Perfect Scents. Virginia Taylor

      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Copyright

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Virginia Taylor

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: September 2017

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0008-8

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0008-5

      First Print Edition: September 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0012-5

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0012-3

      Printed in the United States of America

      Author’s Foreword

      I have been helping to develop a National Trust garden for three years, realizing that thinking someone ought to do so wasn’t as much help as me being someone and offering. Renovating part of the three acre plot has taught me quite a bit about plants and the natural healing powers of gardens.

      Chapter 1

      Calli Allbrook stood, key in hand, her suitcase beside her, contemplating the old stone cottage she intended to house-sit for the next three months. Birds flittered through the nearby trees while clouds scurried across the pallid spring sky.

      THUNK! Startled, she dropped the key. The fence next door shook and rattled. A male voice swore loudly. Glass shattered and tinkled onto stone. Footsteps clumped, a hinge squeaked, and a door slammed. She glanced nervously at the tumbledown, overgrown wreck of a house behind the fence. A tad conscious of her overreaction to the neighbor’s noise, she scrambled up her key.

      The main house on the allotment had been built at the front of the double block. Her separate accommodation was sited on the back corner. The attached carport sat farther along the back fence, sheltering Judge Adrian Ferguson’s black Jaguar, a luxury model white Mercedes, and her own twenty-year-old green Ford, not an edifying sight alongside the judge’s more expensive choices.

      She pushed open the aqua door of the tidy little cottage, hoping that while the judge relaxed in the Mediterranean, she hadn’t taken on a larger commitment than she could manage. But, of course, she had to if she expected to reclaim her professional reputation. She had already seen the outside of her prospective lodgings last week when she had walked the judge through her plan for the design of his garden. Surmising that he had done as good a renovation here as he had on the interior of his spacious bluestone house, she glanced around. The area had been replanned as four spaces.

      Three opened into each other; two at the front, one the sitting area, and another the eating area, separated from the white kitchen by an island. A coffee machine stood on top. She craved real coffee. For the past month, she had lived on the cheapest foodstuffs she could buy.

      With a happy hitch of her shoulders, she made her way past a soft caramel leather couch facing a television set and two floral armchairs. Opening the door into the fourth space, the bedroom, she spotted a luxurious king-size bed. Before she unpacked, she checked the en suite bathroom. The gleaming white tiles served as a welcome relief from the pink, shared bathroom in the bedsit she had occupied since she had sold her own house a month ago.

      Living in this hidden far corner while she worked on the garden of the main house, alone and undisturbed, would give her time to reexamine and finally put her life back together. By the time she had folded her underwear into a drawer; hung up a row of shirts, a skirt, and a jacket; and had pushed a few old gardening clothes onto a shelf; dusk shaded the room gray. She switched on the lights and closed the plantation shutters, glancing pensively at the bed. This morning she had performed one last cleaning round of her bedsit. She could sleep for a week, offered the chance.

      Except, she hadn’t given a thought to breakfast in the morning. With only a fond hope, she wandered out to the small refrigerator. Her new employer had been gone a week, yet he had stocked a few staples for her, including butter and long-life milk. She found the coffee pods needed for the machine, a canister of teabags, jam, and peanut butter in an overhead cupboard, and cornflakes and dry crackers in a storage cupboard. Without trying to locate a shop, she could make a nice unhealthy snack before having an early night.

      Tomorrow morning, she hoped to mark out various areas in the garden. In the not-too-distant future, the judge would be the proud owner of a new garden more suited to the style of his stately home. His present garden had been planted twenty years ago with rows of standard iceberg roses and English box hedges. Her plan was for a softer, more casual layout. The