Alex could relate.
Clearing his throat, he returned to the subject. “But if we build that kind of housing, will they come? Will enough middle-income families migrate to Twin Oaks?”
Megan shrugged. “Good question. I don’t know the answer.”
“You’ve lived here all your life, or so Emily said. What made you stay while others have left?”
Blowing her bangs from her forehead, Megan shook her head. “Another good question. Lots of reasons, none very interesting.” His questions were bordering on the personal, on things she didn’t want to discuss with him or anyone else. She wrapped the last loaf and put the roll of plastic wrap away, then moved to the back door. “Want to check out our gardens?” she asked, slipping bare feet into her sandals.
She was back to talking in the plural again, Alex realized, as if Neal were still alive and they were a couple working this little inn together. That sort of thing was hard to turn off, he supposed. As he stepped outside with her, he also realized she was good at changing subjects without seeming to.
The air was mildly cool and fragrant with the scent of shadowy purple wisteria vines along the stucco fence. There were two nearly overgrown paths between the rows of rosebushes and marigolds and azaleas. The dew was heavy on the leaves as Alex followed Megan along one trail to a large smooth rock at the end.
A night bird called to a mate as Megan sat down on the rock, gazing up at a half-moon playing hide-and-seek among the clouds. “Looks like we’ll have rain again tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Alex was busy studying the plantings, noticing that the rosebushes needed propping up with sticks, that the alyssum needed thinning and that weeds had all but taken over the ice plants. Hands on his hips, he stood surveying the garden. It was obvious that Megan didn’t have time to keep this up along with everything else she did. He wondered if she’d welcome his help. It wasn’t much, but it was one thing he could do to lighten her load. And lighten his conscience.
“I like gardens,” he began. “My mother loved flowers. I used to help her all the time. She’d explain each variety to me, tell me whether it would do well in the sun or the shade, how much water it needed, how much sun it could handle. After she died, I kept up our garden until I went away to college.”
A strange admission from a man she’d thought was probably a well-to-do businessman who’d hire such things done. She watched him bend, pick a daisy and hand it to her with such casual ease you knew he’d done it many times before for many other women. He looked like a California surfer with that tan and that flashy car and that killer smile, more interested in fun than flowers. Still, a man who spoke sentimentally about his mother and enjoyed gardens couldn’t be one of the boys in black hats, could he? However, bad news came in many shapes, she’d learned.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s rough. I lost my dad when I was ten.” That’s how Megan always thought of her father’s departure. To say he’d walked out on his entire family made her too angry.
He caught the small lie and didn’t blame her for it. It was hard to admit that a parent had chosen to leave. Stooping, Alex tugged at a weed that lifted easily out of the moist ground. “Maybe tomorrow, after my meetings, I can come out here and do a little pruning and weeding. I had surgery not too long ago. Gardening’s good therapy.”
Megan felt her back stiffen. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need. I’ll get to the garden by week’s end.”
He looked up at her, at the rigid way she held herself, her eyes averted. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I don’t have all that much to do and—”
“No.” She never should have allowed him to dry her pans, to invade her kitchen, to critique her yard. “My guests don’t weed my garden. I’ll get to it when I have the time. Until then,
Clearing his throat, he returned to the subject. “But if we build that kind of housing, will they come? Will enough middle-income families migrate to Twin Oaks?”
Megan shrugged. “Good question. I don’t know the answer.”
“You’ve lived here all your life, or so Emily said. What made you stay while others have left?”
Blowing her bangs from her forehead, Megan shook her head. “Another good question. Lots of reasons, none very interesting.” His questions were bordering on the personal, on things she didn’t want to discuss with him or anyone else. She wrapped the last loaf and put the roll of plastic wrap away, then moved to the back door. “Want to check out our gardens?” she asked, slipping bare feet into her sandals.
She was back to talking in the plural again, Alex realized, as if Neal were still alive and they were a couple working this little inn together. That sort of thing was hard to turn off, he supposed. As he stepped outside with her, he also realized she was good at changing subjects without seeming to.
The air was mildly cool and fragrant with the scent of shadowy purple wisteria vines along the stucco fence. There were two nearly overgrown paths between the rows of rosebushes and marigolds and azaleas. The dew was heavy on the leaves as Alex followed Megan along one trail to a large smooth rock at the end.
A night bird called to a mate as Megan sat down on the rock, gazing up at a half-moon playing hide-and-seek among the clouds. “Looks like we’ll have rain again tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Alex was busy studying the plantings, noticing that the rosebushes needed propping up with sticks, that the alyssum needed thinning and that weeds had all but taken over the ice plants. Hands on his hips, he stood surveying the garden. It was obvious that Megan didn’t have time to keep this up along with everything else she did. He wondered if she’d welcome his help. It wasn’t much, but it was one thing he could do to lighten her load. And lighten his conscience.
“I like gardens,” he began. “My mother loved flowers. I used to help her all the time. She’d explain each variety to me, tell me whether it would do well in the sun or the shade, how much water it needed, how much sun it could handle. After she died, I kept up our garden until I went away to college.”
A strange admission from a man she’d thought was probably a well-to-do businessman who’d hire such things done. She watched him bend, pick a daisy and hand it to her with such casual ease you knew he’d done it many times before for many other women. He looked like a California surfer with that tan and that flashy car and that killer smile, more interested in fun than flowers. Still, a man who spoke sentimentally about his mother and enjoyed gardens couldn’t be one of the boys in black hats, could he? However, bad news came in many shapes, she’d learned.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s rough. I lost my dad when I was ten.” That’s how Megan always thought of her father’s departure. To say he’d walked out on his entire family made her too angry.
He caught the small lie and didn’t blame her for it. It was hard to admit that a parent had chosen to leave. Stooping, Alex tugged at a weed that lifted easily out of the moist ground. “Maybe tomorrow, after my meetings, I can come out here and do a little pruning and weeding. I had surgery not too long ago. Gardening’s good therapy.”
Megan felt her back stiffen. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need. I’ll get to the garden by week’s end.”
He looked up at her, at the rigid way she held herself, her eyes averted. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I don’t have all that much to do and—”
“No.” She never should have allowed him to dry her pans, to invade her kitchen, to critique her yard. “My guests don’t weed my garden. I’ll get to it when I have the time. Until then,
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