Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Moonlight

“You got your son,” she said.

“Yeah.” Pride colored his booming baritone-pride that he’d never felt for her. Or with her. “Almost nine pounds. Twenty-two inches.”

“He’ll be playing football before you know it.”

“Yeah, in fact-”

“I hope Livie’s okay, and I’m happy you’ve got a son, Ed.” She hung up, plunking down the receiver before he had a chance to continue the conversation.

For a second she had the oddest trouble catching her breath. The east window was open, letting in cool, rain-freshed air. Outside, nothing stirred in the pre-dawn light. Even the bugs were still snoozing. The sky was paler than smoke, the sunrise nothing more than a promise this early, but last night’s violent storm had completely washed away.

Remembering the storm made her also remember how soundly she’d been dreaming until the telephone call. The dream pictures were still vivid in her mind…images of tumultuous kisses from a Scotsman named Lachlan, backdropped by Scottish lakes and moors and mist, her running naked and uninhibited through a moss-carpeted forest and Lachlan catching her.

The call from her ex-husband had certainly wilted that dream.

She pushed away the sheet and stood up, not awake yet-or wanting to be-but knowing she didn’t have a prayer of going back to sleep. Not after that call. She tiptoed around the room, gathering clothes, not turning on a light, not wanting to wake Cameron down the hall.

It wasn’t hard to navigate, even in the darkness. Unlike the rest of the house, which she’d jam-packed with girl stuff, she’d redone two of the upstairs bedrooms completely differently. One she’d turned into an office. For the other, her childhood bedroom, she’d bought a Shaker bed and dresser, painted the walls a virgin white, bought a plush white carpet, and called it quits.

Family and friends would find the decorating strange, she knew. All her life she’d gone for lots of color and oddball style and “stuff,” yet, especially right after the divorce, the barren room suited her in ways she’d never tried to explain-not to friends, not even to family.

Now, though, the point was that she could easily find her way around the room even in the dark…at least, if it wasn’t for the cats tripping her. On the rare occasions she woke up this early, the cats usually ignored her and continued sleeping, but maybe they sensed how suddenly rattled she felt-possibly because of remembering Cameron’s totally unexpected and very real kisses the night before. Possibly because of her ex-husband’s call.

Ed hadn’t called out of meanness. Violet had figured out a long time ago that Ed was far too unimaginative to be deliberately mean. He undoubtedly believed she’d want to know that his second child had been born, the son he’d wanted so much. No one knew more than Violet how much he’d wanted a son.

Downstairs, lights were on all over the place-she’d forgotten about losing power the night before. Forgotten almost everything when that sassy upstart Scotsman had pulled her into his arms.

She pulled on mud boots, a patchwork light jacket over her long denim skirt. Her hair was hanging in a wild heap down her back, but she didn’t care. She needed…something. Air. A slap of morning. Some way, somehow, to catch her breath. She hadn’t been all that upset about those kisses from Cameron until her ex had called.

Now, she felt all churned up. A young rabbit hopped across the grass, trying to evade her bodyguard contingent of cats-none of whom could catch road kill, they were all so fat and lazy, but the baby bunny didn’t know that.

Violet aimed for the front door of the Herb Haven, then changed her mind and headed for the greenhouses. There were two. The newest one she’d built herself, a couple years ago, but by this time in the summer, it was almost empty. Plants were all outside, either transported to the nursery or for sale in the business.

The original greenhouse, though, had been her mother’s. It wasn’t as high-tech as the new one, the heating and cooling and watering systems not even half as efficient. But her mom’s sacred pruning shears were still hung on the wall, as was the old French apron she used to wear. Violet could remember the three sisters chasing up and down the aisles while Margaux potted and fussed with plants-her mom had always been the kind of mother who encouraged kids to get their hands dirty, to get into life, not just watch from the bleachers. Her sisters had often gone off with their dad into the fields. Not her.

She’d loved hanging out with her mom, loved watching Margaux nurturing and babying each flower, each herb, as if it alone were precious to her. She loved to dry the herbs, to watch her mom create artistic arrangements, to hear her mother insist that she needed to listen to each plant to understand what it needed. Her mom was a life lover, emotional about everything, an unrepentant romantic, a woman to the core. Margaux, in fact, was the only one who knew the real reason she’d divorced Simpson.

Of course, if Violet started remembering that ghastly memory, how Margaux had wrapped her up in a long, rocking hug and tried to soothe her like a child, she’d burst out crying. She didn’t mind crying. She did it regularly, but it was just too darn early for that kind of heavy emotion, so she pushed up her sleeves and started puttering. In the heat of summer, there wasn’t much left here in the greenhouse, either, but she still had some experiments going.

She plucked dry leaves, smelled the soil for health, and was just uncoiling a long skinny hose to mist-water her babies when she heard the door swing open. Cameron stood there, looking as devilish and sexy as he had the night before. In spite of the cool morning, his shirt was unbuttoned and he was wearing jeans so old and worn they cupped his bitsy butt and long, lean legs.

“Damn, did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet. After all your traveling, I figured you’d sleep most of the morning if you had a chance,” she said.

“You didn’t wake me up, but the phone did. A call that early usually means trouble. Everything okay?”

“Just hunky-dory,” she said lightly. And then had to sniff fast. Tears welled in her eyes before she could possibly stop them-not that she would. When she was a young girl, she hated being so impulsive and emotional, but these days, she knew the power of it. Men got shook up when they saw tears. They backed away from an emotional woman. It all worked out fine. Usually.

“Hey.” He saw the tears, and instead of looking frantic and freaked like any normal man, he walked slowly toward her. “What are we talking here? Bad news, bad morning, what?”

“An idiotic mood, that’s all.”

“Nobody died?”

“Nope.”

“Some idiot dump you?”

“God, no.”

“You hurt yourself? Another bee sting?”

“No. Nothing happened.”

“Someone called,” he persisted.

“Yeah. My ex-husband. To tell me that he and his wife had a baby. Their second. A son. They were very happy. And I’m very happy for them.” Tears welled up again. Announcing her happiness and crying at the same time should certainly have ensured that Cameron thought she was a fruitcake.

Instead, as if unconcerned whether she made any sense or not, he ambled past her, squeezing her shoulder momentarily when he passed by. And then started snooping. Poking at her pots and plants. Sniffing. Tasting. Literally tasting.

How could she help but be diverted? “You usually eat dirt?”

“Yeah. I’ve tried every fancy chemical test known to man, but sometimes the senses seem to tell the most important truth. A taste’ll tell me if the soil is highly acid or not.” He moved on, doing more poking, more smelling, more snooping. “These are more of your lavender experiments?”