Wonderful You (30 page)

A honk from the driveway drew her to the window.

“My plants!” she said aloud.

She ran all the way to the backyard.

“Right there will be fine! Thank you!” she called to the teenage boys who had been sent to deliver her purchases.

Zoey cast a concerned eye upon the rows of pots and flats that lined her driveway. Whatever had she been thinking when she had bought what now appeared to be miles of green things, all of which would be looking to her for survival?

With a groan, she swung open the garden gate and looked at the waiting beds.

“Oh, brother,” she muttered. “What do I do now?”

The best place to start, she decided, would be to carry the plants into the garden and put the pots where they would be planted. An hour later, she was still moving pots around, but had pretty much decided where each would go. The tallest plants would go along the fence, so she moved the monkshood, delphinium, and hollyhock to places in the back of the garden. The Russian sage, she decided, would look nice in front of the tall things, so she
moved those pots to the back also. The rosemary and
fennel would go with the daisies and the columbine in the Shakespeare bed. The coreopsis with its bright yellow color would be pretty along the outer edges of the long beds. That left the pansies—low growers, they would go in the front of the beds—and the annuals. She
if,
didn’t know what to do with them. The zinnias and t
he—she looked at the tags again
to check the name—
cosmos
—
how tall would
they
get?
—
would wait until everything else was planted.

Searching in the garage for a shovel, Zoey attacked the warming earth and turned it over, just as her mother had cautioned her to.

“
Air out the soil, Zoey. It's been covered up all winter,”
Delia had told her. “Okay, Mom, the soil
is aired,” she announced after
another hour of backbreaking work,
and
o
n her hands and knees she planted, wishing she knew a better way of getting the little buggers out of their pots besides digging them out with her fingers. Too late, she realized, she should have been wearing gloves. Her fingernails were a mess—and she would have a full hour of rings to sell on Friday morning. She inspected her nails with a frown.

“Oh, well,” she muttered. “The damage has been done. Looks like it will be fake nails for me for a while.” She continued going from one bed to the other, until all but the annuals were planted, before stepping back to admire her work.

“Not bad for someone who has absolutely no idea of what she is doing.”

Newly planted, all would need water. Zoey unwrapped the hose and attached it to the spigot at the end of the garage, soaking all the new plants. She stripped off her old sneakers and ran the cold water over her hot, tired feet, then washed her hands before turning the hose onto her face. The water felt like ice as it ran down the front of her old T-shirt, but Zoey could not have cared less. It was wet and it washed away the sweat and the grime and
cooled her hot skin that had soaked up more sun than she had realized.

“I have a farmer’s tan,” she smiled to herself as she rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and ran the hose water over her arms. One more spray on her feet and she turned off the water.

“Oh,
duh!”
she exclaimed. “No towel to dry off with.”

She stood in the middle of the yard with her hands on her hips. Well, she would just have to dry off in the sun. There was no way she was going to drag her sloppy wet self into her nice clean house and her beautiful new bedroom. She dropped with a tired sigh onto the grass and stretched out. She would just lie here in the sun, just for a little while.

She hadn’t realized how tired she was.

Zoey folded her hands behind her head and rested the back of her neck on them and looked up into the sky. The clouds were so big and puffy.
That one looks like Mickey Mouse,
she thought,
and that one looks like a train. That big one looks like a great big bird, with a nasty sharp beak.

Nasty bird took a big bite out of Mickey and Zoey watched in fascination as cloud faded into cloud.

She stretched with satisfaction at having completed so much hard work in one day.

“Mom would be proud,” she told a small bird that landed on the edge of the concrete birdbath.

She wondered where Delia was, if she was still in Bishop’s Cove. Maybe on her way to Baltimore; she said she wanted to talk to Georgia this week.

Zoey rolled over onto her stomach and poked at a clump of clover. When they were younger, she and Georgia would spend hours searching through the grass for four-leaf clovers. She wondered if Laura had done the same.

There were lots of things she wondered about this newly found sister of hers. What books did she read? What kind of music did she like? Did she enjoy movies? And did she ever play sports? Did she bite her nails? Like
Chinese food? Drink Coke or Pepsi? Was she organized, like Georgia, or was she more of the whirlwind type, like Zoey herself? Did she sing in the shower? In the car? What had her husband been like? What had caused them to split apart?

