And Damon? Well, Natasha couldn’t quite account for him.
But if her good luck wasn’t real, then maybe Amy had a point about Natasha’s enduring bad luck, too. And maybe, just like Carol had implied, Natasha’s habit of die-hard stoicism in the face of tough times was just not working for her anymore.
Maybe it never had worked. Witness her split with Pacey. Their breakup hadn’t been great. Whose was? But theirs had dragged on longer than necessary because she’d stuck her head in the sand and refused to admit it was happening. That’s why, in the end, her divorce papers had come as such a shock.
Maybe she
wasn’t
unlucky, Natasha mused. Maybe she was just ignoring the parts
she’d
played in those sporadic catastrophes—in all those mishaps, big and small. Everything from her Civic’s flat tires to her marriage’s failure to her readiness to believe that Damon had colluded with Wes in an effort to rehab his damaged public persona could be explained by Natasha’s determination to believe that bad things “just happened” to her.
Because if bad things “just happened” to her, there was no use in reaching for more ... right? If she was so “unlucky,” then she was also safe from recrimination, safe from trying ...
Safe from leading the life she wanted to live. Whoops.
“Well. The least I can do is help you plant that.”
Resolutely, Natasha grabbed a shovel from the cache of yard tools leaning against her shed. Then, before turning around, she gave the other tools a long, second look. She bet they would fit inside the shed
along with
her artwork and supplies.
Maybe she didn’t need them to be kept apart anymore. Her artwork was still important to her. Being creative still meant a lot to her. But now, Natasha realized, it was just another part of her life, like riding bikes with Milo or teaching Finn to catch a Frisbee. Her artwork—and the garden-shed workspace where it happened—didn’t need to stand for independence or sacrifice or anything else that
might
have been. Now it could simply be what it was: an artistic outlet, a pleasurable activity ... a hobby.
Finally feeling at peace with that, Natasha scooped up a shovelful of dirt from the mound Kurt had made. She dropped it next to the tree’s root ball, then went back for another load.
“If you were this attentive to weed pulling,” Kurt cracked with a teasing look, “I’d never need to be a garden pixie.”
“I’m really sorry, Kurt. I’ll try to do better, I promise.”
Her neighbor shrugged. He leaned on his shovel, then gave her a contemplative look. “You really can’t guess who did this?”
Natasha eyed the tree. She shook her head. “I really can’t. It must be someone who knows me pretty well, though. My love of Jacaranda trees isn’t exactly a secret, but I don’t run around shouting from the rooftops about it, either.” She mulled over the question of her undisclosed benefactor. “Does this have something to do with Valentine’s Day?” she guessed. “Because today’s the big day, after all. Milo was all fired up about it before school started. And the women in my running club have joked sometimes about giving each other ‘We Hate Valentine’s Day’ gifts. You know, just so nobody gets too depressed about all the lovey-dovey, hearts-and-flowers, we’re-destined-for-eternity couples’ talk that happens around this time of year.”
“Hm. And I thought
my
friends were jaded. We all get drunk, have a beach bonfire to burn old love letters and Valentine’s Day cards, throw darts at our exes’ photos, wear black, blast ‘Love Stinks’ on nonstop repeat, and have an anti-Valentine’s Day movie marathon with
Heathers
in top billing.” Kurt considered the issue some more. “Oh, and we totally ban all chocolate in heart-shaped boxes ... until it goes on sale on the fifteenth of February, of course. We’re not idiots. We just don’t like being coerced into thinking sappy romantic thoughts against our will.”
“You seem like an unlikely choice for a secret tree-planting mission to commemorate Valentine’s Day,” Natasha observed wryly. “I hope your friends don’t disown you.”
“They’ll never know. This is the
backyard
, after all.”
“Well, that’s true.” With vigor, Natasha shoveled another scoop of dirt. “You know, this looks really nice next to my garden shed,” she observed. “It even complements the paint job.”
“Yes.” Kurt nodded. “That’s what Damon said. He told me—”
Abruptly, her neighbor clapped shut his mouth. With newfound industriousness, Kurt went back to shoveling.
“
Damon
?” Natasha asked, astounded that her offhanded inveigling had actually worked to root out the truth from Kurt once he’d let down his guard. “
Damon
put you up to this?”
