The Doctor's Perfect Match

“What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.

“Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”

Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.

But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.

Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”

Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”

He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”

“But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”

She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”

“You might not think it’s so much fun after you start getting blisters on your hands.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Besides, gardening is hard work. It takes a lot of strength. Lifting, digging, pulling. You’re just a little thing.”

A wry smile lifted her lips. “Henry, I’ve spent half my life juggling heavy trays of dishes and glasses. I’ve moved tables, hauled and stacked chairs, and run up and down stairs balancing plates of food. At Ronnie’s Diner, I’m known as the Bionic Blonde. Trust me, being a waitress is a tough job. I’m a whole lot stronger than I look.”

“Well, I sure would like to see this place the way it used to be. And I know Marjorie would be pleased.”

“Then it’s decided. Heather and J.C. said I could use their car every afternoon, so I can bike to a beach and play in the sand in the morning, then head out here and play in the dirt after lunch. Are you game to show me the ropes?”

A slow grin creased his face, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand beside her. “Let’s do it.”

Christopher wheeled his bike behind his cottage, glanced toward Henry’s backyard—and came to an abrupt halt. He had only a partial view of the woman on her hands and knees between two hydrangea bushes, but he’d recognize that blond hair anywhere.

What in the world was Marci Clay doing in Henry’s garden?

As she began to tug on something out of his line of sight, Henry’s voice rang across the yards. “Hey, Christopher! Look what we’re doing!”

Marci lost her grip and fell back with a plop. A second later she twisted toward him with a startled expression.

“Hi, Henry. Hello, Marci.”

Scrambling to her feet, she wiped her hands on her jeans.

“We’re cleaning out 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.