Читать книгу The Australian Affairs Collection - Margaret Way - Страница 55

CHAPTER FIVE

DECLAN LOCATED THE keys to both the shed and the apartment without too much difficulty. But the tags attached to them were labelled in Lisa’s handwriting and it took him a long moment before he could bear to pick them up. He took some comfort that she would be pleased they were at last being put to use.

Before he took the keys out to Shelley, he first detoured by the front porch and grabbed her leather tool bag from where she had left it. He uttered a short, sharp curse it was so heavy. Yet she had carried it as effortlessly as if it were packed with cotton wool. No wonder her arms were so toned.

He lugged it around to the back garden.

No Shelley.

Had she been put off by the magnitude of the task that faced her and taken off? Her old 4x4 was parked on the driveway around the side of the house and he might not have heard it leave. He felt stabbed by a shard of unexpected disappointment at the thought he might not see her again. He would miss her presence in his garden, in his life.

Then he saw sense and realised there was no way she would leave her tool bag behind.

He soon caught sight of her—and exhaled a sigh of relief he hoped she didn’t hear.

His warrior-woman gardener had hopped over the wall and jumped down into the metre-deep empty pond that surrounded the out-of-commission fountain. There she was tramping around it, muttering under her breath, her expression critical and a tad disgusted as though she had encountered something very nasty. Her expression forced from him a reluctant smile. In her own mildly eccentric way, she was very entertaining.

For the first time, Declan felt a twinge of shame that he had let the garden get into such a mess. The previous owner had been ill for a long time but had stubbornly insisted on staying on in her house. Both money and enthusiasm for maintenance had dwindled by the time she had passed away. When he and Lisa had moved in, he had organised to get the lawns mowed regularly. But even he, a total horticultural ignoramus, had known that wasn’t enough.

In fact he had mentioned to his wife a few times that maybe they should get cracking on the garden. Her reply had always been she wanted it to be perfect—compromise had never been the answer for Lisa—and she needed to concentrate on the house first.

Her shockingly unexpected death had thrown him into such grief and despair he hadn’t cared if the garden had lived or died. He hadn’t cared if he had lived or died. But now, even from the depths of his frozen heart, he knew that Lisa would not have been happy at how he had neglected the garden she had had such plans for.

Grudgingly he conceded that maybe it was a good thing the neighbours had intervened. And a happy chance that Shelley Fairhill had come knocking on his door.

Not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

She looked up as he approached, her face lit by the open sunny smile that seemed to be totally without agenda. Early on in his time as a wealthy widower he had encountered too many smiles of the other kind—greedy, calculating, seductive. It was one of the reasons he had locked himself away in self-imposed exile. He did not want to date, get involved, marry again—and no one could convince him otherwise no matter the enticement.

‘Come on in, the water’s fine,’ Shelley called with her softly chiming laugh.

Declan looked down to see the inch or so of dirty water that had gathered in one corner of the stained and pitted concrete pond. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ he said with a grimace he couldn’t hide.

He intended to stand aloof and discuss the state of the pond in a professional employer-employee manner. But, bemused at his own action, he found himself jumping down into the empty pond to join her.

‘Watch your nice boots,’ she warned. The concrete bottom of the pond was discoloured with black mould and the dark green of long-ago-dried-out algae.

Declan took her advice and moved away from a particularly grungy area. The few steps brought him closer to her. Too close. He became disconcertingly aware of her scent—a soft, sweet floral at odds with the masculine way she dressed. He took a rapid step back. Too bad about his designer boots. He would order another pair online from Italy.

If she noticed his retreat from her proximity Shelley didn’t show it. She didn’t shift from her stance near the sludgy puddle. ‘How long has this water been here?’ she asked.

‘There was rain yesterday,’ he said, arms crossed.

Sometimes he would go for days without leaving the temperature-controlled environment of his house, unaware of what the weather might be outside. But yesterday he’d heard rain drumming on the slate tiles of the roof as he’d made his way to his bedroom in the turret some time during the early hours of the morning.

Shelley kicked the nearest corner of the pond with her boot. Her ugly, totally unfeminine boot. ‘The reason I ask is I’m trying to gauge the rate of leakage,’ she said. ‘There are no visible cracks. But there could be other reasons the pond might not be holding water. Subsidence caused by year after year of alternate heating and cooling in the extremes of weather. Maybe even an earth tremor. Or just plain age.’

She looked up to him as if expecting a comment. How in hell would he know the answer?

‘You seem to know your stuff,’ he said.

‘Guesswork really,’ she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders, broad for a woman but slender and graceful.

‘So what’s the verdict?’ he asked.

‘Bad—but maybe not as bad as it could be if it’s still holding water from yesterday. Expensive to fix.’

‘How expensive?’

