skin was golden, silky smooth, warm to his palms, her eyes, mouth, her entire face lit up like a kid on her birthday. For a moment he longed to kiss her laughing mouth, tap into that simple pleasure in every moment well lived.
How had she managed that? Turned her life around from such tragedy to such joy?
Ben, wearing jeans so soft and thin with wear that the cloth had split under the strain to expose a glimpse of knee and thigh, was swinging a mallet to hammer posts into a shady patch of lawn. Ellie, bringing him coffee, paused for moment on the edge of the lawn to indulge herself in the pleasure of watching him.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asked, as he stopped, straightened, wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T- shirt and glanced at her, apparently sensing her presence despite the fact that she’d done nothing to attract his attention.
‘I think you’ve done quite enough for one day.’
‘Me? This was your idea.’
‘Of course it was. When I offered to run you to the garden centre for a bag of compost, it was my firm intention to return with a menagerie.’
‘We’re very grateful.’
‘We?’
‘Roger, Nigel and me.’ Then, ‘Actually, we all think you should get a dog. For yourself.’
‘The cat doesn’t have a say in this?’ He stopped her before she could answer, took the mug she was offering him, and said, ‘No dog.’ Then, ‘It’s possible I’ll be returning to Kirbeckistan in the near future.’
‘I’ll be here to take care of it.’ Then, ‘It’ll be here to take care of me.’
‘In other words
‘The house would like a dog.’
‘No dog.’
‘Okay,’ she said, turning away, walking back to the house.
‘I mean it, Ellie.’
She lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He was not reassured.
CHAPTER SIX
A SECOND batch of letters had arrived from the
Her column rambled over her impressions of the garden centre, described the small black rabbit and the honey-coloured guinea pig that had joined the family menagerie. How ‘Daddy’ had built a fox-proof house for them-with the hindrance of the children, who had been eager to help-and an extensive run on the shady side of the daisy-strewn lawn.
She drew little sketches of both rabbit and guinea pig, as well as her giant flowerpot overflowing with pansies. Under advice from Laura, she’d replanted the ones she’d dug up, trimmed off the lank growth and stood them in some semi-shade where, maybe, with a bit of luck, they’d eventually match her imagination.
Mrs Cochrane had offered reserved approval, said that a staff reporter was already working on a photo feature on the playhouses, and made it clear that next month she wanted
Ellie was a bit miffed about the feature, and as for food-well, for heaven’s sake, it was
Then, realistically, she decided that probably wasn’t going to work. Food didn’t happen in her life. She was going to have to make an effort. Maybe she could cook something for Ben. A special thank-you. There would be some point to that.
Enthused, she asked one of her clients-a serious cook-for advice. Armed with a menu and a shopping list, she shopped on the way home. Once there, she updated her diary, and then dug out her rejected book.
She’d been putting off sending it to the next name on her list. Was there any point? Maybe Ben was right. Instead of emulating her idols, maybe she should be writing what she knew. Feather-brained girl doing the unpleasant jobs that the well-heeled, the useless-that would be the men-or just plain desperate, were prepared to pay someone else to do.
Like that would sell, she thought. Then began to leaf back through her diary, reliving some of the blush-making incidents, the stuff that made her laugh out loud, the horrors.
Maybe there was something. Leaving it to stew in the back of her mind, she went out to take Roger and Nigel a carrot and a few dandelion leaves. Then, because in the war between the grass and the dandelions the dandelions were winning, she got out the ride-on mower. Ben had said to leave it, that he’d do it, but there was something about doing mindless, repetitive jobs that untangled her thoughts, made everything seem simpler.
And just lately things had become very complicated.
She’d been working for about twenty minutes when she turned and saw one of her complications walking round the corner of the house. He’d gone into the university first thing that morning, and for a moment she was transfixed by how utterly gorgeous he looked in a dark shirt, well-cut stone-coloured trousers, his hair flopping untidily over his forehead.
‘Stop!’
Belatedly realising that she was running out of lawn, she hunted for the brake with her foot, then, when she couldn’t find it, looked down.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
That was promising. The last time he’d asked that, Roger and Nigel had moved in. Maybe this was going to be a good day for some poor mutt who needed a home…
‘What’s up, Doc?’ she asked, as she finally managed to bring the thing to a halt before she cut a swathe through a bed filled with a riot of perennials.
Ben, who’d had to move sharply to avoid being mown down, ignored the Bugs Bunny routine and said, ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve just given me a very close demonstration of your lack of hand/eye co-ordination skills.’
She grinned up at him. ‘Aw, shucks. I never touched you.’
True. But somehow the way she said it made it a matter for regret rather than congratulation.
‘You’re a menace.’
‘Relax. I’m cutting grass, not driving round the ring-road. There’s no one to bump into-well, no one but you, and you’re pretty nifty on your feet when you see the danger coming.’
Not nearly nifty enough, he thought, or he wouldn’t be stuck with Ellie March and her growing menagerie as his own personal live-in torment.
‘What is your sport?’ she asked.
‘I really think you should leave this to me, Ellie,’ he replied, ignoring her attempt to change the subject.
‘I’ll bet it’s rugby. On the wing, right?’
‘Off the mower. Now.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ She sat back. ‘This is a “boy’s toy”.’ She gestured broadly at the machine she was sitting astride. ‘Girls are supposed to stick to the boring stuff, like sweeping up the bits of grass that get sprayed onto the path.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad used to be just the same. Kept all the good stuff to do himself, then wondered why we didn’t want to play.’ With that, she swung one leg high over the steering wheel, offering a heart-stopping display of leg, before sliding off the seat. ‘I’m nearly done, anyway. There’s just that bit down there by the treehouse.’
He looked in the direction of the old oak. ‘What treehouse? There was never a treehouse.’
‘Wasn’t there?’ Her face was flushed pink by the sun, but even so he could have sworn she blushed. ‘Well, there should have been. The way the branches spread out to make the perfect platform is just begging for one. I can’t believe your dad didn’t build you some kind of den up there when you were a kid.’
‘My father was in his fifties when I was born. Climbing trees was a bit beyond him by the time I was old enough to want such a thing.’
‘Oh, right. I didn’t think-’
