the garden,” Henry told him, brandishing a shovel as he gestured toward a large pile of wilting weeds and ivy.
Setting his mail on the railing around his tiny back porch, Christopher strolled over to the picket fence that separated the yards and surveyed Henry’s garden. In the far corner, plants had emerged from the cacophony of weeds. He’d never been much of a gardener, but his mother had enjoyed the hobby and he’d learned a few things from her. Enough to recognize the peony buds and coral bells. The other plants Marci had unearthed were a mystery to him.
“Looks like you’ve made a good start.” He turned his attention to Marci, who’d kept her distance. Her jeans were grimy, her fingernails caked with mud. Sweat had wiped her face clean of makeup. One of her cheeks sported a long streak of dirt.
She looked adorable.
Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, Christopher summoned up what he hoped passed for a casual smile. “I see Henry put you to work.”
“I volunteered.”
“She’s a hard worker, too.” Henry rested the shovel against the fence. “Why are you home so early?”
Christopher checked his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty!” Shock rippled across Marci’s face. “Henry, I’ve got to go. I told Edith and Chester I’d have dinner with them tonight. At seven.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans again and dashed for the porch. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Are you still sure about doing this, Marci?”
“Yes.” She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. “I never leave a job unfinished.” Snagging her keys, she sent Christopher a quick glance, tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away.
Why was she nervous around him? He didn’t think it had anything to do with their rough start. Her present behavior bore no resemblance to her cold, aloof response when he’d insulted her in the restaurant. Today she reminded him of the island deer that bolted when anyone got too close.
For more than two years, he’d gone out of his way to discourage any woman who tried to cozy up to him. And a lot of them had. But Marci was at the opposite end of the spectrum. She was sending clear no-trespassing signals.
He should be grateful, Christopher told himself. This way he wouldn’t have to worry about fending off unwanted attention.
Except he wasn’t.
When the silence lengthened, Henry shot Christopher a pointed look. “Maybe you could walk Marci to her car.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right, Henry.” Marci dropped her keys. Bent to pick them up. When she rose, her cheeks were flushed. “I’m right in front. He doesn’t need to bother.” Before either man could respond, she jogged toward the gate. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”
Less than thirty seconds later, an engine started. Christopher heard the crunch of car tires on the oyster-shell lane and listened as the sound gradually receded into the distance.
When silence descended, he regarded Henry, gesturing toward the garden. “How did all this start?”
His neighbor scratched his head. “Beats me. One minute we were talking about Marjorie, and the next thing I knew Marci was pulling weeds. She’s strong, too, just like she told me. Claims it comes from all those years of waitressing.”
“Marci was a waitress?”
“Yep. That’s how she put herself through school. You’ve got to admire her spunk.”
“What else did she tell you?” Though Christopher did his best to keep his question nonchalant, a twinkle appeared in Henry’s eyes.
“Mostly we talked about flowers. But I expect we’ll get into a lot of other things as we work on the garden. Maybe you could stop by one afternoon and join us for lemonade.”
Not a good idea, Christopher decided. Contact could lead to connection, and he wasn’t in the market for a romantic relationship—even if the woman was willing. And Marci obviously wasn’t.
Besides, he couldn’t erase the image of her tears that first night in the restaurant. Or the defeated look in her eyes. Or the dejected slump of her shoulders as she’d walked home. All of which told him she had issues.
He needed to keep his distance.
“She makes you nervous, doesn’t she?”
At Henry’s comment, Christopher frowned. The last thing he needed right now was an armchair psychologist analyzing him in his backyard.
Ignoring Henry’s remark, Christopher scanned the sky as a gust of wind whipped past. “Looks like a storm might be brewing.”
His neighbor stacked his hands on top of the handle of his shovel and squinted at Christopher appraisingly. “Yep. I’d say there could be some unsettled weather ahead.”
Disregarding the double meaning, Christopher motioned toward his porch. “I think I’ll rescue my mail and head inside.”
Henry grinned. “Dashing for cover, hmm? Good luck.” With a wave, he ambled back to his hydrangeas.
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