Guiltily, Kurt looked at his shoes. He offered her a tentative grin. “Would you believe ... garden pixies did it?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Would you believe ... Carol did it?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Galvanized by the thought that
Damon
had thought of giving her this Jacaranda tree, with all its lovely purple flowers and shady foliage, Natasha stared at it. “This tree,” she told Kurt when she’d begun breathing again, “is the polar
opposite
of a ‘sorry I broke your heart’ bouquet. This tree is a growing, changing,
living
and enduring thing!”
“It might be,” Kurt said dubiously, “if we finish planting it. It’s been out in the sun awhile now. It might be—”
But Natasha couldn’t listen to his attempts to backpedal now. With a new burst of energy, she grabbed Kurt’s arm. “Do you know what this
means
?”
He hesitated, biting his lip. “Uh, it means you’re going to have to mulch it regularly?”
“Yes! I
am
going to have to mulch it,” Natasha agreed excitedly. “In a manner of speaking, of course. In the sense that mulching is a protective, ongoing, nurturing process that—”
“That will have to wait,” Carol finished for her, interrupting as she marched into the backyard with something small in her hand. She raised it. “Milo forgot his epinephrine injector. He’s waiting for you to bring it to him at school.”
“But—” Dismayed, Natasha glanced from her mother-in-law to Kurt to her new Jacaranda tree. That tree all but proved that Damon had loved her
once
(even if he didn’t anymore), because something as mundane as a landscaping tree wasn’t a showy romantic gesture—it was a
thoughtful
one. It wasn’t the kind of thing a disgraced playboy would do to try to look like a dutiful suburban romantic on a webisode of one of Wes’s new-media shows.
It was the kind of thing a man who cared about her—who wanted the space beside her garden-shed work area to be pretty and welcoming and nurturing—would do. The kind of thing Damon would do ... now that he’d been trying so hard to be a better man.
“But I just realized something about Damon,” Natasha protested, swerving her gaze back to Carol. “I should try to find him. I should—” She broke off, knowing that in the end, there was really no argument. “I should take this to Milo before he has an emergency,” she agreed, striding to her mother-in-law. She took the injector from her. “His teacher keeps a spare EpiPen on hand, but I’d better not take any chances. They’re having a Valentine’s Day party at school today. There are bound to be goodies.”
“Good.” Carol nodded. “I’ll go with you!”
“But—” Mystified, Natasha looked at her. “Why? If
you
can go to the school, then why do
I
have to go to the school?”
“Me too!” Kurt announced, dropping his shovel. With relish, he rubbed together his dirt-grimed palms. “I’ll drive.”
Watching them both sprint away, Natasha shook her head. “But I can drive!” She followed them to the driveway. “Why—”
“Don’t ask questions!” Carol blurted. “Just come on.”
Wondering suspiciously if there was more going on here than an ordinary mission to deliver Milo’s epinephrine injector, Natasha followed them. “All right,” she said. “But after this,” she informed her impromptu entourage, “I’m going to see Damon!”
“Whatever,” Carol said with a blithe wave. She traded a glance with Kurt. “If you still want to do that, you can.”
Then, on the heels of that cryptic statement, they all piled into the cab of Kurt’s vintage flatbed truck and sped away to Milo’s elementary school.
With an unexpected stab of nervousness, Damon paced across the room he’d been using to set up his latest taste test. On the twin tables in its center, trays stood ready with chocolate-filled, fluted paper cups. Near the trays, pitchers of water and modest-size glasses awaited. He didn’t want his subjects getting filled up on water; he wanted them focused on the samples.
This time, the chocolates provided were
all
allergen-free mockups; no traditional or commercially available samples allowed. That, along with the small water glasses, had been Jimmy’s suggestion. Also among his father’s bright ideas were improved packaging examples (whipped up in a flash by the innovative Torrance Chocolates design department), evocative and appealing posters highlighting the potential new line, and a bonus: an appearance by the Torrance Chocolates mascot.
Unhappily ensconced in the mascot suit, Jason trudged to Damon’s place in the room. He yanked at the collar of his furry suit, looking very much like an unhappy six-foot-tall sea otter who was temporarily holding his oversize head under his arm.
