Нора Робертс - Red lily

But nothing was happening. She felt completely normal, completely herself.

And was completely herself when sounds out of the shadows made her jump. She stopped, caught in the crosshairs of fight or flight, ears straining. The rhythmic, repetitive sound made her frown as she inched forward.

It sounded . . . but it couldn’t be. Still her heart beat like wings as she crept closer, envisioning a ghostly figure digging a grave.

Amelia’s grave. It could be. This could be the answer, at last. Reginald had murdered her, then buried her here on the property. She was going to be shown the grave—on unconsecrated ground. They could have it blessed or marked or—well, she’d look up what was done in cases like this.

Then the haunting of Harper House would be over.

She picked her way quietly around the ruins of the stables, edging as close to the building as she dared. Her palms sprang damp, and her breath seemed to rattle in her throat.

She turned the corner of the building, following the sound, prepared to be terrified and amazed.

And saw Harper, his T-shirt stripped off and tossed to the ground, digging a hole.

The letdown had the breath expelling from her lungs in a frantic whoosh.

“Harper, for Christ’s sake, you scared me brainless. What are you doing?”

He continued to spear the blade of the shovel into the ground, tossing the dirt into the pile beside it. Though she was still jittery, she cast her eyes skyward, then marched to him.

“I said—” He jumped a clean foot off the ground when she poked a finger in his back. And even as she yelped in response, he whirled, cocking the shovel over his shoulder like a bat. He managed to check his swing, cursed a blue streak as she stumbled back and fell hard on her ass.

“Jesus, God almighty!” He dragged the headset down to his shoulders. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking around in the dark?”

“I didn’t sneak, I called you. If you didn’t play that headset so loud you could hear a person when they said something. I thought you were going to brain me with that shovel. I thought . . .”

She began to giggle, tried to snuff it back. “You should’ve seen your face. Your eyes were this big.” She held up her hands, curling her fingers into wide balls, then dissolved into laughter when he snarled at her.

“Oh, oh, I’m going to wet my pants. Wait.” She squeezed her eyes, bounced quickly in place while more giggles bubbled. “Okay, okay, back in control. The least you could do is help me up after you knocked me down.”

“I didn’t knock you down. Damn near though.” He offered a hand, pulled her up.

“I thought you were Reginald, digging Amelia’s untimely grave.”

Shaking his head, he leaned on the shovel and stared at her. “So you came on around to what, give him a hand?”

“Well, I had to see, didn’t I? What in the world are you doing, digging a hole out here in the dark?”

“It’s not dark.”

“You said it was dark when you yelled at me. What are you doing?”

“Playing third base for the Atlanta Braves.”

“I don’t see why you’re being pissy. I’m the one who fell down and nearly wet her pants.”

“Sorry. Did you hurt yourself?”

“No. You planting that tree?” She finally focused in on the slim, young willow. “Why are you planting a tree, Harper, back here and at this time of night?”

“It’s for Mama. She told me this story today, about how she snuck out of the house to meet my father one night, and that they sat under a willow that used to be back here, and talked. That’s when she fell in love with him. The next day it got hit by lightning. Amelia,” he said and dug out another shovelful of dirt. “She didn’t put it together before, but you’ve got to figure the odds. So I’m putting one in for her.”

She stood silently for a moment while he eyeballed the hole, then the rootball, then dug some more.

“That’s the sweetest thing. That just coats my heart with sweetness, Harper. Can I help, or is it something you want to do alone?”

“Hole’s about right. You can help me put it in.”

“I never planted a tree before.”

“See, you want the hole about three times as wide as the rootball, but no deeper. Get the sides of the hole loose so the roots have room to spread.”

He picked up the tree, set it in the hole. “How’s that look to you?”

“It looks right, like you said.”

“Now you peel the burlap back, from the main stem, then we’ll see the original soil line, at least we will if you turn on that flashlight over there, because it is getting dark. Took me a while to get everything I needed for this.”

She turned it on, crouched down and aimed. “How’s that?”

“Good. See?” He tapped a finger on the mark at the base. “That’s the soil line, and we’ve got the right depth here. We’ve just got a little bit of roots that need pruning off. Hand me those.”

She got the clippers, passed them to him. “You know digging a hole for a tree sounds the same as digging a grave.”

He flicked her a look. “Have you ever heard anybody digging a grave?”

“In movies.”

“Right. We’re going to fill the hole, but we do it little by little and firm the soil down as we do. I don’t have any spare gloves. Here.”

“No.” She waved him back when he started to pull off his work gloves. “A little dirt won’t hurt me. Am I doing this right?”

“Yeah, that’s good. You just keep filling and firming, hilling it up toward the base and leaving a kind of shallow moat around the edge of the hole.”

“I like the way it feels. The dirt.”

“I know what you mean.” When they’d finished to his satisfaction, he took out his knife, trimmed off the exposed burlap, then pushed to his feet. “We’ll give it plenty of water, pour it into the rim around the mound, see?”

He hauled up one of the buckets he’d filled, nodded when she lifted the other.

“There, you planted a tree.”

“Helped plant one anyway.” She stepped back, reached out a hand for his. “It looks lovely, Harper. It’ll mean a lot to her that you thought to do this.”

