A Gift for All Seasons

Chapter Two

“That’s not what you had on five minutes ago.”

Shooting daggers at her cousin Melanie, April selected a coffee from the carousel on the gleaming, brand-new quartz counter and plopped it into the Keurig maker. The old kitchen, although huge, had been so outdated it nearly qualified for historical preservation status. And not in a good way. Now it was a chef’s dream, with miles of countertops and cabinets, double ovens and a massive, stainless-steel-topped island, and—the pièce de résistance—a six-burner commercial-grade stove … in pink. Just for Mel. Who, now that true love had brought her back to St. Mary’s after more than ten years away, had agreed—after much haranguing on April’s part—to bring her mad cooking skills to the inn.

“I was cold,” April said. “So I put on a heavier sweater.”

“And changed your pants. And your headband—”

“Shut. Up.”

“And that’s your fourth cup of coffee this morning.” The brunette grinned, her own mug of coffee nestled against her generous bosom, not so generously covered by a hot pink velour hoodie. Underneath long bangs, her gray-green eyes glittered. “That much caffeine and you’re gonna sound like a chipmunk on speed. Although I do like that shade of purple on you.”

Their other cousin, Blythe, an interior designer in D.C. who was there for a few days to check on the remodel’s progress, wandered into the kitchen, yawning, a study in drapey grays and silvers. Tall, blond and impossibly chic, she frowned at April.

“Weren’t you wearing something different at breakfast?”

Melanie poked Blythe as she bit into one of her own homemade cinnamon rolls. “I remember Patrick Shaughnessy. If vaguely. Dude’s definitely worth the wardrobe crazies.”

Her coffee brewed, April grabbed the porcelain mug, watching the sunlight dance across her rings before she turned and caught sight of the clock, a big, old-fashioned schoolroom thing Blythe had found in some antiques store. Ten minutes. Sighing, she leaned against the counter and looked at Mel. Time to reveal a detail or two she’d left out when she’d told them he was coming to give the estimate.

“I take it he was pretty good-looking back then?” she asked her cousin.

“In a craggy, Heathcliffian sort of way, yeah. All the Shaughnessy boys were.”

“So his face … it wasn’t scarred?”

“Scarred? You mean, like … a cut that didn’t heal properly?”

“No. Worse. Like … I don’t know. Burned, maybe?”

“What? Ohmigod, are you serious? Is it … bad?”

April nodded. “Although it’s only one side of his face, so I didn’t notice at first. But when I did …” She grimaced. “I sort of … freaked out.”

Mel frowned. “Freaked out, how?”

“I ran. Like some frightened little twit who thought she’d seen the bogeyman. And yes, he saw the whole thing.”

“Ouch,” Blythe said.

“Exactly.” April’s gaze drifted out the new kitchen window, widened to take advantage of the shoreline view at the back of the property, the private dock jutting out into the glittering water. Her dock now. Her property. For a moment the thought made her feel all sparkly inside, until the guilt blotted it out again. “He has the sweetest little girl.…”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blythe and Mel exchange a glance. Deciding to ignore it, April faced them again. “I actually went back to apologize, but he’d already left. So that’s my first order of business when he gets here.”

Blythe’s eyebrows dipped. “To apologize? You sure that’s a good idea?”

“You got a better one?”

“Yeah. Act like it never happened.”

“Oh, right—”

“I’m serious,” the blonde said, her short, spiked hair like frosted glass in the sunshine. “Look, I get you feel like crap, but he’s probably used to it—”

“So that makes what I did okay?”

“No. But the last thing you want to do is make him more uncomfortable, right?”

Conflicted, April looked to Mel. “So what would you do?”

“Me? I would’ve hired another landscaper. Maybe. Hey,” Mel said when April rolled her eyes, “all you can do is trust your gut. Do what feels right.”

The doorbell rang. Straightening, she set her mug on the counter and swiped her suddenly damp palms down the front of her jeans. “If I don’t throw up first,” she muttered, then headed toward the door, which, after a lung-searing breath, she opened.

Only to run smack into that crystalline gaze, boring directly into hers.

He’d never in his life seen someone blush that hard. April kept swallowing, too, like she was about to be sick. Patrick took pity on her and held up his clipboard, to remind her of his purpose there. Except she shook her head, making her red-gold hair swish softly over her shoulders and Patrick unaccountably irritated. Although about what, he couldn’t have said.

What he could say, though, was that she was even prettier than he remembered. As in, short-out-the-brain pretty. If a trifle too put together for his taste, what with her sweater, shoes and headband all matching. She was also obviously broken up about what she’d done, even before she said, “Before we get started … there is no excuse for how I acted the other day. And I’m sorry.”

