Page 10 of Edge of Ruin (The Edge Trilogy #3)

Chapter Eight

Vivi

I woke up slowly, in a bright patch of morning sunshine that streamed through the curtainless window, straight into my eyes.

I rolled over to find Edna panting right into my face. I stroked the dog’s velvety ears. Wow. I felt almost unnaturally comfortable. The futon was so much nicer than the battered old mattress in my van.

But I didn’t dare get used to it. I had to find another bed, and fast. No way could I be obligated to Jack Kendrick for anything so intimate as a bed.

I pulled some clothes on, fed Edna, and munched on some of the yogurt and granola that I had bought the evening before.

The weather was gorgeous. A great day to hike back to the van, locate someone with a tractor, and stay far, far out of Jack Kendrick’s way.

But first, I needed to touch base with my sisters.

Check my email. I was off any and all social media platforms, as we all were since our troubles began, so I used the deeply encrypted messaging app that Duncan had mandated.

But my phone had no coverage. I looked around the apartment for a phone jack and found one next to the back door in the kitchen, but there was no landline phone attached to it.

Well, that was a pickle. I needed a vehicle to buy myself a phone, and I needed a phone to summon any sort of vehicle, to take me to a car rental place.

Which meant I would have to ask permission to use his phone. Oh God. That thought turned my legs rubbery.

I marched out, and a spasm of doubt stopped me on the steps. Maybe I should give myself just a casual, cursory peek in the bathroom mirror, to make sure there were no crumbs in my eyes or smeared makeup from last night.

I went inside and did a facial-cleansing routine.

Toner, moisturizer, the whole shebang. Teeth.

I brushed my hair. That made me reflect that the sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out was shabby as hell.

I rummaged through the duffel. Maybe the green tank—no.

Too revealing. The green linen blouse, then.

With a hint of mascara. And maybe a tiny swipe of gloss on my lips. Barely any.

One last look into the mirror sent me back to my purse to pull out a pair of silver and jade drop earrings. I posed for Edna, who wagged her approval, and out we stepped into the cool morning.

The fragrance was overwhelming: earth, flowers, pine needles, dew, rain. The air itself seemed to sparkle as it went into my lungs. Birds warbled. Pale sunlight sifted through pine needles, in a fluttering, swaying pattern. I looked around, open-mouthed.

I hesitated before his door. It was seven-thirty, after all. Maybe he was a late sleeper. I’d almost decided to come back later when an unfamiliar voice called from across the yard. “Hello, there, missy!”

I whirled around, my heart thudding, like it always did when I was startled these days.

I beheld a small, elderly lady with bluish hair, dressed in a rose-spattered dress and carrying a paper bag, making her way up the path with the help of a cane.

“Good morning,” I replied, smiling at the welcome that creased the old lady’s wrinkled face.

“And what’s your name, young lady?”

“Vivi D’Onofrio. Pleased to meet you.” I extended my hand.

The old lady set down the paper bag and took my proffered hand, squeezing it gently. “My name is Margaret Moffat O’Keefe, but you can call me Margaret. So! My Jack has been a naughty fellow, hmm?”

I was nonplussed for a moment, until I finally grasped the mischievous twinkle in the old lady’s eyes.

“Oh, no! Not with me, not at all! I barely know the man, to be honest. I’m just a friend of a friend, staying here for a while in the apartment.

Up there.” I pointed to the barn. “I was just looking for him, to ask if I could use his phone, since my phone has no coverage. But I was afraid he might be sleeping. I didn’t want to?—”

“Oh, good heavens, no. Jack’s no slug-a-bed.”

Luckily, her brisk response cut off my nervous babbling. Margaret stumped up the porch steps and rapped smartly with the head of her cane on the front door. “Jack, dear?” she called out. “Are you home?”

There was no response. “Well, his truck is here, so he’s probably just gone down to see to his flowers,” Margaret said. “Have you seen his flowers yet?”

I shook my head, and Margaret clucked her disapproval. “Young Jack must show you his flowers! They are a sight like you will never see again. That man. Such talent.”

“Um … not these, you mean?” I indicated the flower beds in the yard.

“Oh, no. These are just the front gardens. They’re just for fun. I mean the big gardens down by the river. I think he has columbines and lamb’s ears and sweet william coming in now. And bachelor buttons, of course, and heaven only knows what else.”

I smiled at the beaming old lady. “It sounds magical,” I told her, quite sincerely.