“It meant something to me to do it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then bent to pick up his tools. “Probably should’ve waited until next spring, but I wanted to do it now. A kind of nose-thumbing. Go ahead and knock them down, we’ll just put them back up. I wanted to do it now.”

“You’re so angry with her.”

“I’m not a kid, charmed by lullabies anymore. I’ve seen her for what she is.”

Hayley shook her head, shivered a little in the close evening air. “I don’t think any of us have seen her for what she is. Not yet.”

THE GRAFTING HOUSE was more than a work space for Harper. It was also part playhouse, part sanctuary, and part lab. He could, and often did, lose himself for hours inside its warm, music-filled air, working, experimenting, or just reveling in being the only human among the plants.

A lot of times he preferred the plants to humans. Though he wasn’t altogether sure what that said about him, he wasn’t all that concerned about it.

He’d found his passion in life, and considered himself fortunate that he could make a living doing something that made him completely happy.

His brothers had to leave home to find theirs. It was the bonus round for him that he’d been able to stay where he loved, and do what he loved.

He had his home, his work, his family. Throughout his adult life he’d had women he’d liked and enjoyed. But none of them had ever made him think, had ever nudged him to consider the next step on the rung of what he’d thought of vaguely as The Future.

He hadn’t worried about that either. His vision of marriage was reflected in what he knew his parents had together. Love, dedication, respect, and tempering it all, like an alloy in steel, an unwavering friendship.

He understood his mother had found that a second time, with Mitch. Not so much lightning striking twice as a true and perfect graft that united to make a new and healthy plant.

In his mind, nothing less strong, less important was worth the time or risk.

So he’d enjoyed the women who’d passed through his life, and had never pictured any of them as The One.

Until Hayley.

Now, so much of his world had changed, while other parts of it remained, comfortably, the same.

He’d flipped on Chopin for his plants’ enjoyment today. And had P.O.D rocking the party on his headset.

The space might not appear efficient with its groupings of plants in various stages of growth, the buckets of gravel or wood chips, the scatter of tapes and twine, clothespins and labels. There were scraps of burlap, piles of pots, bags of soil, tangles of rubber bands. Trays of knives and clippers. But he knew where to find what he wanted when he needed it.

There might have been times he couldn’t put his hands on a pair of matching socks, but he could always put them on the tool he needed.

He walked along, airing the tents and cases that housed his plants, as he did every morning. A few minutes without their covers would dry off any surface moisture that might have condensed on his rootstocks. Fungal disease was always a worry. Still, too much air might dry out the union. As he aired them, he checked specimens for progress, for any signs of disease or rot. He was particularly pleased with the camellia he’d cleft-grafted over the winter. His specimens would take another year, perhaps two to flower, but he believed they’d be worth the wait.

The work required his passion, but it also required his patience, and his faith.

He made notes to be transcribed to his computer files. There was active, steady growth in the astrophytum seedlings he had protected under a bottle cloche, and the nurse grafts of his clematis looked strong and healthy.

Making the rounds once more, he retented the plants. He’d need to check the pond later to study the water lilies and irises he’d hybridized. A side and personal experiment he hoped would prove rewarding.

Plus, it would give him an excuse to take a cooling dip in the heat of the day.

But for now, he had several cultivars to see to.

He gathered the tools he’d need, then selected a healthy rootstock from his pot-grown lantana, made the oblique cut, then matched it with a scion of viburnum. The girths were similar enough that he was able to use the simple slant of each cut to place them together so the cambiums on each side met truly.

Using elastic bands, he kept the pressure light and even as he bound them together. Judging the graft good, he used grafting wax to seal the joining. He set it in a seed tray, covered the roots and graft with moist soil—his mother’s mix—then labeled.

Once he’d repeated the process several times, he tented the tray, and swiveled to his computer to log in the work.

Before he started on the next house specimens, he switched his music to Michelle Branch and pulled a Coke from his cooler.

By the time he’d finished, Michelle had played through and his morning’s work was completed.

He gathered a bag of tools and supplies, left his headset behind, and went out to check his field-grown and water plants.

There were a few customers wandering around, scouting out the discounted stock under shade screens or poking into the public greenhouses. He knew if he didn’t make his escape quickly, one of them might catch him.

He didn’t mind talking plants or directing a customer toward what they were looking for. He just preferred keeping his mind in the game, and right now that game was checking his field plants.

He made it past the portulaca before someone called his name. Should’ve kept the headset on, he thought, but turned, readying up his customer smile.

The brunette had a curvy little body, which he’d had occasion to see naked several times. At the moment, she was showing it off in belly-baring shorts and a brief top designed to make a man give thanks for August heat.

With a delighted laugh, she bounced up on her toes, clamped her arms around his neck and gave him a loud smack of a kiss. She still tasted of bing cherries, and brought back a flood of equally sweet memories.

Instinctively he gave her a hard hug before stepping back to get a better view. “Dory, what’re you doing in town? How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been terrific, and I just moved back. Just a couple weeks ago. Got a job with a PR firm here. I got tired of Miami, missed being home, too, I guess.”

She’d probably changed her hair from the last time he’d seen her. Women were forever changing their hair. But since he wasn’t absolutely sure, he fell back on the standard: “You look great.”

“Feel the same. And look at you, all buff and tan. I was going to call you but I wasn’t sure you were still living in that sweet little house.”