High Noon

“That’s how I see what you’ve done. I know something about gardening, and—”
    She snorted, jabbed a finger. “Tell me half a dozen of the plants you’ve seen at Mac Namara house.”
    “Well, you’ve got that one urn thing on the veranda with heliotrope and that dark red phlox, with the lobelia and the sweet alyssum.” He moved on to another pot, on to the shrubs and beds in the front.
    She studied him now, her eyes narrowed behind shaded lenses. “Did you write all that down?”
    “I notice things, especially if they interest me. You could think about it. I’ve got a couple weeks before I have to lock this in. Maybe you’ll come up with some ideas, and we can kick them around. I could…” He glanced at his watch, winced. “But I’ve gotta get on. Phoebe’s coming for dinner in a couple hours so I’ve got to…”
    “Get on,” Ava murmured. “I think I’ll just sit here a bit longer, if that’s all right with you.”
    “Sure, poke around.” He rose, turned and studied the house again. “I’d really like to bring her back. Just give it some thought, all right?”
    “I’ll give it some thought.”
    She sat, after he’d gotten into his car and pulled away. She sat, thinking he must be a crazy man. Then she stood, studied the house, walked carefully around the sagging veranda.
    She thought of the yard she’d had in that tidy subdivision in West Chatham. How she’d loved turning it into a showpiece. How she’d hauled soil, fertilizer, peat moss. How she’d dug, and planted, and sweated and weeded. Making her home, she remembered. Making it picture perfect, without a clue that there was a snake in her garden. Not a clue that she’d have to walk away from the dreamscape she’d imagined and worked so hard to create.
    Wouldn’t it be something if she could do this? If she could scrape away all the dead, all the ugly, and make something beautiful here? For no reason other than the beauty.
    Yes, she decided. It was something to think about.

15
    She’d nearly talked herself out of going to Duncan’s. Which, of course, would be insane. She wanted to go. She really, really wanted to finish what they’d started on his veranda a few nights before.
    But Sensible Phoebe elected to debate with Needy Phoebe—and damn her, had made some very valid points on the way home from work, during the change-for-date process and even now on the drive to the island portion of the evening.
    They should get to know each other better. He was, no question, an appealing, interesting man. But what was the rush? Wouldn’t it be more rational—read: safer—to have a few more dates in public venues before haring off to his house when and where the end result was inevitable?
    She could argue with that, and did. She liked him, she enjoyed him, she was strongly attracted to him physically. She was thirty-three.
    But really, what did she know about him—under the surface of things? For all she knew he might be the type who used that affability of his like a weapon and knocked susceptible females over on a weekly basis. He could be the male version of Celene’s mother, busily juggling. Did she want to be one of his balls in the air?
    What the hell difference did it make? Couldn’t she date a man—couldn’t she sleep with a man—without demanding or expecting absolute exclusivity? She deserved some fun and some companionship—and some goddamn sex—in her personal life.
    So shut the hell up.
    He meddled. At least it could be construed as meddling by someone with her twin antennae of cynicism and suspicion humming. An outlet for her mother’s needlework, a gardening job for Ava. What was next? Would he offer to buy a shoe store for Carly?
    Of course that was ridiculous. It was overreacting. It was overprotective. Certainly neither her mother nor Ava considered the opportunities offered meddling. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t particularly skilled at the arts and crafts he’d provided a channel for.
    The problem was she could twist his actions, this relationship, the entire mass of it all into any of several forms. If she were going to be obsessive and picky about it. Instead of just taking a chance, enjoying the moment.
    Besides, she was too close to his house now to turn back like some nervous idiot and bolt for home.
    They’d talk, they’d simply talk about what was going on, about what this business with Ava was really about. They’d eat some pizza, maybe drink some wine, and have a mature,