And yet, she couldn’t resist asking. “Are you here to do something about those rumors?”
“I have to go and change into a clean suit,” he said. Then he turned and went inside the house.
* * *
Callie went back to her work, wondering if Tomas Delacorte was in Fleur to bring about more jobs or if he had come to take over a struggling company. Was he here for good or for evil?
She couldn’t decide. Her heart told her he was a good man. He’d been great about giving Brenna free rein on finding art pieces to display in his big remodeled Italianate-style mansion. Nick sang his praises even when he hadn’t been allowed to tell them who his boss was.
Now that she’d met him, Callie tried to see the goodness in Tomas. He hadn’t actually banned Elvis from his property. That gained him points. If Elvis liked the man, that was good enough for her.
But she sensed a dark sadness in him, too. His rare, forced smiles held a trace of tragedy, of loss.
Did he mourn his allegedly dead wife? Or was he bitter about losing her? Did he leave her the way Dewayne had left Callie, because he couldn’t handle illness and death? Did he have a secret?
Shaking her head, Callie decided not to go down that path. Instead, she focused on the row of daylilies she was planting in a sunny spot in the side garden. She’d have more people to help her next week, but for now she wanted to enjoy being alone and creating new paths in this old, settled garden. During the earlier scouting expeditions she’d taken out here, she’d found a wealth of aged shrubs and bushes. Azaleas hidden underneath weeds and bramble, old camellia bushes and crape myrtles hiding behind pine shrubs and palmetto plants, and climbing roses tossed in with hydrangeas underneath tallow trees and piles of brittle pine straw.
A treasure trove of possibilities. A gardener’s dream.
She patted down the rich soil around the final daylily plant, her intention to have these tender shoots nurtured into blooms by the end of spring.
Brenna was trying to talk Tomas into holding an open house and a spring picnic, so Callie wanted the gardens to be in good shape for that. These lilies would come back each spring and grow and multiply if she had her way. She’d talked to them and suggested they behave and show off a bit now that they had found a good home.
Having finished up, she turned toward the sun that moved gently into dusk over the bayou. Then she looked back at the big house looming like a lost castle behind her.
Once, long ago, she’d dreamed of living in this mansion. It had been a true daydream, a little girl’s fantasy of being the lady of Fleur House. Now, while the house looked all fresh and prim and glowing, she wondered about the sadness that seemed to shroud it. Or rather the sadness that seemed to wear like a mantle on the owner’s broad shoulders.
“I can’t get involved in any sadness,” she stated to herself in a whisper that followed the wind. “I’m happy now. Free. Content. Sadness is not allowed.”
But were dreams allowed?
She brushed her dirty hands down the side of her old work jeans and stretched like a contented cat. She’d had a good day, interruptions by Himself aside. This particular bed, centered between the bayou and the back terrace, was ready for show. She’d positioned a Japanese maple in the middle and had spread out from there with the lilies and some other bulbs. This garden should have something to brag about for most of the year, even some playful spider lilies here and there.
Would he approve?
She turned to gather her work tools. There was a spigot on the side of the house by the terrace. She’d wash her things and her hands there. The buzz of mosquitoes teased at her ears as she made her way up the sloping hills toward the house, Elvis now meandering in an end-of-day tiredness behind her. Last fall, a hurricane had washed through Fleur, knocking everything in this garden over in rushing waters and driving winds.
But it was spring now. A new season with tender surprise sprouts that promised their own kind of mystery. That promised a determined survival and rebirth.
“Just like me,” she said, smiling. She silently thanked God for the beauty of this moment.
She’d made it to the spigot and was busy cleaning her tools when the back door opened and he walked out.
“All finished?” he asked.
Callie bent and turned off the spigot. “Yes. I’m tired but pleased. One flower bed down, about a hundred or so to go.”
“You’re going to bring in help, right?”
“Yes.” She noticed he’d changed into jeans and a cotton button-down shirt. The casual outfit only added to his good looks. And made him seem relaxed, just like a normal person. “Yes, I’ll have lots of help.”
“Hire as many people as you need.”
Noting this new, mellow mood, she said, “You’re very generous.”
“I’ve never had a big garden like this before. I want it to be appropriate to the house.”
She told herself to say goodbye and go home. But she turned after making sure she had all her tools. “Where did you grow up?”
He stared off into the distance, that darkness shrouding him like the sky lifting to the full moon. “Not far from here.”
He looked from the horizon to her, a dare in his expression.
“Really? Maybe I know the town.”
“You don’t.” Then he did that turning-and-walking-away thing again.
Which made Callie want to stomp her feet. She prided herself on being a people person. She wasn’t used to being treated this way. “Hey,” she called, hoping to open a dialogue, “why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Just walk back into the house. Don’t you want to see what I’ve done with the gardens so far?”
“I know what you’ve done,” he replied, his back to her.
“How do you know?”
“I watch you sometimes.”
“I’m not so sure I like being watched. Why don’t you just come out and join me? Get involved? You could use some sunshine and fresh air.”
He whirled and stalked closer, stared at her, the look in his eyes going dark then changing, going soft. Before she knew what he was doing, he reached up and pushed her long bangs out of her eyes. Callie’s breath caught at the gentleness in his touch. It went against the grain of his hardened features.
“You have mud on your forehead,” he said, the words as soft as the night wind.
He pulled out a white handkerchief and started wiping at her brow. Callie grabbed his hand and their eyes met, and like a candle flaring in the night, something ignited between them.
“I can do that myself,” she said, too shocked to move.
“I know you can,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her face. He held the handkerchief away then stroked it across her brow again, the crisp rasp of cotton scraping over her skin. “There.” He gave her the handkerchief then backed away, his eyes still holding hers. “I have to go.”
He turned and hurried back into the house.
And left Callie there, spellbound, as she stood caught between the lazy descending sun and the eager rising moon.
Chapter Four
“He grew up near here.”
That night at dinner, Callie recounted her