Authors: Dianne Venetta
Beautiful creature? Complements a woman in love
?
Jennifer had to work her almost certain gape under control.
But not him. His smile returned full force, opening his features in full appreciation. It was a combination that shattered her shell of indifference.
Swallowing, she grasped the mug more tightly within her hands. “My mother was an avid gardener you see...spent hour upon hour with her flowers, tending to them, nurturing them. I think she even talked to them,” Jennifer revealed with a hint of insecurity.
Would he think that foolish
?
“Mine, too,” he replied. “Every day of her life.”
She looked at him more directly. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Plants are living things. They share the energy of life with us. It makes sense to connect with them, on all levels. From planting and nurturing, to pleasure and enjoyment.” Jackson smiled. “We humans can’t get along without the green stuff. The way I see it, we’re all in this together and it would help if we would recognize as much.” He followed with a grin. “Our lives would be a lot more pleasant.”
It was strange, hearing a man like Jackson discuss the philosophical nature of life. He spoke of the garden as if it were an integral part of his existence, as though the two were intricately entwined to create the whole of his world.
And then she remembered. “You know, my mother probably did
live her garden
.” As the phrase was intentional, she offered a small smile for his benefit.
“She probably did,” Jackson replied, easily accepting the gesture. No victorious tone, no arrogance. He responded as though her comment were no more significant than if she had said the sky is blue. He slid his fingers into his front pockets. “It was my mom who gave me a love of nature. When I was growing up, my sister and I would spend hours outside while she pulled weeds and cut flowers. When we weren’t running around like crazies, that is.” He shook his head. “She’d assign us chores in the garden, to make us feel involved I think.” The old trick registered with fondness in his adult eyes. “Like what we were doing was crucial to the survival of the plants, not to mention our very existence.” He laughed. “My sister had a black thumb right from the start whereas mine, though it started out brown, gradually became as green as my mother’s.”
Jennifer couldn’t help but smile as she listened to him. He spoke with obvious affection, and his eyes shone with pride. It felt like a dear friend citing shared experiences from the past, reinforcing a bond between them that had been initiated years before.
But they shared no such bond. She and Jackson were basically strangers. “I never really had the inclination to join my mother in the garden,” she admitted, glancing away.
Her mom had invited her, but she never pushed. “It seemed like nothing more than a pile of work to me,” she returned her gaze to his and funneled in her rationale, her defense. “I was focused on my studies, and there didn’t seem room for much of anything else.”
“It is a pile of work,” he agreed heartily, placing an emphasis on the word work. “Or can be,” he relaxed into a confident grin. “It’s all a matter of perception. Like I said before—it's why I try to design a garden that suits the individual, one where they look forward to spending their time as opposed to avoiding.” He pulled a hand from his shorts and gestured toward Jennifer. “Like your mom. She probably used hers as an escape, a therapy if you will. A physician’s schedule is ruthless, demands shooting in from every angle. An hour sitting amidst the blossoms can distract even the most harried of professionals. Me, I’d say your mom probably topped that list.”
Did he know her mother
?
“Does she have a favorite?”
“Favorite what?” she asked, startled by the blunt question.
“A favorite flower.”
“Gardenias...” Jennifer murmured. “Those are her favorites.”
“Ah yes,” his voice melted to silk, “the petals of velvet with an unforgettable scent.”
An unforgettable scent. Her heart ached. And one etched in her mind forever.
“Nature is the center of the soul, Dr. Hamilton. It speaks to our senses on every level, reconnecting us with the spirit within.”
Nature is the center of the soul
. It was stunning to hear such sentiment uttered from his lips. Unexpected. “Yes,” she uttered quietly. “It does. And please.” She looked at him with a tentative smile. “Call me Jennifer.”
Jackson smiled, seemingly pleased by her invitation. “Jennifer,” he said, as though trying it on for size and liked it.
She smiled in return.
“My favorite thing about gardens,” he picked right back up, “is they attract all kinds of life. Bees, birds, butterflies-—all of them flock to the sweet bounty of the garden.”
“My mom used to have a birdhouse in hers,” Jennifer pitched in, enjoying their newfound camaraderie. “Actually, it was more like a bird
hotel.
” She laughed softly. “Designed along the lines of a Victorian mansion, it was painted with extraordinary detail, bright blues and greens and scrolls everywhere. There was even a welcome home message written in script across the main entryway.” Amazed by her vivid recall, she said, “The thing was fit more for a king than a bird!”
“I’ll bet they loved it.”
“They did.” She paused. “In fact, she loved them.” She looked at Jackson more directly. “The birds, I mean. She loved listening to them, watching them. Why, she could close her eyes and identify a bird simply based on its song.” Jennifer allowed the warm memories to wash over her, and soothe her in their passage. It was a nice change when talking about her mother, to feel the fullness of her life instead of the impending loss.
“Passion comes in all forms.”
Her pulse bumped at the mention of the word. “I imagine...” she replied with a slight nod.
“It’s about following your heart you know, and living in the moment. Finding joy in the little things.”
Relaxed, Jennifer’s mind pulled away and drifted back through time. Two years ago, upon first diagnosis, her mother began sorting through her belongings. She preferred personal distribution as opposed to utilizing a will, and offered the elaborate birdhouse to Jennifer.
Which she refused.
Where on earth would I put a bird house?
On the balcony of my condo?
Her mother’s smile never quit, Jennifer remembered but her eyes had given pause over the rejection. And that’s what her refusal surely must have been; a rejection, of her mother’s most personal and cherished possession.
Tears pushed at her eyes. How could she have been so insensitive?
