while Reece chose a spindly-legged chair opposite. “Is he traveling with you, Clarice?”
“I guess she didn’t tell you she answers to Reece now.” Grandmother’s quiet little huff was all she needed to say on that subject. “No, Mr. Jones is a landscape architect whose specialty is restoring old gardens.”
Mark stopped short of rolling his eyes. “That again, Grandmother? I’ve never seen anyone so fascinated by gardens she never laid eyes on. They’re gone. Dug up. Grown over. You can’t bring them back.”
“ I can’t, obviously, but Mr. Jones can. He has quite an admirable reputation in this field.”
Mark’s eyes started another roll but stopped again. “Grandfather had those gardens removed for a reason, Grandmother. It was important to him. Have you forgotten that? Are you actually considering disregarding his very clear feelings on the matter?”
Grandmother gazed out the window for a moment as if lost in time, then replied with every bit of the stubbornness Mark had mentioned earlier. “Yes, I believe I am. Not just considering it, in fact, but doing it. Mr. Jones started work today.”
Reece watched Mark closely: the faint fading of color from his cheeks, the thinning of his lips, the distress that settled over his face. “You’ve signed a contract with him? You’ve committed to this—this insanity? Grandmother—”
Her arch look silenced him. “Of course I haven’t signed a contract with him.” But just as relief sagged Mark’s shoulders, Grandmother went on. “Robbie hasn’t had time to draw it up yet. First Mr. Jones has to present me with plans and costs, and that will take some time. It’s an enormous job, putting back everything Arthur undid. It will take a great deal of time and, yes—” her sharp, accusing gaze moved from Mark to Reece, then back again “—a great deal of money. But it’s my money, at least until I die, and I’ll spend it as I please.”
Reece resisted the urge to raise both hands to ward off the warning. She didn’t want the old woman’s money. Sure, a windfall would be nice. Having the cash to get a place of her own where the dogs could run free—and where she could take in more homeless dogs—would be fantastic. But she earned enough to live on and to support a few luxuries—Bubba, Louie and Eddie—and she’d never expected anything more.
Mark, clearly, expected more.
“Grandmother, you can’t be serious. Do you have any idea how big those gardens were? How much they cost?”
“Yes, I do. As someone who’s been fascinated by them since I came to live here, I know quite a lot about them, and so does Mr. Jones. Restoring Fair Winds will be a major coup for him. He’ll have more business than he can handle after this.”
Reece suspected he already had plenty of business. A man didn’t get…how had Grandmother put it? Quite an admirable reputation without some major clients. No matter whose gardens he’d worked on, Grandmother would, of course, consider hers the most important.
“But, Grandmother—”
She interrupted him, something she considered rude and common—a sign of how determined she was to see this plan through. “Have you forgotten, Mark, that I’m in charge of my own affairs? When I want advice, I’ll ask for it, and I’ll ask an expert, not you. At this moment, I’m not asking. I’m simply informing you of my plans. Don’t worry. There will be money left over for you and Macy and the children. You’ll have your inheritance, but I will have my gardens.”
Moving far more spryly than most women her age, Grandmother rose from the settee and left the room.
The silence was heavy, and just a bit darker as clouds blocked the sun and the windows fell into shadow. Uneasiness creeping up her spine, Reece wanted to make her exit, too—right out the door and onto the patio—but something kept her in her seat.
“Oh, my God.” Mark dragged his fingers through his hair, the gesture drawing attention to how much it
“I guess she didn’t tell you she answers to Reece now.” Grandmother’s quiet little huff was all she needed to say on that subject. “No, Mr. Jones is a landscape architect whose specialty is restoring old gardens.”
Mark stopped short of rolling his eyes. “That again, Grandmother? I’ve never seen anyone so fascinated by gardens she never laid eyes on. They’re gone. Dug up. Grown over. You can’t bring them back.”
“ I can’t, obviously, but Mr. Jones can. He has quite an admirable reputation in this field.”
Mark’s eyes started another roll but stopped again. “Grandfather had those gardens removed for a reason, Grandmother. It was important to him. Have you forgotten that? Are you actually considering disregarding his very clear feelings on the matter?”
Grandmother gazed out the window for a moment as if lost in time, then replied with every bit of the stubbornness Mark had mentioned earlier. “Yes, I believe I am. Not just considering it, in fact, but doing it. Mr. Jones started work today.”
Reece watched Mark closely: the faint fading of color from his cheeks, the thinning of his lips, the distress that settled over his face. “You’ve signed a contract with him? You’ve committed to this—this insanity? Grandmother—”
Her arch look silenced him. “Of course I haven’t signed a contract with him.” But just as relief sagged Mark’s shoulders, Grandmother went on. “Robbie hasn’t had time to draw it up yet. First Mr. Jones has to present me with plans and costs, and that will take some time. It’s an enormous job, putting back everything Arthur undid. It will take a great deal of time and, yes—” her sharp, accusing gaze moved from Mark to Reece, then back again “—a great deal of money. But it’s my money, at least until I die, and I’ll spend it as I please.”
Reece resisted the urge to raise both hands to ward off the warning. She didn’t want the old woman’s money. Sure, a windfall would be nice. Having the cash to get a place of her own where the dogs could run free—and where she could take in more homeless dogs—would be fantastic. But she earned enough to live on and to support a few luxuries—Bubba, Louie and Eddie—and she’d never expected anything more.
Mark, clearly, expected more.
“Grandmother, you can’t be serious. Do you have any idea how big those gardens were? How much they cost?”
“Yes, I do. As someone who’s been fascinated by them since I came to live here, I know quite a lot about them, and so does Mr. Jones. Restoring Fair Winds will be a major coup for him. He’ll have more business than he can handle after this.”
Reece suspected he already had plenty of business. A man didn’t get…how had Grandmother put it? Quite an admirable reputation without some major clients. No matter whose gardens he’d worked on, Grandmother would, of course, consider hers the most important.
“But, Grandmother—”
She interrupted him, something she considered rude and common—a sign of how determined she was to see this plan through. “Have you forgotten, Mark, that I’m in charge of my own affairs? When I want advice, I’ll ask for it, and I’ll ask an expert, not you. At this moment, I’m not asking. I’m simply informing you of my plans. Don’t worry. There will be money left over for you and Macy and the children. You’ll have your inheritance, but I will have my gardens.”
Moving far more spryly than most women her age, Grandmother rose from the settee and left the room.
The silence was heavy, and just a bit darker as clouds blocked the sun and the windows fell into shadow. Uneasiness creeping up her spine, Reece wanted to make her exit, too—right out the door and onto the patio—but something kept her in her seat.
“Oh, my God.” Mark dragged his fingers through his hair, the gesture drawing attention to how much it
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