“I’d take you down myself, but this arthritis has slowed me down some. You just sit down on the porch and have a cookie, and Jack will be along. I baked some molasses crinkles for Jack. He loves cookies.”

“Is he related to you?” I asked.

“Not technically, but I think of Jack as my honorary grandson, since he came here to live with me some twenty-five years ago, or so. In fact, he bought this property from me some years back. Dear boy.”

I had to stifle a giggle at the thought of that big block of seasoned manhood being referred to as a “dear boy.”

“Well, I’ll be running along now. Come have a cup of tea with me one of these mornings when you’re settled in. And say hello to Jack for me.” She held out the bag. It was heavy and fragrant. “Oh, and tell Jack to show you the hot springs.”

“Hot springs?” I was intrigued.

“Oh, my goodness yes, dearie. There are some natural hot pools a couple of miles upriver. Very private. No one ever found out about them. They are just beautiful. Something tells me you would like them, bless your heart.” She patted my shoulder.

“Something told you right,” I said, with relish. Wow. Cookies. Flowers. Hot springs. I’d hit the motherlode. This place was paradise on earth.

I gazed wistfully after the old lady as she made her slow, careful way down the walk.

How incredibly sweet of her. She was not like Lucia in any obvious way—Lucia had been fiercely elegant, a professor, multilingual, a brilliant and cultured expatriate intellectual.

But there was something about Margaret’s warmth that made me think of Lucia.

The pang of longing brought tears to my eyes.

Happily for me, I was distraced by an intoxicating buttery-sweet fragrance that rose from the bag. I peeked inside. Molasses sugar cookies, warm and fresh.

I sat down on the porch steps and reached for one.

Predictably enough, my hand was in the bag when Jack strode around the house, carrying an armful of what looked like columbines, though they were much bigger than any columbines I’d ever seen.

I yanked my hand out guiltily, licking my fingers with embarrassed bravado.

He stopped in front of me and nodded in silent greeting.

“Hi. I, uh, just met Margaret.” I closed the bag and folded down the top. “She brought you cookies.”

“So I see,” he said.

“She said I could have some,” I said, before I could stop myself, and blushed furiously as he began to smile. Lines crinkled up around his eyes, sparking a warm glow somewhere in the vicinity of my navel. That warmth crept inexorably downward.

“Eat all you want,” he said. “What kind are they this time?”

“Molasses,” I informed him. I wrenched me gaze away from a smile that had now become a grin, complete with shockingly white and beautiful teeth, and focused on his long, work-hardened hands, gently holding those long flowers.

Whew. This guy was loaded up with subtle secret weapons. Every one of them was calculated to lay me low. Columbines, for God’s sake. Give me a freaking break.

I struggled to remember what I’d come down to ask him.

“Ah, I need to make a few phone calls, and get online, to check my mail orders. And, ah, my cell has no coverage here. So I was just wondering?—”

“Of course. There’s a jack in your kitchen, but it’s my phone line. I assumed, considering your security problem, you weren’t going to want to list a number right now. You mind sharing a line with me? I don’t spend much time hanging on the phone.”

“Me neither,” I said swiftly. “That’s fine with me, if it’s okay with you.”

“If you want to use your cell, hike up to the top of that rise,” he said. “See that stand of spruce? You’ll get some coverage up there. But for now, use my phone. Hook your computer up in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“I meant to get you a phone. You weren’t supposed to arrive so soon.” He gazed at me accusingly through the stalks of columbine.

“Yeah, right. Don’t you want to go and put those down somewhere?”

“Yeah, and then I’m going to make coffee. Come in and have a cup.”

I watched, fascinated, as he walked across the yard toward a small building. The back view of his jeans was as appealing as the front. I forced myself to exhale slowly.

Inside his cozy kitchen once again, I gazed at trays of seedlings while he put on the coffee. When he sat down at the table across from me, I gave in to my curiosity.

“Duncan said you grow flowers,” I ventured. “Margaret, too.”

Jack stroked the bottom of a delicate leaf in one of the trays. It trembled above the forest of thin, delicate pale stems, as if floating there. “Yes. I’ve got some Aquilegia flavescens, and Delphinium exaltatum, and Dianthus barbatus coming in right now. I’m taking a load into Portland today.”

“What’s that in English?” I asked.

“Columbines, larkspurs, and sweet william,” he clarified.

I sneaked a quick peek at his somber profile. “Why do you use Latin names?”

“I like how specific it is,” he said. “There are hundreds of subgroups for common flower names. Each one has its own totally different personality.”

“Wow,” I murmured, impressed.