Carlos returned then and Jennifer was grateful for the interruption. Resuming his work without delay, he dumped his bag in hand into the plastic bucket, added some water from the metal one next to it and began to mix the combination with a slow hand.
“I should let you get back to your work,” Jennifer said, mortified her words sounded so weak, as though on the verge of breaking.
“No problem,” Jackson replied, his genial tone giving her plenty of room to negotiate.
She turned back and headed for the house, overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of heat. She hadn’t been outside long, but it felt like the temperature had climbed ten degrees. The sun beat down on her as she crossed the yard, then straight up the steps into the house. She deposited her mug into the sink, realizing there would be no third cup this morning.
With a bolt of energy, she cleared the dishes from the table, rinsed and sorted them into the dishwasher, then went back to collect the newspaper scattered across the table.
Had she really been so cruel to her mother? Had she really? And why? Why couldn’t she have seen what Jackson saw and realized it was important to her. Breaking focus, Jennifer looked out the window to find him hard at work plastering the wall. He wouldn’t have rejected the birdhouse, she thought. He would have accepted it. Gladly.
Unlike her. She couldn’t see past her own desires to empathize with those of her mother.
Jennifer reeled-in her thoughts. But it was a long time ago. She stacked the newspaper pages against the glass tabletop. There was no going back.
Her movements ceased, the newspaper flopping over in her hands. What kind of man was Jackson? Still mulling through their conversation, her mind hummed with his presence. What kind of man read a woman’s needs and understood them, respected them?
Celebrated them. Slowly, she returned her gaze to the backyard—-specifically, the back wall. Beneath his rough-edged exterior, his casual demeanor, she had glimpsed a sensitive side, an insightful side.
Really
? Or had she imagined it, projected her thoughts onto his and engaged in an interesting conversation about life and gardening. She remained for a moment, watching his arms spread cement in wide, smooth arcs. His movements were swift and sinuous. Strong.
Jennifer withdrew her gaze and dropped it to the papers in hand. She smacked the
Herald
down onto the table, organized or not. She felt the sudden urge to move.
She could go to the hospital. Round on the few patients she had and then get ready for Aurelio’s opening this evening. She checked her watch. Well after noon, her partner on call, Jennifer realized it would be a waste of time to go to the hospital.
She could go see her mother.
No, she thought quickly. A visit to the nursing home was the last thing she wanted right now. It would drain the positive energy that was flowing through her every cell—positive energy—and she didn’t want to lose it. She ventured a glance toward Jackson. Arms moving with power and speed, she thought, yes...it is positive. And empowering, like the way his body moved. Reaching into the bucket for more cement, she watched him spread the heavy wet material high over the wall, his movements smooth and fluid, almost graceful. The man had a strength she wouldn’t have guessed on first glance. From hauling heavy bags to handling a shovel, he moved with ease in everything he did, both inside and out. He turned toward her then and for a split-second, Jennifer thought he caught her watching him.
Her pulse quickened and she pulled her glance away. Moving from the kitchen, she headed to the front room, putting space between them. She didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. Didn’t want him to think she was interested.
Or give herself any more time to wonder.
Chapter Twelve
Carrying the bouquet of long-stemmed roses across her living room, Jennifer saw Sam’s red Mercedes zip into the driveway and clip to a stop just shy of the front walk. Sliding out of the car she tossed the door closed behind her and with that long-legged stride of hers, breezed through the courtyard and let herself in.
“Aren’t these beautiful?” Jennifer asked, placing the large vase on the coffee table. “They’re from Aurelio.”
“Gorgeous,” she agreed flatly as Jennifer leaned over for her expected kiss. Sam smacked her with a solid one on the cheek and asked, “Speaking of gorgeous, where is Jax?” She glanced out the back windows, hunting for sight of him. “I saw a truck parked in the back.”
“He’s out there,” Jennifer said, indicating the rear yard. “He’s marking out the flower beds.”
Sam strode to the back doors for a better look. “Oh... Be still my wanton heart.”
Jennifer joined her and saw Jackson bending over, wrapping string around a stick that protruded from the ground.
“I think this is fate.”
“It’s not,” Jennifer said. “It’s your over-active hormones.”
Jackson stood, massaged his lower back for a second then grabbed his spade. Raising it to a height above his shoulders, he thrust it deep into the dirt wedging it back and forth, then did so again. “God, I find manual labor sexy,” Sam said, her voice a near purr. She rubbed her firebrick painted lips over one another. “The way his muscles jump and glisten...”
“He’s sweating.”
“Profusely.”
“He probably stinks.”
“Pheromones... An innate call to the wild.”
Jennifer balked. “But he’s dirty.”
“I hope so.”
Jennifer crossed her arms in a huff. “You’re incorrigible.”
“No,” Sam swung her eyes to Jennifer, “I’m agreeable.”
With that, she opened the door and let herself out. Jennifer watched from the anonymity of indoors as Sam trotted down the steps and straight over to Jackson. His recognition of her was swift, his reception friendly. Plunging the garden tool into the ground, he hitched an elbow atop the handle, resting a foot on the blade.
The two chatted with ease she noted, yet presented a startling contrast. Jackson donned his usual company T-shirt, soaked through with sweat, complete with his standard khaki shorts and boots while Sam was dressed in a stylish fitted skirt, sizzling crimson and cut just above the knee, accompanied by a simple coordinating jacket over a silk white tank. Her black sling-backs remained amazingly dirt-free.
How did she do it
? How did Sam walk up to complete strangers and engage in lively conversation like old friends? Curiosity deepened. What could they be talking about? What did Sam have in common with Jackson, other than a healthy dose of lust?