“Do I
have
to do this?” Jason complained, putting his fuzzy hands on his fuzzy hips. “This suit itches like a mother—”
“Aw, come on, honey. I think you look cute!” Amy said before Damon could reply. From her place at the room’s window, she looked up from the toys she’d been using to entertain Manny and Isobel. “You look like my big, strong snuggle bunny!”
“Don’t you mean your ‘big, strong snuggle
otter
’?” Jason frowned. “Shouldn’t we get started pretty soon? The faster we kick off this thing, the sooner I can shuck this suit and go back to looking like a man instead of a walking stuffed animal.”
“Soon. It’s not quite time yet.” With another attack of nerves, Damon stalked to the window. He glanced outside. “I’m still waiting.” He cast an apprehensive glance at Amy.
“Do you think Carol pulled it off? Do you think she’ll get her here?”
“Have you
met
Carol?” Amy asked with a grin. “Once her mind’s made up, she’d rather eat rocks than take ‘no’ for an answer. She’ll get her here. You can count on it.”
The problem was ... Damon
was
counting on it. He truly was. If this maneuver failed, he didn’t know what he’d do next. All the hearts and flowers and love songs and pink balloons and street-corner flower vendors he’d glimpsed on the way here today had only served to underscore the crucial nature of his mission.
Today, he
had
to succeed. He
had
to make up with Natasha.
Whether he’d proved himself to anyone or not.
“I shouldn’t have set up things this way.” Damon wrung his hands, still pacing. He thought he might actually be sweating. That never happened to him. But then again, now that he knew he
wasn’t
really unusually lucky (just a tad overconfident) and never
had
been unusually lucky (just allowed to believe he was), a lot of things might change for him. Now all he had to rely on were his own hard work and innovative nature ... which was really all he’d had all along, anyway.
“I should have waited until I had workable prototypes and rave reviews!” Damon said, still pacing. “I should have waited until this was an unequivocal success.”
Amy shook her head. “Natasha never wanted you because you were a success. She wanted you because you were
you
.”
Damon was afraid to believe her. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re one half of the ultimate couple. But Natasha—”
“
Is here
,” Jason interrupted. He pointed out the window at a parked flatbed truck, indicating the two women and one man who’d just gotten out of it. “Put on your game face, big shot,” he told Damon with an uneasy look. “It’s go time.”
Chapter 27
Inside the bright front office of Milo’s elementary school, Natasha signed in on the requisite visitor’s sheet. She stated her purpose for coming to the school, exchanged some chitchat with the receptionist, then glimpsed the vice principal.
“Ms. Jennings!” the woman cried, coming forward with a cheerful look. Warmly, she clasped Natasha’s hand in hers. “It’s so nice to see you again. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Thanks. It’s nice to see you, too.” In actuality, Natasha had just seen the vice principal—and Milo’s teacher, and several others on the staff, along with a multitude of parents—at the latest PTO meeting. Which didn’t explain why everyone in the school suddenly beamed at her as though she’d been lost at sea and had just today staggered home. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Milo forgot his epinephrine injector at home, so I brought it.”
“Indeed, you did! We’ve already called Milo to the office.”
“Oh, good. Thanks.”
“But while you wait, why don’t I issue some visitors’ passes to you and your guests?” Before Natasha could refuse, the vice principal and her receptionist outfitted everyone with pin-on name tags. “There.” The vice principal beamed. “All set.”
“But we don’t really need passes,” Natasha said, eager to cut short this visit so she could get to Damon. He was probably at home at his renovated beach house, contemplating his next power move at work. Or at an all-day margarita bar, considering quitting work altogether. Either way, she didn’t care. “I’m not volunteering today, so we won’t be staying. Look, there’s Milo!”
Spotting her son, Natasha waved. Her towheaded boy pulled open the door connecting the front office with the rest of the school. He trotted in, looking strangely pleased with himself.
“Hi, Mom!” Milo waved, then gave her a hug. When he pulled back, he waved at Carol, too. “Hi, Grandma! You guys are going to have so much fun today!” He spotted Kurt. “Hi, Kurt! I hope you like candy. There’s going to be a
lot
of candy at my class’s Valentine’s Day party. It’s just about to start!”