Frankly, he was torn, between wanting to let her off the hook and wanting to see her squirm. His face took some getting used to, no two ways around it. So taking offense was pointless. People were just people.

But something about this one especially provoked him. Maybe because he wasn’t entirely buying the whole innocent act she was trying so hard to sell.

Patrick slid his hands into his back pockets, narrowing his eyes even as he realized she’d kept hers steady on his face. Like she was trying to prove something, probably more to herself than to him.

“How you acted?”

She swallowed again. And somehow turned even redder. Had to give her props, though, for not sending out her husband in her stead. Then again, for all he knew this was one of those projects where the wife handled all the design decisions and the man just signed the checks. They got a lot of those. “Yes,” she finally said. “At the garden center.”

“Can’t say as I noticed anything.”

“And now you’re messing with me.”

His brows crashed together. What was left of them, anyway. “I’m not—”

“The heck you aren’t. Because you know darn well what I’m talking about. Although if it makes you feel better, let me spell it out. I acted like a total dimwit when I noticed your scars. I don’t know why, I certainly wasn’t raised like that, and there’s no way I could live with myself without apologizing for my bad behavior. And no, you’re under no obligation to accept my apology, but I am obligated to give it. So. You ready to get started or what?”

For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.

“Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”

She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.

“This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”

Still no husband. Interesting.

And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—

And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.

“Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”

She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.

Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.

It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.

Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.

“Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.

“Yes—”

“I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”

“Oh … no, thanks, I’m good.”

“Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”

She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he could laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far side of the space.

His cell phone clamped to his ear, Patrick lounged in the far chair with one work-booted foot propped on the table in front of him, his “good” side to her. Focused on his conversation, he didn’t see her at first. It was a nice face, April decided, although Mel was right—you couldn’t call it exactly handsome. Honest, though. Good lines. A man’s face, she decided, one befitting someone older than his late twenties, since she guessed he was about the same age as Mel. Which made him a year or so older than her—

She suddenly realized he’d noticed her, his expression downgrading to neutral as he lowered his foot, then stood, pocketing his phone.

“Sorry. Didn’t see you standing there.”

Her stomach fluttered, from nerves, from something much worse, as she smiled. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

He nodded, then waved her in. “Have a seat, then. This won’t take too long.”

The coolness in his voice made April cringe. For all his assurance the other day that he’d accepted her apology, there was no mistaking the change in his demeanor once he’d noticed her presence. Not that she expected everyone in the world to like her, but it killed her to think she’d done something, unwittingly or not, to hurt another human being.

Then again, she thought as she sat on one of the metal chairs, she’d been as sincere as she knew how when she’d tried to undo her gaffe. True, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, but despite this annoying quirk that made her want to resolve every problem life tossed in her path, she had to remind herself it wasn’t any of her business. Goodness, even Clayton had tried his best to convince her that, oddly enough, the entire world was not her responsibility. Breaking the habits of a lifetime, though—not so easy.

And keeping this relationship strictly professional would be one small, important step toward that goal. Contractor and client—this, she could do.

Then an image of what she realized could be the inn’s front yard appeared on the screen—a yard filled with stone paths and flower beds, blooming fruit trees and lush bushes. Of seating areas nestled into several outdoor “rooms.” A pair of evergreens flanking the porch steps, a hedge of roses alongside a low stone wall. And more, much more than she could take in.

“It could really look like that?”

“It really could,” Patrick said from several feet away, then began to explain what she was looking at, periodically adjusting the image as he took her on a virtual tour, his obvious enthusiasm for his work leaching past April’s not-so-hot-to-begin-with defenses. “The idea is to make it an all-season landscape—hence the evergreens. To decorate for the holidays, if you like.”

In the heat of the moment, their gazes met. Tangled. April quickly returned her attention to the screen. Not making that mistake again, nope.

“Oh … yes,” she said, willing her heart to stop pounding. “Perfect.”

“And in the back …” He clicked a few keys, and the backyard appeared. “A gazebo for weddings. Or whatever.”

Her throat clogged. “It’s absolutely amazing.”

“It also doesn’t come cheap.”

Ah, yes. Money. Business. Stay on track. “I wouldn’t imagine that it does.”

“Figured I may as well give you the full monty, we can always cut back if we have to.” He reached for a slim folder beside the computer, handed it to her. “Here’s the estimate, with a complete breakdown for materials and labor. See what you think.”

April pulled out the papers, scanned them, flipped to the last page, had a brief pang of conscience—considering all those years when she couldn’t even buy her mother flowers—then held out her hand. “Got a pen?”

Clearly, Patrick hadn’t expected that. “You sure? I mean, no questions—?”