So many, many things to learn about Laura.

She found herself wanting to know, not just for Delia’s sake, but for her own. Zoey had made the trip to Bishop’s Cove with the intention of offering her hand in friendship to Laura for Delia’s sake. If she found she didn’t like the woman, she would ignore that fact as much as possible. But for her mother’s sake, she had been determined to make the effort. That she had found Laura so, well,
nice,
had made it easy to like her, easier to make her mother happy. That she and Laura could be friends would lift a terrible burden from all of them, and she said a little prayer of thanks that she genuinely liked this woman who had suddenly been thrust into her life.

“Ha!” she exclaimed a
nd plucked the puny stem from
the plant. She raised the four-leaf clover and twirled it around in her fingers.
This is my lucky day.

Zoey started to roll over, then groaned as her muscles, worked beyond reason that day, began to protest. She lay back down and rested her face on her folded arms and turned slightly sideways toward the sun. The warmth spread through her like molasse
s, slow and thick and
complete, and she drifted languidly from one random thought to another.

It wouldn’t hurt to just lay here for a little while longer. I’ve earned a little rest, and besides, the sun feels so good,
and the grass smells so like a new summer. And the
flowers smell so good
…
what is that, anyway? Roses?
Peonies? Whatever
…
it smells like heaven must smell at the beginning of June. I wonder if Laura likes to garden. I wonder when her birthday is. I have a niece. Ally. I want her to call me Aunt Zoey and I want to buy her useless,
sentimental little-girl things for Christmas. Listen to that
s
weet little bird
…
Wally would know what it is
…
I’ll have to remember to ask when I see him
…
and I have to
remember to call Mrs. Colson and find out if my bridesmaid dress for the wedding has come yet
…
I’m so glad that Ben will be at the wedding. He’s not going to leave, I don’t care what Nicky thinks. I can't believe that he would leave, now that he’s found
me
…
Surely he has to know that we belong together
…

* * *

“
Z
oey?” Ben pushed open the back door of the bungalow and called in. “Zoey, are you here?” He tried one more time. No answer.

Maybe she’s at Wally’s.
Ben bounded down the steps and across the lawn to the house next door, where he noticed no car and no one answered the door.

Her car was in the drive, he noticed as he walked back toward his BMW, and there were rakes leaning up against the garage wall. He opened his mouth to call into the garden when he leaned over the gate and stopped in his tracks.

Zoey lay sleeping on the grass like a fairy princess from an age-old tale. From a haphazard ponytail, strands of her dark hair had worked their way loose to fold gently around her face.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he whispered. No doubt about it.

As quietly as possible, he eased open the gate and as quietly closed it behind him. Zoey lay on her side, her feet were crossed at the ankle and her face turned up just slightly. Her lips were parted just the tiniest bit, and her black lashes lay on her cheeks like feathers from a small bird. She looked so totally innocent, so totally beautiful, that Ben sank to the ground next to her without even realizing he had done so.

How a gawky preadolescent had grown into so magnificent a woman was a mystery that he knew would never be solved.

He took the four-leaf clover from her fingers and twirled it between his own, much as she had, though he could not have known that. Lying down beside her, he touched the clover to her face and watched the co
rn
er of her mouth on that side twitch into a tiny smile. He
traced the outline of her jaw, and her eyebrows, the tilt of her nose and the tip of her chin. Her nose wiggled once, and she giggled in her sleep, like the laughter of a tiny enchanted creature.

It was a joy just to watch her, and for almost half an hour, Ben did just that. He watched as the fading day played light and shadow off her face, watched as she turned slightly and snuggled toward him as the air began to cool. The light breeze was heavy with the sweetest scents—peony, he knew, having recognized the same fragrance that had surrounded a house he’d rented outside of Glasgow one year—and all was quiet, save for the birds and a cricket or two. He wondered if he’d stumbled accidentally into Paradise.

Zoey stirred in her sleep, and he twirled the clover under her chin to speed her awakening. He’d waited— and watched—as long as any sane man could.

