of the bath, through the boys' room and into the sitting room across the hall, where she'd hoped her sons could spend the twenty minutes it took her to get dressed companion-ably watching cartoons.
Foolish woman, she thought. Foolish, foolish woman.
Gavin looked up from his sprawl on the floor when she came in. His face was the picture of innocence under his mop of sunny hair.
Haircuts next week, she decided, and noted it in her mental files.
He held a Matchbox car and was absently spinning its wheels while cartoons rampaged on the screen. There were several other cars piled up, lying on their sides or backs as if there'd been a horrendous
traffic accident. Unfortunately the miniature ambulance and police car appeared to have had a nasty head-on collision.
Help was not on the way.
'Mom, your face looks crooked.'
'Yes, I know. Gavin, I want you to stop it.'
'I'm not doing anything.'
She felt, actually felt, the sharp edges of the shrill scream razor up her throat. Choke it back, she
ordered herself. Choke it back. She would
at her.
'Maybe you'd like to not do anything in your room, alone, for the rest of the evening.'
'I wasn't—'
'Gavin!' She cut off the denial before it dragged that scream out of her throat. Instead her voice was
full of weight and aggravation. 'Don't look at your brother. Don't hiss at your brother. You know it annoys him, which is exactly why you do it, and I want you to stop.'
Innocence turned into a scowl as Gavin rammed the last car into the tangle of disabled vehicles. 'How come I always get in trouble?'
'Yes, how come?' Stella shot back, with equal exasperation.
'He's just being a baby.'
'I'm not a baby. You're a dickhead.'
'Luke!' Torn between laughter and shock, Stella rounded on Luke. 'Where did you hear that word?'
'Somewhere. Is it a swear?'
'Yes, and I don't want you to say it again.' Even when it's apt, she thought as she caught Gavin making the face.
'Gavin, I can cancel my plans for this evening. Would you like me to do that, and stay home?' She
spoke in calm, almost sweet tones. 'We can spend your play hour cleaning your room.'
'No.' Outgunned, he poked at the pileup. 'I won't look at him anymore.'
'Then if it's all right with you, I'll go finish getting ready.'
She heard Luke whisper, 'What's a dickhead?' to Gavin as she walked out. Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she kept going.
* * *
'They're at each other tonight, ' Stella warned Roz.
'Wouldn't be brothers if they weren't at each other now and then.' She looked over to where the boys, the dog, and Hayley romped in the yard. 'They seem all right now.'
'It's brewing, under the surface, like a volcano. One of them's just waiting for the right moment to
spew over the other.'
'We'll see if we can distract them. If not, and they get out of hand, I'll just chain them six separate corners until you get back. I kept the shackles I used on my boys. Sentimental.'
Stella laughed, and felt completely reassured. 'Okay. But you'll call me if they decide to be horrible
brats. I'll be home in time to put them to bed.'
'Go, enjoy yourself. And if you're not back, we can manage it.'
'You make it too easy,' Stella told her.
'No need for it to be hard. You know how to get there now?'
'Yes. That's the easy part.'
She got in her car, gave a little toot of the horn and a wave. They'd be fine, she thought, watching in the rearview as her boys tumbled onto the ground with Parker. She couldn't have driven away if she wasn't sure of that.
It was tougher to be sure she'd be fine.
She could enjoy the drive. The early-spring breeze sang through the windows to play across her face. Tender green leaves hazed the trees, and the redbuds and wild dogwoods teased out blooms to add flashes of color.
She drove past the nursery and felt the quick zip of pride and satisfaction because she was a part of it now.
Spring had come to Tennessee, and she was here to experience it. With her windows down and the wind streaming over her, she thought she could smell the river. Just a hint of something great and powerful, contrasting with the sweet perfume of magnolia.
Contrasts, she supposed, were the order of the day now. The dreamy elegance and underlying strength
of the place that was now her home, the warm air that beat the calendar to spring while the world she'd left behind still shoveled snow.
Herself, a careful, practical-natured woman driving to the bed of a man she didn't fully understand.
Nothing seemed completely aligned any longer. Blue dahlias, she decided. Her life, like her dreams, had big blue dahlias cropping up to change the design.
For tonight at least, she was going to let it bloom.
She followed the curve of the road, occupying her mind with how they would handle the weekend rush
at the nursery.
Though 'rush,' she admitted, wasn't precisely the word. No one, staff or customer, seemed to rush—unless she counted herself.
They came, they meandered, browsed, conversed, ambled some more. They were served, with unhurried gracious-ness and a lot more conversation.
The slower pace sometimes made her want to grab something and just get the job done. But the fact that it often took twice as long to ring up an order than it should—in her opinion—didn't bother anyone.
She had to remind herself that part of her duties as manager was to blend efficiency with the culture of the business she managed.
One more contrast.
In any case, the work schedule she'd set would ensure that there were enough hands and feet to serve
the customers. She and Roz had already poured another dozen concrete planters, and would dress
them tomorrow. She could have Hayley do a few. The girl had a good eye.
Her father and Jolene were going to take the boys on Saturday, and that she couldn't feel guilty about,
as all involved were thrilled with the arrangement.
She needed to check on the supply of plastic trays and carrying boxes, oh, and take a look at the field plants, and...
Her thoughts trailed off when she saw the house. She couldn't say what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this.
It was gorgeous.
A little run-down, perhaps, a little tired around the edges, but beautiful. Bursting with potential.
Two stories of silvered cedar stood on a terraced rise, the weathered wood broken by generous windows. On the wide, covered- porch—she supposed it might be called a veranda—were an old rocker, a porch swing, a high- backed bench. Pots and baskets of flowers were arranged among them.
On the side, a deck jutted out, and she could see a short span of steps leading from it to a pretty patio.
More chairs there, more pots—oh, she was falling in love—then the land took over again and spread out to a lovely grove of trees.
He was doing shrubberies in the terraces—Japanese andromeda with its urn-shaped flowers already in bud,
