Jennifer Greene: The Bonus Mum

She hustled out, glanced out the peephole and felt her stomach jump five feet. She yanked open the door at the same time she looked at her watch.

“My God, Whit. I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t realize how much time had gone by.”

“It’s not a problem, except that when you gave me your cell number—”

She nodded. “I never heard it ring. I’m sorry. I think I left it on the fireplace mantel. And we were in the back of the house, the darkroom.”

“Like I said, it’s okay. But I did figure by now you’d need rescuing.”

She did. Not from his girls. From him.

The minute he walked in the room, she suffered from a cavorting heartbeat and instant noodle knees, annoying her to no end. So he was a hunk. So he was so brawny he made her feel like a sweet little Southern belle. So he had the sexiest eyes this side of the Mississippi.

It was just attraction.

Last she knew, that problem was embarrassing but not fatal.

The kids leaped on him as if he’d been missing for six months. “Dad! Rosemary took us in the darkroom, and showed us all about the enlarger and the paper safe and the squeegee panels—”

“And where you keep the chemicals and the big extractor fan and solution and stuff—”

Since Whit was getting pulled inside, Rosemary interrupted with the obvious. “Would you like some tea or coffee? I’ve got both.”

“Coffee, definitely, if it’s not too much trouble.”

By the time she brought two mugs back in, the girls had yelled for permission to play games on her iPad, and they’d taken root on the floor with couch pillows behind them. Whit, hands in his back pockets, was circling the corkboard display on the coffee table.

He smiled when she walked toward him, cocked his head toward the girls. “They’ve made themselves at home.”

“It’s the iPad. Not me.”

“I don’t think so. You keep gaining goddess status.”

She laughed. “I’m not doing anything, honest.”

“Maybe not, but we’ll have to brainstorm some way to take you down a peg in their eyes. Otherwise, they’re going to pester you nonstop.”

He’d lowered his voice so the girls wouldn’t hear. His whisper was just as evocative as his normal tenor.

“Well, if you think up something evil I could do, give a shout, would you?”

He chuckled. They shared a smile that made her feel like a lit sparkler in a dark room. But then he motioned toward her corkboard.

“The girls said you were doing a project with orchids.”

She nodded. “The wild orchids in South Carolina—especially rare and endangered ones. Duke gave me a two-year grant, but I think I can finish the project sooner than that. When I came up here in June, that’s all I did, traipse around the mountains, taking photographs and collecting specimens. So most of the gut research is done. I just have to put it all together, which is going to take a serious block of time.” She knew she was babbling, but he honestly looked interested.

“Landscaping’s my work.”

“The twins said you owned a business.”

He nodded. “I’m the family disgrace. I have three siblings, two lawyers and my sister is a CPA. I’m the only dirt bum. Love working with my hands. Love taking a piece of land—don’t care whether it’s small or big—and analyzing the soil, the shapes and contours, figuring out which plants and trees will thrive there, what will show it off. I have no idea where I picked up the addiction, but I sure have it hard-core.”

“My parents are both surgeons, and they expected the three of us kids to follow in their footsteps...but at least I could share disgrace with one of my brothers. I went for botany, and Tucker has a retreat camp on Whisper Mountain here. Ike was the only brother who turned into a doctor, like we were all supposed to.”

“Being a disgrace is tough.”

“Well, I was a disgrace for more than one reason,” she admitted, and then wanted to shoot herself. That wasn’t information she meant to share with Whit—or anyone else, for that matter.

He didn’t ask. He looked at her, as if waiting to hear the “other reason” she was a disgrace. But when she didn’t say anything more, he turned his attention back to the corkboard of photographs.

“Are you only photographing them when they’re in flower?” he asked.

“Good question. No. I marked the spot where I found each orchid—the location, the environment, the plants growing near them, tested the soil for acidity and all that. Then I went back every month to record that information all over again. Different predators showed up in different months. Different plants became dormant in different months. There were different insects, different temperatures, different rainfall.”

“Man. I’d love to have done this kind of study. I don’t know anything about orchids. But the how, why, when and where certain plants or grasses grow is of enormous interest to me.”

“You didn’t go for a botany degree...?”

“No, I went after a landscape architecture degree from Michigan State. It was a long way from home to go to college, but they had a great program for what I wanted. Never regretted it. But the study you’re doing crosses paths with so much I’m interested in.”

But he looked at her as if he were far more fascinated in her than her study. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone wanted to hear what she thought, what she felt.

“Hey, Dad!” Pepper leaped up from the tablet and hurtled toward them at her usual speed—a full gallop. “Can we all stay and watch a movie if Rosemary says yes? There’s one that starts in just a few minutes. We’ll miss the beginning if we have to go home.”

“I think our family’s imposed on Rosemary enough for today.”

“But Dad. It’s Princess Bride! And it’s on right now.”

“You never have to see that one again. You know all the words. Hell. I know all the words. Please. Anything but that. Anything. We can even go home and talk about...clothes.”

He herded them out, over a new round of protests and pleas and outright begging. Grabbed jackets. Found shoes. Listened to chatter.

Over their heads, before he whooshed them out the door, he looked at her. Really looked at her. As if they’d been connecting in a private way since the moment they met...the moment he walked in. Every moment they found themselves together.

She thought: he wanted to kiss her.

It was there. In his gaze. In how privately he looked at her, how silently he looked...worried. Worried but determined.

When she finally closed the door, the sudden silence in the cabin struck her again as unexpectedly lonely—when she’d been content living alone. Or she thought she’d been content.

She ambled through the living room, picking up mugs and glasses, doing little cleanups—and lecturing herself at the same time. She was imagining those “looks” from Whit. The guy was still in love with his wife, from everything the girls had said. He was still loving her, still mourning her, still grieving.

And she had no business volunteering for trouble, besides. She was still in deep emotional shock over George—the man everyone assumed she’d be thrilled to marry, thrilled to spend her life with. She hadn’t discovered his turnip side until it was almost too late...which unfortunately said a whole lot about her lack of judgment in men.

She was afraid to trust her judgment again. Not because she was a sissy. Because she was smart.

She had to be smart. Her confidence had been crippled, not by George, but by misjudging a man she thought she loved. It was a mistake she couldn’t risk making again.

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