He thought about what she’d said about a fountain bringing movement to a garden. The concept as presented by Shelley appealed to him, when first pleas and then demands from the neighbours to do something about the garden never had.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘We might have to call in a pool expert. Seems to me it’s very old. How old is the house?’

‘It was built in 1917.’

Thoughtfully, she nodded her head. ‘The fountain is old, but I don’t think it’s that old. I was poking around the garden while you were inside. It has the hallmarks of one designed around the 1930s or 40s. I’d say it was inspired by the designs of Enid Wilson.’

‘Never heard of her.’

Gardening had never been on his agenda. Until now. Until this warrior had stormed into his life.

‘Enid Wilson is probably Australia’s most famous landscape designer. She designed gardens mainly in Victoria starting in the 1920s and worked right up until she died in the1970s. I got to know about her in Melbourne, although she did design gardens in New South Wales, too.’

‘Really,’ he drawled.

She’d asked him to tell her to button up if she rabbited on. Truth was, he kind of liked her mini lectures. There was something irresistible about her passion for her subject, the way her nutmeg eyes lit with enthusiasm. She was so vibrant.

She pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘Sorry. That was probably more than you ever wanted to know. About Enid Wilson, I mean. I did a dissertation on her at uni. This garden is definitely based on her style—she had many imitators. Maybe the concrete in the pond dates back to the time it was fashionable to have that style of garden.’

‘So what are your thoughts about the pond? Detonate?’ he said.

‘No way!’ she said, alarmed. Then looked into his face. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘I’m kidding you,’ he said. His attempts at humour were probably rusty with disuse.

‘Don’t scare me like that,’ she admonished. ‘I’m sure the fountain can be restored. It will need a new pump and plumbing. I don’t know how to fix the concrete though. Plaster? Resin? A pond liner? Whatever is done, we’d want to preserve the sandstone wall around it.’

He looked at the fountain and its surrounds through narrowed eyes. ‘Is it worth repairing?’ Could anything so damaged ever come back to life to be as good as new? Anything as damaged as a heart?

‘I think so,’ she said.

‘Would it be more cost-effective to replace it with something new?’ he asked.

She frowned. ‘You mean a reproduction? Maybe. Maybe not. But the fountain is the focal point of the garden. The sandstone edging is the same as the walls in the rest of the garden.’

‘So it becomes a visual link,’ he said. He was used to thinking in images. He could connect with her on that.

She looked at the faded splendour of the fountain with such longing it moved him. ‘It would be such a shame not to try and fix it. I hate to see something old and beautiful go to waste,’ she said. ‘Something that could still bring pleasure to the eye, to the soul.’

He would not like to be the person who extinguished that light in her eyes. Yet he did not want to get too involved, either. He scuffed his boot on the gravel that surrounded the pond. ‘Okay. So we’ll aim for restoration.’

‘Thank you!’ Those nutmeg eyes lit up. For a terrifying moment he thought she would hug him. He kept his arms rigidly by his sides. Took a few steps so the backs of his thighs pressed against the concrete of the pond wall.

He hadn’t touched another woman near his own age since that nightmare day he’d lost Lisa. Numb with pain and a raging disbelief, he’d accepted the hugs of the kind nursing staff at the hospital. He’d stood stiffly while his mother had attempted to give comfort—way, way too late in his life for him to accept. The only person he’d willingly hugged was Jeannie—his former nanny, who had been more parent to him than the mother and father he’d been born to. Jeannie had held him while he had sobbed great, racking sobs that had expelled all hope in his life as he’d realised he had lost Lisa and the child he had wanted so much and his life ever after would be irretrievably bleak.

He wasn’t about to start hugging now. Especially with this woman who had kick-started his creative fantasies awake from deep dormancy. Whom he found so endearing in spite of his best efforts to stay aloof.

‘Don’t expect me to be involved. It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘I trust you to get it right.’

‘I understand,’ she said, her eyes still warm.

Did she? Could she? Declan had spent the last two years in virtual seclusion. He did not welcome the idea of tradespeople intruding on his privacy. Only her. And yet if he started something he liked to see it finished. When it was in his control, that was. Not like the deaths he’d been powerless to prevent that had changed his life irrevocably.

‘Call in the pool people,’ he said gruffly. ‘But it’s your responsibility to keep them out of my hair. I don’t want people tramping all over the place.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘Though harnesses and whips might not be welcomed by pool guys. Or other maintenance workers we might have to call in.’

He released another reluctant smile in response to hers. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way to charm them into submission.’

As she’d charmed her way into what his mother called Fortress Declan. He realised he had smiled more since he’d met her than he had in a long, long time.

She laughed. ‘I’ll certainly let them know who’s boss,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve had to fight to be taken seriously in this business. If anyone dares crack a blonde joke, they’ll be out of here so fast they won’t know what hit them.’