“Hi,” he said when she opened her eyes.

“Hmmm.” She smiled in her sleep and inched closer to him, and he laughed.

“Come on, lazybones. Time to wake up.”

“
Lazybones?”
Her eyes shot open. “I worked like a dog today, Ben. I dug and carried and raked and planted. Didn’t you notice how beautiful my garden is?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I didn’t notice anything but you.”

He lowered his head to kiss her, and Zoey drew his mouth to hers and his body down closer to her own. His tongue traced the outline of her lower lip and her hands tangled in the collar of his shirt.

“I’m such a mess,” she whispered. “I need a shower and I smell like—”

“Springtime,” he told her. “You smell like spr
ingtime.” He nibbled at the corn
er of her mouth and she turned her head slightly to pull his mouth back to hers and kissed him the way she needed to. Again and again and again, deeper and deeper and deeper until there appeared to be nothing beneath her skin but molten liquid that molded with his touch.

His lips slid to the point of her chin and lower, down the gentle slide of her throat to the neck of her T-shirt, then over it, his teeth lightly picking at the soft fabric until he reached the swell of her breasts. Her hands ran through his hair, and his hands ran over her body, as if to touch all of her at once, because if he did not, she might disappear with the sun that was just about to dip behind the trees. She arched to his touch, urging him on, every inch of her skin craving the feel of his hands, her breath coming in tiny bursts. Crossing her hands in front of her, she pulled the shirt over her head, and drew him back to her. She moaned as his mouth tasted and teased her waiting, eager skin, and she slid her hands up and down the smooth firmness of the muscles of his back. She could not get close enough to him, could not seem to get enough, of his mouth, his hands, his body.

“Ben, please,” she had whispered, and he had responded immediately to h
er
plea. She felt him inside her, felt the sweet, tortured rhythm mount between them, and followed where he led her until they had both reached the end and it crashed down around them like thunder.

Later, lying in his arms, she tried to remember how— and when—she had gotten out of her clothes, but she could not. She giggled, and he moved against her just slightly, as if afraid to put too much distance between them.

“I hope you’re not laughing at what I
hope
you’re not laughing at,” he muttered.

“I don’t know where my clothes are.” She laughed and nuzzled his throat with the side of her face. “We’re in my backyard, buck naked, and I don’t know where my clothes are.”

“You don’t need them yet,” he told her, running one hand up her back. “Unless you’re cold.”

“A little chilly, but not cold.” She lay flat back on the ground and looked above them to the sky. “The moon is out, Ben. Just a piece of it.”

“Mmmm,” he replied.

“It’s all silvery, you should see.” She poked at his back. “Turn over and look at it.”

“I can’t,” he sighed. “I couldn’t move if I wanted to.”

“Ben, sooner or later, you will have to move. I heard Wally’s car drive in.”

“When?”

“When you were just about to
…
well, it doesn’t matter when. The point is that he could very easily decide to stop in.”

“Won’t old Wally get a
surprise?” Ben murmured into
her ear.

“I think we should go in,” she said, having thought about the very real possibility of her next door neighbor peering over the gate and finding them entangled in each other. “Besides, I really would like to try out my new whirlpool.”

“You have a whirlpool?” He opened one eye.

“Well, I guess we know how to get your attention,
don’t we?”
She
traced his eyebrows with
her
index finger. “And yes,
I
have a whirlpool
.
It
was just hooked up
today.”

“Really?” He opened the other eye. “We should break it in, so to speak.”

“We have to go into the house to do that, Ben. And to go into the house, we need our clothes.”

“There’s always a catch, isn’t there?” he muttered. “Okay, I’ll help you find your clothes. I might even help you put them back on. But you better be thinking about this, Miss Enright. There are lots of great games to play in a whirlpool tub, and I know every one of them. So you might want to grab a bottle of something cold to drink as we pass through the kitchen, because a body can get mighty thirsty after a few hours in a whirlpool.”

“A few hours?” s
he asked.

He nodded slowly. “I told you, I know a lot of water games, sweetheart, and we’re going to play every one of them.”