Garden Of Scandal

“I guess you could call it that,” he allowed finally. “The old man I used to work with thought overeating caused all sorts of problems. Fat rats die young, he used to say. He was Chinese, laughed at the American diet while he stirred up ungodly mixtures of rice and vegetables. But he was eighty-six and going strong last time I saw him.”

“You did yard work with him?”

Alec gave a quick nod, pleased that she had remembered something of what he’d told her that first night. “Mr. Wu was a gardener. He taught me what I know about plants, and a great deal more, besides.”

Her smile was whimsical. “The wisdom of the venerable ancients?”

“You’ve been watching too many old Charlie Chan movies,” he answered with a grin. “Mr. Wu was big on Zen meditation and martial arts, but I never heard him quote Confucius.”

“Martial arts? Did he teach you that, too?”

He shrugged. “Only as a form of exercise—something else Mr. Wu was big on.”

“I’d have thought gardening would give you more than enough of that.” The words were dry as she flexed her neck muscles.

“That was my idea, too,” he replied with a faint laugh of remembrance. His gaze skimmed the softness of her breasts that were lifted into prominence as she turned her head and arched her back to relieve strain. “Mr. Wu had a way of changing a person’s mind.”

“You miss California, I expect. I mean, it must seem so different here.”

“I did miss it,” he replied with a slow shake of his head as he watched her. “But not anymore.”

She avoided eye contact. Relaxing, she used a fingertip to pick up a sesame seed that had fallen from her hamburger bun. “You’ll be going back, though, I guess?”

Would he? He had certainly thought so, once. Now he wasn’t so sure. With his brain feeling tight in his skull as he watched her place the sesame seed on the pink surface of her tongue, he said, “Not anytime soon.”

“Because your brother isn’t well enough? Or is it that he just doesn’t want to go?”

She was avoiding the issue of what he himself wanted, which seemed to indicate that she understood him a little better than he had figured. Although that might be wishful thinking on his part. After a moment, he said, “Gregory’s happy here, or happy enough. I’m not sure he’ll ever…leave.”

“That’s good, then. There must be something about it he likes.”

He gave her a straight look. “Yes, but that’s not what I was getting at.”

“Oh.” Her head came up. “You don’t mean…”

He gave a slow nod as he turned his head to squint at a blue jay just landing on a fence picket. Voice low, he said, “He isn’t going to make it.”

In the sudden quiet, the sound of a jay’s call was loud. After a moment, she said softly, “He knows?”

Alec nodded, since he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

“How old…”

“Thirty-five in October, four years older than I am.” He was laying the age thing on the line between them. The way she had hesitated over the question made him think it might be what she wanted.

“Does he—That is, is he…all right about it?”

“No,” Alec said deliberately, “I don’t think you can say that.” Far from it, in fact. Gregory wasn’t taking it well at all, and who could blame him?

“He’s lucky to have you with him.”

It was the last thing he expected her to say—so unexpected that he laughed. “I’m not sure he would agree.”

“Maisie says your grandmother told her that you’re up with him all hours of the night.”

“Somebody has to check on him, give him his medication. Grannie fusses over him during the day, but she needs her rest.” He was surprised Laurel had spoken to Maisie about him. His brow quirked into an arch as he wondered why.

She colored slightly under his regard. “I saw you taking a nap after lunch that first day. Maisie told me you probably needed it, and why. You haven’t done it again, so I just wanted to say that I don’t mind, if you…feel the need.”

The need he felt had little to do with sleeping, though a great deal to do with lying down. Or not. “I appreciate the thought,” he said carefully, “but I’ve been managing a catnap in the evening while Grannie Callie cooks supper. I’ll get by.”

“It’s up to you.” She lifted one shoulder.

“You suggesting I’m too out of shape to do without it?” he asked in a weak effort to lighten the mood, change the subject.

Her gaze skated over his chest where he had left his shirt unbuttoned for coolness. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Hardly.”

He held his lips clamped shut—it was the only way he could keep from grinning. He hadn’t been fishing for compliments, but he wasn’t immune to them, either.

He pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. His wandering attention was caught by the scaling paint along the edge of the porch, and he grasped at the subject like a lifeline.

“When was the last time this house was painted?”

She shrugged. “Six years, seven maybe. I know it needs it, but…”

“As I said before, it would be a shame to let it go too far. It’s such a grand old place.”

“I know,” she said unhappily. “It’s just that it’s such a hassle.”

“I also told you I could do it.”

“You’d be here forever.”

Exactly, he thought. Instead he said, “Not quite. It’s amazing how fast you can cover ground with a few cans of paint and an air compressor.”

“Spray it, you mean?”

He lifted a brow. “It’s not a new concept.”

“No, but Howard always did it the hard way, with a brush.”

“Your husband, right?”

She nodded, her gaze on her plate. She put what was left of her hamburger down as if she were no longer hungry. Alec thought she looked a little pale. Remembering what Maisie had told him, he couldn’t blame her too much. “It isn’t your fault he died,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire as she looked at him.

“Nothing except what I’ve been told. But even I have sense enough to know a woman who won’t hurt a turtle would never kill a man.” There it was, out in the open. He waited for her to tell him to get lost.