“Nope.” She dug her checkbook out of her purse, discovered a pen already in it. “Never mind, I have a pen. I take it you’d like half down now?”

“Actually, we do it in thirds—”

She wrote out the amount, signed the contract, then handed it back to him with the check. “So when can you start?”

He separated the copies from the original, slipped hers into another folder, then set the folder in front of her. “Next week? The weather looks like it’s going to stay decent at least through the middle of the month.”

“Great,” she said, getting to her feet, then extending her hand, which he took. Another mistake, but too late now. And the sizzling would subside eventually.

The folder tucked against her side, she started out the door, wanting to get away from that intense, puzzled gaze. But he stopped her with, “I don’t get it.”

She turned, frowning. “Pardon?”

“Why you didn’t haggle.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“People … usually do.”

Somehow, she caught the subtext. “Rich people, you mean?”

She thought his cheeks might’ve colored. “Didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

“Okay. Yeah.” His crossed his arms, high on his chest. “In my experience the better off the client, the more they’re inclined to try to get a better deal. But you didn’t. Why?”

By rights, his borderline impudence—not to mention his assumption that all rich people thought and acted the same way—should have ticked her off. And probably would have, except for the genuine mystification underpinning his words. As well as her having to admit there’d been a time not that long ago when she might’ve been tempted to do some pigeonholing of her own. So she didn’t take particular offense. Nor, in theory, was she under any obligation to explain herself.

Except this little exchange had only illustrated what she’d already learned, which was that people treated you differently when they thought you had money. And not always in a good way. So if she was going to be judged, at least let it be on who she was, not on who Patrick thought she was.

Maybe it wasn’t up to her to right all the wrongs in the world, but she could at least address this one.

His mother had always said his big mouth was going to get him in trouble one day. Judging from the look on April’s face, Patrick figured that day had come. But she was like … like a little hoppy toad, never doing what he expected. Making him crazy.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was out of line.”

So of course she laughed. And, yes, he almost jumped.

“It’s okay, I’m used to dealing with people who say whatever’s on their mind. My mother-in-law was like that, and we got on like gangbusters. Then again, I get on with most human beings. I kind of see it like my mission in life. Anyway …” She waggled her left hand, the rings glinting in the overhead light, “the thing is, I didn’t always have money. To be blunt … I married into it.”

“Really. Another … mission?”

She laughed again, then glanced down at the rings, the light dimmed in her eyes when she looked up again. “No. Not at all. But what I’m saying is, this is still pretty new for me. Believe me I know what it’s like to try to make a living. To hopefully get an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work, and then—” she sighed “—to wonder if that’s going to be enough to meet the bills. So I can’t tell you what a relief it is to not worry about money any more. To be able to sign that contract without a second thought.”

Or any thought, apparently. “Did you even get other bids?”

“I considered it. Of course. But for one thing, your ratings on Angie’s List are through the roof. And for another, based on your discussions with Blythe, she gave me a ballpark figure for what it would probably cost. And you were right on target.” She pulled a face. “It also doesn’t seem fair to make other companies go to all that trouble when only one can get the job.”

“It’s just business, Mrs. Ross.”

“True. But sometimes you have to trust your instincts. This is one of those times.” Then she chuckled. “Unless you deliberately padded the estimate?”

“No!” he said, only to smile himself when she chuckled again. “Although it will be nice to make a halfway decent profit margin on a job, for once. Especially since Christmas is coming. Bonuses for our workers,” he said when she frowned. “They were pretty lame last year, although they all said they understood. At least we didn’t have to lay off anyone, but it was touch-and-go there for a while—”

What the hell? Talking about the business, especially with a client … he never did that. Ever.

Her expression softening, she shouldered her giant purse and pulled on her gloves. Good leather, he was guessing. As were the boots. And the purse. Maybe she hadn’t been born into wealth, but she wore it well all the same.

“Something tells me it’s going to be real nice working with you all,” she said, then looked around. Although God knew what she thought she was seeing. Then her gaze touched his again. “I know this is really pushing it, but … do you think it’ll be done by Thanksgiving? I’d love to have my parents come stay. My mother hasn’t been back to the house for nearly thirty years.”

His phone rang. But since it wasn’t his mother’s ring, or his sister Frannie’s, he ignored it, figuring it wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait five minutes. “The planting will have to be done in stages, some specimens don’t take kindly to establishing over the winter. But all the brickwork, the walks and walls … those, we can do. I promise, we’ll have it looking pretty good by then.”

She grinned. “No more mud?”

“No more mud,” Patrick said, nearly overcome, as he watched her walk away, with something that felt an awful lot like envy, that some other dude had it better than him. An indulgence he hadn’t allowed since he woke up in the VA hospital. And one damned if he was going to allow now.