Not all her fault. Not all his. In the end they’d been smart enough, or unhappy enough, to cut their losses.
    The failure of it had hurt, and the loss of that once-promising love had hurt. Stella was wrong about the lack of scars. There were just some scars you had to live with.
    The client wanted wisteria for the pergola. He instructed his crew where to plant, then took himself off to the small pool the client wanted outfitted with water plants.
    He was feeling broody, and when he was feeling broody, he liked to work alone as much as possible. He had the cattails in containers and, dragging on boots, he waded in to sink them. Left to themselves, the cats would spread and choke out everything, but held in containers they’d be a nice pastoral addition to the water feature. He dealt with a trio of water lilies the same way, then dug in the yellow flags. They liked their feet wet, and would dance with color on the edge of the pool.
    The work satisfied him, centered him as it always did. It let another part of his mind work out separate problems. Or at least chew on them for a while.
    Maybe he’d put a small pool in the walled garden he planned to build at home. No cattails, though. He might try some dwarf lotus, and some water canna as a background plant. It seemed to him it was more the sort of thing Stella would like.
    He’d been in love twice before, Logan thought again. And now he could sense those delicate taproots searching inside him for a place to grow. He could probably cut them off. Probably. He probably should.
    What was he going to do with a woman like Stella and those two ridiculously appealing kids? They were bound to drive each other crazy in the long term with their different approaches to damn near everything. He doubted they’d burn each other out, though, God, when he’d had her in bed, he’d felt singed. But they might wilt, as he and Rae had wilted. That was more painful, more miserable, he knew, than the quick flash.
    And this time there were a couple of young boys to consider.
    Wasn’t that why the ghost had given him a good kick in the ass? It was hard to believe he was sweating in the steamy air under overcast skies and thinking about an encounter with a ghost. He’d thought he was open-minded about that sort of thing—until he’d come face-to-face, so to speak, with it.
    The fact was, Logan realized now, as he hauled mulch over for the skirt of the pool, he hadn’t believed in the ghost business. It had all been window dressing or legendary stuff to him. Old houses were supposed to have ghosts because it made a good story, and the south loved a good story. He’d accepted it as part of the culture, and maybe, in some strange way, as something that might happen to someone else. Especially if that someone else was a little drunk, or very susceptible to atmosphere.
    He’d been neither. But he’d felt her breath, the ice of it, and her rage, the power of it. She’d wanted to cause him harm, she’d wanted him away. From those children, and their mother.
    So he was invested now in helping to find the identity of what walked those halls.
    But a part of him wondered if whoever she was was right. Would they all be better off if he stayed away?
    The phone on his belt beeped. Since he was nearly done, he answered instead of ignoring, dragging off his filthy work gloves and plucking the phone off his belt.
    “Kitridge.”
    “Logan, it’s Stella.”
    The quick and helpless flutter around his heart irritated him. “Yeah. I’ve got the frigging forms in my truck.”
    “What forms?”
    “Whatever damn forms you’re calling to nag me about.”
    “It happens I’m not calling to nag you about anything.” Her voice had gone crisp and businesslike, which only caused the flutter and the irritation to increase.
    “Well, I don’t have time to chat, either. I’m on the