He would believe that. A warrior woman. In charge.

He clambered out of the empty pond. Thought about offering Shelley a hand. Thought again. He did not trust himself to touch her.

Turned out he wasn’t needed. He’d scarcely completed the thought before agile Shelley effortlessly swung herself out of the pond with all the strength of an athlete. He suspected she wasn’t the type of woman who would ever need to lean on a man. Yet at the same time she aroused his protective instincts.

‘Are we sorted?’ he said brusquely. ‘You deal with the pond. I’ve got work to do.’

He actually didn’t have anything that couldn’t be put off until the evening. But he didn’t want to spend too much time with this woman. Didn’t want to find himself looking forward to her visits here. He’d set an alarm clock this morning so he wouldn’t miss her. That couldn’t happen again.

He pulled out the keys from his pocket. ‘I’ll open the shed for you. Then I’m disappearing inside.’

To stay locked away from that sweet flowery scent and the laughter in her eyes.

* * *

Like much of this property outside the house, the shed was threatening to fall down. Declan found the lock was rusty from disuse and it took a few attempts with the key before he was able to ease the bolt back from the door of the shed.

Unsurprisingly, the shed was a mess. It was lined with benches and shelves and stacked with tools of varying sizes and in various states of repair. Stained old tins and bottles and garden pots that should have been disposed of long ago cluttered the floor. The corners and the edges of the windows were festooned in spider webs and he swore he heard things scuttling into corners as he and Shelley took tentative steps inside.

Typically, she saw beyond the mess. ‘Oh, my gosh, it’s a real old-fashioned gardener’s shed with potting benches and everything,’ she exclaimed. ‘Who has room for one of these in a suburban garden these days? I love it!’

She took off her hat and squashed it into the pocket of her khaki trousers. That mass of honey-blond hair was twined into plaits and bunched up onto her head; stray wisps feathered down the back of her long, graceful neck. The morning sunlight shafting through the dusty windows made it shine like gold in the dark recesses of the shed.

An errant strand came loose from its constraints and fell across her forehead. Declan jammed both hands firmly in the pockets of his jeans lest he gave into the urge to gently push it back into place.

He ached to see how her hair would look falling to her waist. Would it be considered sexual harassment of an employee if he asked her to let it down so he could sketch its glorious mass? He decided it would. And he did not want to scare her off. She stepped further into the shed, intent on exploration.

‘Watch out for spiders,’ he warned.

In his experience, most women squealed at even the thought of a spider. Sydney was home to both the deadly funnel web and the vicious redback—he would not be surprised if they had taken up abode in the shed.

Shelley turned to face him. ‘I’m not bothered by spiders,’ she said.

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ he muttered.

‘I’d never be a gardener if I got freaked out by an itty-bitty spider,’ she said in that calm way she had of explaining things.

‘What about a great big spider?’ There was something about her that made him unable to resist the impulse to tease her. But she didn’t take it as teasing.

‘I’m still a heck of a lot bigger than the biggest spider,’ she said very seriously.

Was it bravado or genuine lack of fear?

‘Point taken,’ he said. He looked at her big boots that could no doubt put an aggressive spider well and truly in its place.

‘Snakes, now...’ she said, her eyes widening, pupils huge in the gloom of the shed. ‘They’re a different matter. I grew up on a property out near Lithgow, west of the mountains. We’d often see them. I’d be out riding my horse and we’d jump over them.’ She shuddered. ‘Never got used to them, though.’

‘Have you always been so brave and fearless?’ he asked.

‘Is that how I appear to you?’ she asked. ‘If so, I’m flattered. Maybe I do a good job of hiding my fears—and snakes are one of them.’

‘Not too many snakes in Darling Point,’ he said, wondering about her other fears.

‘I hope not, it’s so close to the city,’ she said. ‘Though I’ll still approach the undergrowth outside with caution. I’ve been surprised by red-bellied black snakes in north shore gardens.’

Could the fantasy warrior woman forming in his imagination vanquish snakes under foot? Or evil-doers in the guise of snakes? Hordes of alien shape-shifter spiders? No. This new princess warrior would be more defender than attacker. Saving rather than destroying. But would that make the character interesting to the adolescent boys who were his main market?

He realised how much he’d changed since he’d created the assassin Alana with her deadly bow and arrow. Then he’d been angry at the world with all the angst of a boy who’d been told too often that he’d been unplanned, unwanted. His parents had been surprised by his mother’s pregnancy. He’d been told so often he’d been ‘an accident’ but the sting of the words never diminished, never lessened the kick-in-the-gut feeling it gave him. Destruction, death even, had been part of the games he’d created with so much success.

