was business, and to mix the personal with it was a bad mistake; he’d learned that very early in his career. So what the hell was he doing sitting in this truck when all his instincts had urged him to cut the connection with her?
Not sure whether he was angrier with her or with himself, Slade said tersely, “What sort of time frame are you looking at for these projects?”
With evident relief she said, “I’d get at them as soon as possible. Spring is a really busy time for me, but I’ve hired a couple of extra helpers along with my right-hand man, so I’d be able to handle it.”
Was Joe Purchell her right-hand man? And what was that if not a personal question? “So the gardens could be available for this summer?”
“Absolutely.” She swung down a side street and parked near a corner lot decorated with rubble and a large “For Sale” sign. Her nerves vibrating like piano wire because the next half hour was crucial, Cory slid down from the truck in her neat khaki trousers and work boots and led the way across the street. “I’d make evergreens a priority, so the park would look good in winter,” she said eagerly. “But you can see how the maple would provide a lot of shade in summer. I think a couple of winding paths would be a good idea—with lots of benches.”
He glanced around. “Would vandalism be a problem?”
“I’ve thought of that.” Enthusiasm warmed her voice. “Rather than beds of brightly colored flowers that might encourage people to rip them up or trample on them, I’d focus on foliage. Hostas and ferns. Low-growing junipers—some of them come in lovely soft blue-greens. Then some middle-height yews and flowering shrubs, plus three or four well-placed granite rocks—a bit of a Japanese influence. I might have a red-leafed Japanese maple as well; they’re slow-growing but very effective with evergreens. Here, I’ve done a computer mock-up.”
He perused the paper she had unfolded, which transformed the deserted lot into a peaceful and harmonious oasis in the city streets. “What about a fountain?”
She grimaced. “That gets pricey. Although it would be wonderful.”
“I have a friend who designs fountains that are both vandal-proof and beautiful,” he murmured. “The sound of water can be very soothing. I think your focus on foliage is brilliant, by the way.”
Cory flushed with pleasure; he wasn’t a man to hand out idle compliments. “The birds would appreciate a fountain, too,” she said pertly.
“Keep the pigeons and the people happy?”
She laughed. “Right! Have you seen enough? I don’t want to make you late for your next appointment.”
On the way to Dow Street, Slade studied her diagram for the gardens. When they arrived, the lot itself was so unprepossessing that he insisted they walk the length and width of it, Cory pointing out the proposed location of the garden plots, the sheds and the playground. He said dubiously, “You’d need tons of topsoil and compost.”
“I have access to both. The sheds would have to be pretty basic. But I’d ask one of the local service clubs to provide the playground equipment; they’re very good that way.”
The street was as unprepossessing as the lot. The wind, chill from the offshore ice, whirled a discarded candy wrapper into the air as the sun glinted on the splinters of glass that were scattered everywhere. “What about water?”
“Underground hoses. Best way to irrigate.”
“But not the cheapest.”
His doubts were all too evident. Cory said urgently, “All I’m asking you for is the land, Slade. I read a couple more articles about you last night, about your projects in the poorer sections of Chicago when you were studying architecture. Not all of them worked. But you tried.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s all any of us can do.”
He stated the obvious. “You care about this. Passionately.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“I’ll deed the land to the city,” he heard himself say, “on condition that you let me supply all the topsoil for both sites, and pay for the sheds. I’ll also donate some large trees for both places—that can run into money.”
“You mean you’ll do it?” she squeaked.
With a strange sense of fatality—he didn’t often do an about-face the way he had this morning—Slade nodded.
“The park and the gardens?”
“Both of them, Cory.”
She’d scarcely dared to hope that he’d give the land, let alone add all those extras. Seizing his hands, she danced up and down, her face lit with delight. “That’s wonderful! Oh, Slade, thank you; it’s so generous of you. I’m so excited!”
The wind blew an empty soda can across the ground; it rattled against the stones. Under Cory’s beige shirt with the logo of her company embroidered on the pocket, her breasts bounced up and down. Slade wanted to kiss her so badly that it took an actual effort of will to pull free of her grip and take a step away from her. “I’ll look after the legalities with the city,” he said formally. “Will you get your lawyer to draw up a contract for the two of us?”
“Aren’t you excited?”
Yeah, he thought. Sexually excited. Not what you want to hear, Ms. Cory Haines. “Of course I am. I’m just older and better at hiding it.”
“Pooh—you’re only thirty-four.” She stuck out her hand. “Put it there, pardner—we’ve got ourselves a deal.”
Her clasp was firm, her fingers cold. “You should be wearing gloves,” he said.
For Pete’s sake, he thought, you sound like her father.
“I always forget them. You should see my hands in summer—fancy fashion magazines are not clamoring to photograph them. Every year I buy a pair of gardening gloves, and every year I contrive to lose them the very first day I wear them.” She crinkled her nose; excitement was still bubbling along her veins, loosing the guard on her tongue. “It’s called regression—I like to make mud pies. The truck, the business cards, the computer designs—they’re all just excuses so I can get dirt under my nails.”
Amused, feeling her fingers begin to warm in his, he asked, “Weren’t you allowed to make mud pies when you were little?”
“Very strict parents. Frilly starched dresses and no dirt. My next job will probably be working in a spa slathering people with mud packs.”
“Your eyes,” Slade said in sudden discovery, “are the color of molasses—that wonderful combination of brown and black. Shiny.”
“Well, I must say I’ve never been compared to molasses before. Gooey and sweet—is that the best you can do?” Suddenly Cory chuckled. “You know what? Your hair is the color of good compost.”
“Rotting vegetable matter? Thanks.”
“And your eyes,” she announced with considerable satisfaction, “are like slate. Gray with gorgeous undertones of blue.”
Slade rather liked
