Sarah Mayberry - All They Need

“Here. I should be doing that,” she said, striding forward.

“If it gets to be too much for me I promise to send up a flare.”

“You’re my guest.” She reached out to grab the shovel from him.

“What are you going to do? Wrestle me for the shovel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d realize I was right.”

“Would it help at all if I told you that I’m enjoying myself? That I’ve had a really shitty couple of weeks and that digging a nice big hole and getting some dirt under my nails is exactly what the doctor ordered?” His tone was light but there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking.

She let her hand fall to her side and retreated from the hole. “Okay. If you insist.”

He set to it again, his biceps flexing powerfully as he drove the shovel into the earth. Mel watched him, twitchy and uncomfortable with being forced into the role of spectator.

“You’re about to break out in hives, aren’t you?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“I’m used to doing things for myself.”

He drove the shovel into the ground and left it there. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m done.”

Mel bit her lip and looked at him, aware that there was a very real chance that she was coming across as a surly ingrate. “I do appreciate the help. You’ve been incredibly generous…?.”

He waved a hand, effectively dismissing her words. “Let’s get this baby in the ground where she belongs.”

She didn’t even bother arguing with him this time. Between the two of them they lifted the tree upright so it sat on its root ball. She squatted to get a grip on the roots, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt and clay, while Flynn did the same on the other side of the tree.

“Okay. One, two, three,” she said.

They both lifted and shuffled toward the hole at the same time.

“Slowly,” Flynn said as the tree started to slide into the hole.

Mel shifted her grip to the trunk to try to control its descent, earning a face full of leaves for her efforts. She felt rather than saw the tree hit bottom and sat back on her heels with a relieved sigh. Flynn did the same on his side of the hole. After a beat he leaned to one side so he could make eye contact with her around the foliage.

“Thanks for letting me help.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks for insisting.”

He pushed himself to his feet and then they filled in the hole and watered the tree into its new site.

“There. Done,” Flynn finally said, thrusting the shovel into the earth one last time.

Mel pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and considered her orange tree. In its new position, it would get close to eight hours of clear sunlight a day. With a bit of luck, she might even get fruit this summer.

Reaching out a hand, she patted the trunk affectionately. “Over to you. Show us what you’ve got, baby,” she said quietly.

Then she remembered she had an audience. When she glanced at Flynn, he was trying to hide a smile.

“Okay. So I talk to my plants occasionally,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I read my tomatoes Shakespeare one year.”

“Yeah, right.” She squinted at him, sure he was making fun of her.

“I did, I swear. My mother’s housekeeper swore her grandmother used to do it and got bumper crops.”

“And?”

“I think I should have gone for one of the comedies instead of the Scottish play.”

Mel’s laugh was loud and heartfelt.

Flynn grinned, then checked his watch. “Whoa. It’s nearly eleven. I’d better get going. I’m supposed to be doing the final inspection on Summerlea.”

“You bought it? Oh, wow.”

Usually the local grapevine was good for gossip, but she hadn’t heard a whisper about the old estate being sold so she’d simply assumed that Flynn and Hayley had walked away from their inspection unimpressed.

“It’s going to be a money pit, but I couldn’t let Edna Walling’s last great design slip through my fingers.”

Mel couldn’t hide her surprise. It was one thing to know how to transplant a tree, but to know the name of a long-dead, highly influential garden designer took his interest in gardening to a whole new level.

“What’s wrong? Having visions of polo ponies again?” he asked wryly.

“No.”

But he was right—she was. Mel was the first to admit she had some pretty set ideas about what people with money were like. She’d learned them firsthand at the feet of her husband and her in-laws. She’d seen the hypocrisy, the judgment, the insularity. She’d absorbed the politics, the values, the social mores. She knew where women of a certain income bracket liked to shop, who they allowed to cut their hair, how they preferred to keep their bodies lean and slim. She knew where the men lunched, the football clubs they supported, the charities they were happy to fund in return for a piece of the glory.

She’d assumed Flynn was like the rest of them, but apparently she’d assumed wrong.

He checked his watch again. “I’d really better get going.”

“I’ll walk you up.” It was the least she could do after he’d saved her considerable effort and offered her what was clearly expert advice.

They walked side by side in silence. Mel wracked her brain for something innocuous to say, but the edgy feeling was back now they didn’t have the task of transplanting the orange tree to occupy them. She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye but he seemed perfectly at ease.

“I can give you your key now if you’d like,” she said. “Save you from having to collect it later.”

“Sure, if that makes life easier for you.”

“I was trying to make life easier for you.”

They were approaching the house and Flynn stooped to collect his jacket and sweater. He washed his hands on the garden tap at the bottom of the stairs as she raced into the house to grab the keys.

“You’re not in Red Coat this time, I’m sorry. I had a previous booking, so you’re in Tea Cutter, the cottage we passed on the way to plant the tree,” she said as she descended the steps to rejoin him.

“I noticed there was another car in the parking lot. Interlopers.”

She smiled at his small joke and handed the key over. “Good luck with your inspection. When do you take possession?”

“Next weekend.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t muck around.”

“You know what they say, life’s short. It suited the vendors to have the sale go through quickly and it suited me.”

He pulled his car keys from his jeans pocket and she realized she was holding him up.

“Take notes on the orchard grove for me.” She took a backward step to signal she was letting him go. “I’m basing my new orchard on memories of my last visit to Summerlea so I might quiz you on it later.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to shamelessly ripping off my new garden’s design, Ms. Porter?”

“Um…yes?”

He laughed. “I’ll take some photos for you.” He turned to go, then swung back. “Unless you want to come to the inspection with me?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Sure. I could give you advice on your renovations. Tell you how a pro would do it.”

“I’m serious. I’d actually appreciate hearing your opinion.”

He was sincere, she could see it in his face. Once she got past her surprise, her first impulse was to say no—she’d gotten into the habit of saying no to a lot of things during her marriage, for a number of reasons—but it had been ten years since she’d seen the gardens at Summerlea. It would be beyond helpful to see how Edna Walling had designed the orchard and how the garden had matured.

Mel hesitated for a moment, then caught sight of her muddy jeans. She was caked from the knees down, her sweater blotched with yet more muck. The Lord only knew what was going on with her hair—something bad, she suspected, because it rarely behaved itself.