Now he’d suffered the irreversible consequence of death in real life rather than in a fantasy online world where characters could pick themselves up to fight again. He could never again see death as a game.

Shelley reached into her tool bag and pulled out a pair of thick leather gauntlet gloves. ‘I dare a spider to sink its fangs through these,’ she challenged.

‘I hope they don’t get close enough for that to happen,’ he said.

Gloves. There was something very sensual about gloves. Not the tough utilitarian gardening gloves Shelley was pulling onto her hands. No. Slinky, tight elbow-length gloves that showed off the sleek musculature of strong feminine arms, the elegance of long fingers. He itched to get back to his study and sketch her arms. Not Shelley’s arms. Of course not. He could not go there. The arms of fictional warrior Princess As Yet Unnamed—he gave himself permission to sketch hers.

‘There’s a treasure trove in here,’ Shelley exclaimed in delight as she poked through corners of the shed that had obviously been left undisturbed for years.

He had to smile at a woman who got excited at a collection of old garden implements. You’d think they were diamond-studded bracelets the way she was reacting. It was refreshing. Shelley was refreshing. He had never met anyone like her.

‘Looks like a bunch of rusty old tools to me,’ he said.

A motley collection of old garden implements was leaning against the wall. She knocked off the dust and cobwebs from a wooden-handled spade before she picked it up and held it out for him to examine.

‘This is vintage,’ she said. ‘Hand forged and crafted with skill. Made to last for generations. It’s a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. Valuable too. You’d be surprised what you could sell this for. Not that you probably need the money.’ She flushed pink on her high cheekbones. ‘Sorry. That just slipped out.’

‘You’re right. I don’t need the money.’

He had accumulated more money than he knew how to spend and yet it kept on rolling into his bank accounts. He didn’t actually need to work ever again. Did his private work for little recompense. The odd hours his work entailed were something to keep the darkness at bay. Since Lisa and their baby had died he had suffered badly from insomnia. Sleep brought nightmares where he was powerless to save his wife and daughter. Where he tortured himself with endless ‘if onlys’ repeated on a never-breaking loop.

‘What do you plan to do with these tools?’ he said.

She brandished the shovel. ‘Use them, of course. Though they’ll need cleaning and polishing first.’ She looked up. ‘I’ll do that on my own time,’ she added.

He liked her honesty. Doubted that Shelley would charge him for five minutes that she wasn’t working.

‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘Count restoring these heirloom tools as part of your work here.’

Heirloom? Where did that word come from to describe decrepit garden implements? Was it an attempt to please her?

He so nearly added: I’ll come down and help you with them. But he drew the words back into his mouth before there was a chance of them being uttered. There would be no cosy sessions down in this shed, cleaning up tools, chatting, getting to know each other.

Shelley was his gardener. And, unwittingly, his muse. That was all she could ever be to him. No matter how he was beginning to wish otherwise. That was all any woman, no matter how lovely or how endearing, could be.

* * *

Shelley cautiously let herself into the apartment attached to the back of the house with the key Declan had given her. Even though she had his permission, she felt like an intruder. She sucked in a breath of surprise when she got inside. The apartment was more generous in size than she had imagined. Heck, the shed here was bigger than the apartment where she lived. This appeared positively palatial by comparison.

The decoration seemed brand-new—stylish in neutral tones with polished wooden floorboards and simple, timeless furnishings in whitewashed timber and natural fabrics. It was posh for staff quarters—which was what she assumed the apartment was.

Had anyone ever lived here since it had been renovated?

She’d taken off her boots at the door. On feet encased in tough woollen work socks, she tiptoed through the rooms: a living room furnished with a stylish, comfortable-looking sofa and a big flat-screen television set; a dining area; a smart, compact kitchen; a bedroom with a large bed and an elegant quilt; a small, immaculate bathroom. It was the most upscale granny flat she’d seen—it wouldn’t be out of place on the pages of a design magazine. There was a door at the end of the kitchen she thought might be a pantry. But it was locked and she realised it must be the door into the house. That made sense for staff quarters.

Shelley trailed her hand along the edge of the sofa and wondered about Lisa, Declan’s late wife. She must have been a nice person to go to so much trouble to decorate this apartment for a housekeeper. She herself had been in too many grotty staff facilities to know the difference.

Her heart contracted inside her at the thought of the tragedy that had played out in this house. Lisa had had her whole life ahead of her, everything to look forward to. And Declan. How could he ever get over it?

She herself had trust issues. Would find it difficult to ever trust a man enough to love again. But loss on this scale was unimaginable. Could Declan ever let himself trust in a future again?

Subdued by the thought, she once again reminded herself how lightly she would have to tread around this man. And that she must not—repeat not—let herself be attracted to him for even a second. She sensed giving into that would lead to heartbreak the like of which she had never even imagined.