The Second Promise. Joan KilbyЧитать онлайн книгу.
taking this tree out. Do you use the bungalow?”
“It’s my workshop.” Will opened the door and flicked on the light.
Maeve stepped into the room. The wide wooden benches lining the walls were scattered with voltmeters, coiled wire, batteries and plastic casings, plus odds and ends she couldn’t identify. “You don’t get enough of electronics at your factory?”
“I like to tinker.”
Turning to go, Maeve saw propped against the back wall behind the door a bright-yellow surfboard. A wet suit hung from a hook next to it. She had a sudden image of sun-sparkled water and Will riding the crest of a wave in a perfectly balanced crouch, his lean-muscled body sleek against a brilliant blue sky. “Do you do much surfing?”
Will ran a loving hand along the top curve of the surfboard. “When I was younger I almost turned pro.”
“Really? What made you choose engineering, instead?”
“I quit school when I was sixteen. Spent my nights working in a convenience store and my days at the beach. I’d sit out there for hours every day, waiting for the perfect wave, and all the while my mind would be ticking over, thinking about things.”
“Hopes? Dreams?” she asked. “Relationships?”
He flashed her a bemused glance. “Practical things. Physical things. How things work, like the thermostat in a cooling system or the electronics of a car. I had ideas for inventions, things I could build myself.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in his workshop and the projects under way. “With my limited knowledge I could only get so far…so I went back to high school and then on to university.”
She had to admire someone with that much drive and ambition. “It’s wonderful to be able to work at something you love.”
“Yeah… It’s good, but the business side of it…I don’t know. More headaches than it’s worth sometimes.” He broke off with a shake of his head. “You’re not interested in all this.”
“Yes, I am,” she said seriously. “I’m interested in everything about you.” She blushed, realizing how he might take that remark. “I mean—”
“Please don’t spoil it by explaining.” He smiled widely.
Bingo. One dimple, on the right side of his mouth. Great grin, warm and teasing. Some woman was going to be very lucky….
Maeve moved across to the Monterey Bay fig tree. Its broad limbs and glossy dark leaves gave welcome shade to that half of the yard. Stepping over the high, ridged roots, she ran a hand caressingly over a thick smooth limb. “This would be a perfect place for a swing,” she suggested idly, pulling her pencil from behind her ear to make a note on her clipboard.
“Or a tree fort.” His gaze was lost in the soaring tangle of greenery. She couldn’t see his expression, but she heard the wistful note in his voice.
Every once in a while clients came along who subconsciously communicated an inner need or a desire for something more from their garden than simply a place to relax and entertain. Such clients, and the gardens Maeve created as an expression of their inner selves, demanded her greatest intuitive and interpretative skills. Yet they were also the most rewarding.
Looking at Will Beaumont, successful owner of his own electronics manufacturing company, she wouldn’t have thought him the type to need her special gifts. But the tingling in her nerve endings as her gaze went from the neglected grounds to his pensive blue eyes suggested Will might be just such a client.
“Do you plan on having kids?” she asked, suppressing the inevitable ache she felt when she talked about children. Ordinarily, she didn’t initiate such conversations, but she had a job to do.
His eyes lit. “Absolutely. I love kids.”
Maeve walked on quickly. From her perspective, his enthusiasm seemed painfully innocent.
“Do you have children?” he asked, falling into step.
She shook her head, stumbling on a tuft of grass. Not anymore. Never again. She said nothing. Any answer she gave would only lead to questions she’d spent the past five years avoiding.
They’d come full circle, and once again stood where the grass ended at the asphalt driveway. “If you’re going to have kids, you’ll want to fence off the backyard,” Maeve suggested briskly.
“True,” Will agreed, watching her. “Do you want some water? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” She flipped through her clipboard to a plastic sheet encasing business cards, extracted one and handed it to him. “This fellow does specialty wrought-iron fencing for me. Since a wedding is in your future plans, we could do something appropriate for the occasion—a kissing gate. I know they’re a little old-fashioned, but they’re very romantic.”
“A kissing gate? I’ve never heard of that.” His dimple reappeared. “You’ll have to show me how to use it.”
She plucked the card from his fingers and slid it back into its slot. “That will be a job for the future Mrs. Beaumont.”
“The position is vacant,” he teased. “All comers considered.”
For Maeve, flirting was more bittersweet than fun when there could be no future in it. She smiled and changed the subject. “Shall I draw up a plan and prepare a price estimate to rejuvenate your garden?”
His humorous gaze turned assessing. Then, abruptly, he started toward the patio. “Come inside. I’ll give you my card with a number where you can contact me during the day.”
Shade cloth and bougainvillea cooled the slate-floored patio. Cushioned chairs were set around a redgum table. Nice spot, Maeve thought. Add a few large pot plants, maybe a staghorn fern hanging from the wall, and it would be even more inviting.
She followed him through a terra-cotta-tiled family room adjoining the kitchen, to a study off the dining room. His briefcase sat open on a chair, and business documents were spread out on the desk, along with his wallet and car keys.
Maeve’s gaze automatically gravitated to the papers he’d been working on. She just had time to notice a financial consultant’s report on Aussie Electronics before Will shuffled the documents together, placed them inside the briefcase and shut the lid.
“Top secret, huh?” she said, wondering at the sudden frown that flattened the arch in his eyebrows.
“Just business.” He snapped the locks shut and spun the dials. Then he handed her a card from his wallet. “You can reach me on this number during the day and on my cell phone anytime.”
Maeve slipped the card into one of the pockets of her cargo pants. In turn, she gave him one of her own.
“‘Maeve Arden,”’ he read. “Your last name is different from Art’s. Are you married?”
“I was. I divorced five years ago.” Her split-up with Graham had been less rancorous than sad. Grief over Kristy had overwhelmed other disappointments and left Maeve with a lingering sense of unfinished business.
“Dad will be pleased to know I’m working for you,” she said. “If you decide to use my services, that is.” Already she wanted this job; Will’s garden was ripe with possibilities and rife with unfulfilled dreams. She didn’t know exactly how she knew that; she simply accepted that she did. She’d learned not to analyze the source of her intuition, for fear of stifling the flow.
“If I weren’t so busy at work I’d have gotten several quotes, but personal recommendations go a long way with me. If I like what you propose, I’ll probably go with that.”
She met his eyes. “You won’t regret it.”
“If you’re your father’s daughter, I’m sure I won’t. Art is the best foreman I’ve ever had.” He led the way back through the house to the