Spring Flowers, Summer Love. Lois Richer
While Connor continued to talk to the sheriff, she hauled brush. A short while later Bud left. Connor looked mad about something.
Because her arms were sore again, Rowena changed jobs, sliding down the wet slope to take a quick look at the first flower bed.
“What do you think? Are you going to meet the deadline?” Connor stood beside her, watching.
“No problem.” Rowena quickly schooled her face to hide her doubts that being finished by June 1 was possible.
“What are you doing now?”
“Checking out this soil,” she explained, scooping out a handful to get a better look. She leaned against the brick supporting wall to balance herself and dipped her hand into the soil again. The wall shifted.
“Uh-oh.” She moved from one terrace to the next, checking for stability. In each terrace, mud oozed through gaps in the corners where the mortar had broken down, in some cases given way completely.
Wingate needed a stonemason before it needed a landscaper and that would cost time and money—neither of which had been calculated into the original project.
“‘Uh-oh’ means something bad, guessing by your face.”
“I need to show you something. Can you handle some mud?”
He favored her with a mocking look, glancing at his filthy jeans. “I’ll try not to fuss too much,” he promised as he stepped down, holding out a hand to help her.
Rowena accepted his hand but let go as quickly as she could, her fingers feeling scorched by the contact.
“See here?” She pointed out the defects, forcing her breath to modulate. What was wrong with her? “The mortar isn’t holding. The saturated ground is straining the wall. It’s oozing out here.”
He hunched down beside her, slid his fingers into the gaps she indicated. “Can’t you patch it?”
“It’s been patched too many times. It needs to be rebuilt.”
“Or what?”
“Or it will slide down into the next one. It’s unstable. The walls will collapse as soon as I try to work on it.” She noticed his eyes were a kind of liquid gold. That made her knees rubbery. She needed space, oxygen—something.
“What’s your solution?”
Solution to what? Oh, yeah…
“You’ll have to hire a stonemason to install some new bricks.” Maybe she shouldn’t have had that coffee. Her nerves were way out of control.
“You said I’ll have to hire. But this is your project, Miss Davis.”
“I don’t do stonework. That was never part of the agreement.” She cleared her throat. “I did ask your uncles about the condition of the terraces when I agreed to take on the work. They assured me the masonry was solid. It looked okay under drier conditions. It’s not now.”
“I see.” His face tightened; his eyes grew stormy. “How much?”
“I told you, I don’t do masonry. If I had to guess—” She thought for a moment, then offered a figure. Connor’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to protest but Rowena kept talking. “A man in town does excellent work. Whether he’d be able to fit Wingate in is another question. He’s always booked fairly heavily.”
Connor Wingate glared at her.
“There is no way I’m prepared to authorize such a huge expenditure. You’ll have to come up with something else.”
“I’m not deliberately trying to cause problems, you know. And there’s no other way. Unless you want me to remove the terraces completely?”
He frowned. “But then everything would eventually slip downhill, wouldn’t it?”
“As it’s doing now, yes.” She pulled out a diagram she’d drawn yesterday. “This is Wingate now. This is what I propose.” Using her pencil she outlined the small changes. Anger had chased away her case of nerves, thank goodness.
“Cost?”
“It wouldn’t cost any more to do it at this stage. We could slip in an underground watering system, make your uncles’ lives a lot easier in future drier years.”
“It sounds great but the uncles are hoping to retire soon. They haven’t got the cash on hand to cover something like what you’re talking about. You’ll have to come up with something else, Miss Davis, or work with what’s already here. That’s my decision.” He turned to leave.
Why didn’t he call her by name? And would it hurt him to unbend just a bit?
“I want it on the record that I feel the terraces are unstable, Mr. Wingate.” Rowena sighed. “As soaked as they are now, they’re dangerous. I can’t begin really working with them until they dry out, so my timetable is on hold indefinitely. I’ll try a couple of ideas on the lower one, see how it reacts. That’s all I can promise.”
“June 1. That’s the deadline.” His bossy tone carried through the rain. “Remember that everything has to be finished by June 1.” He strode across the yard, sprayed his boots off beneath the outside faucet, then climbed the steps without so much as a backward glance.
“I suppose I should have bowed or something,” she muttered sourly. “Don’t want to get above my station.” It was times like this that Rowena wished her work permitted her to wear a power suit that carried weight, to force people like Connor to accept her as a professional and not just some crazy woman mucking about in the mud.
Instead she tromped across the sodden grass in her rubber boots to resume work on the trees. She could forget about the terraces for now, anyway, since there was so much pruning to do.
“Maybe you could send a little sun, Lord,” she prayed. “Just so I could figure out how in the world I’m supposed to accomplish this.”
That she would accomplish it was beyond question. Completing this job was the only way she had to get the nursery back and she was going to get her father back on that land if it was the last thing she did.
Her two workers had taken a break with a drink in the cab of her truck. She waved them forward.
“Okay, guys. Let’s get back to work.”
She’d been at it for a week and a half, sawing, cutting, mulching. And all of it done in a steady rain or drizzle. Her crew was good, he’d seen that for himself. But even two skilled men and one tiny woman couldn’t make an Eden out of that mess, even though Rowena Davis was a powerhouse.
Connor had come to think of her by her first name in spite of his desire to remain aloof until he got the job done and could leave this place and get on with his future. Whatever that was.
He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to get Wingate Manor up and running, to see it successfully through another season and then hand it over to his uncles, preferably with a tidy profit.
Connor was used to managing. His first job had been supervising a portfolio no one else wanted. His success had led to one management position, then another. Eventually he’d worked his way into his own company and a very hefty client base. His reputation for getting the job done was what Cecile claimed she’d loved most.
Connor deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. The past was finished. He’d assumed he’d be halfway around the world trying to forget his mistake. Instead he was sitting here in Serenity Bay, watching a woman and two men manhandle trees twice their size.
What would he do when his great-uncles came back, when it was time to leave the Bay?
He’d sold the New York condo Cecile chose as quickly as possible after her death. Even his car was new. The only thing that remained from the past was Tobias. Sooner or later he’d find him a good home, too.
Then