“This is important to my family.” She set the white pine carefully in the hole. “It's not the monetary value of the emeralds. It's what they meant to her.”
He watched her work, the competent and gentle hands, the surprisingly strong shoulders. The delicate curve of her neck. “How could you know what they meant to her?”
She kept her eyes down. “I can't explain that to you in any way you'd understand or accept.”
“Try me.”
“We all seem to have some kind of bond with her – especially Lilah.” She didn't look up when she heard him digging the next hole. “We'd never seen the emeralds, not even a photograph. After Bianca died, Fergus, my greatgrandfather, destroyed all pictures of her. But Lilah...she drew a sketch of them one night. It was after we'd had a seance.”
She did look up then and caught – his look of amused disbelief. “I know how it sounds,” she said, her voice stiff and defensive. “But my aunt believes in that sort of thing. And after that night, I think she may be right to. My youngest sister, C.C. had an...experience during the seance. She saw them – the emeralds. That's when Lilah drew the sketch. Weeks later, Lilah's fiance found a picture of the emeralds in a library book. They were exactly as Lilah had drawn them, exactly as C.C. had seen them.”
He said nothing for a moment as he set the next tree in place. “I'm not much on mysticism. Maybe one of your sisters saw the picture before, and had forgotten about it.”
“If any of us had seen a picture, we wouldn't have forgotten. Still, the point is that all of us feel that finding the emeralds is important.”
“They might have been sold eighty years ago.”
“No. There was no record. Fergus was a maniac about keeping his finances.” Unconsciously she arched her back, rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache. “Believe me, we've been through every scrap of paper we could find.”
He let it drop, mulling it over as they planted the last of the trees.
“You know the bit about the needle in the haystack?” he asked as he helped her spread mulch. “People don't really find it.”
“They would if they kept looking.” Curious, she sat back on her heels to study him. “Don't you believe in hope?”
He was close enough to touch her, to rub the smudge of dirt from her cheek or run a hand down the ponytail. He did neither. “No, only in what is.”
“Then I'm sorry for you.” They rose together, their bodies nearly brushing. She felt something rush along her skin, something race through her blood, and automatically stepped back. “If you don't believe in what could be, there isn't any use in planting trees, or having children or even watching the sun set.”
He'd felt it, too. And resented and feared it every bit as much as she. “If you don't keep your eye on what's real, right now, you end up dreaming your life away. I don't believe in the necklace, Suzanna, or in ghosts, or in eternal love. But if and when I'm certain that my grandfather was involved with Bianca Calhoun, I'll do what I can to help you.”
She gave a half laugh. “You don't believe in hope or love, or anything else apparently. Why would you agree to help us?”
“Because if he did love her, he would have wanted me to.” Bending, he picked up the shovel and handed it back to her. “I've got things to do.”
Chapter Three
Suzanna pulled up to the shop, pleased that she had to squeeze between a station wagon and a hatchback in the graveled parking area. There were a few people wandering around the flats of annuals, and a young couple deliberating over the climbing roses. A woman, hugely pregnant, strolled about, carrying a tray of mixed pots. The toddler by her side held a single geranium like a flag.
Inside, Carolanne was ringing up a sale and flirting with the young man who held a ceramic urn of pink double begonias. “Your mother will love them,” she said, and swept her long lashes over doe – colored eyes. “There's nothing like flowers for a birthday. Or anytime. We're having a special on carnations.” She smiled and tossed her long, curling brown hair. “If you have a girlfriend.”
“Well, no...” He cleared his throat. “Not really. Right now.”
“Oh.” Her smile warmed several degrees. “That's too bad.” She gave him his change and a long look. “Come back anytime. I'm usually here.”
“Sure. Thanks.” He shot a glance over his shoulder, trying to keep her in sight, and nearly ran over Suzanna. “Oh. Sorry.”
“That's all right. I hope your mother enjoys them.” Chuckling, she joined the pert brunette at the cash register. “You're amazing.”
“Wasn't he cute? I love it when they blush. Well.” She turned her smile on Suzanna. “You're back early.”
“It didn't take as long as I thought.” She didn't feel it was necessary to add she'd had unexpected and unwanted help. Carolanne was a hard worker, a skilled salesperson, and an inveterate gossip. “How are things here?”
“Moving along. All this sunshine must be inspiring people to beef up their gardens. Oh, Mrs. Russ was back. She liked the primroses so much, she made her husband build her another window box so she could buy more. Since she was in the mood, I sold her two hibiscus – and two of those terracotta pots to put them in.”
“I love you. Mrs. Russ loves you, and Mr. Russ is going to learn to hate you.” At Carolanne's laugh, Suzanna looked out through the glass. “I'll go and see if I can help those people decide which roses they want.”
“The new Mr. and Mrs. Halley. They both wait tables over at Captain Jack's, and just bought a cottage. He's studying to be an engineer, and she's going to start teaching at the elementary school in September.”
Shaking her head, Suzanna laughed. “Like I said, you're amazing.”
“No, just nosy.” Carolanne grinned. “Besides, people buy more if you talk to them. And boy, do I love to talk.”
“If you didn't, I'd have to close up shop.”
“You'd just work twice as hard, if that's possible.” She waved a hand before Suzanna could protest. “Before you go, I asked around to see if anyone needed any part – time work.” Carolanne lifted her hands. “No luck yet.”
It wasn't any use moaning, Suzanna thought. “This late in the season, everyone's already working.”
“If Tommy the creep Parotti hadn't jumped ship –”
“Honey, he had a chance to make a break and do something he's always wanted to do. We can't blame him for that.”
“You can't,” Carolanne muttered. “Suzanna, you can't keep doing all the site work yourself. It's too hard.”
“We're getting by,” she said absently, thinking of the help she'd had that day. “Listen, Carolanne, after we deal with these customers, I have another delivery to make. Can you handle things until closing?”
“Sure.” Carolanne let out a sigh. “I'm the one with a stool and a fan, you're the one with the pick and the shovel.”
“Just keep pushing the carnations.”
An hour later, Suzanna pulled up at Holt's cottage. It wasn't just impulse, she told herself. And it wasn't because she wanted to pressure him. Lecturing herself, she climbed out of the truck. It certainly wasn't because she wanted his company. But she was a Calhoun, and Calhouns always paid their debts.
She walked up the steps to the porch, again thinking it was a charming place. A few touches – morning glories climbing up the railing, a bed of columbine and larkspur, with some snapdragons and lavender.
Day lilies along that slope, she thought as she knocked. A border of impatiens. Miniature roses under the windows. And there, where the ground was rocky and uneven, a little herb bed, set off with spring bulbs.
It could be a fairy–tale place – but the man who lived there didn't believe in fairy tales.
