Maggie Moves On(6)

“I’m all yours,” he told her as he followed her off the porch.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by warning you that this is a big job,” she told him. “For starters, the trees are trying to eat the eight-hundred-foot driveway.”

“I’ve got a tree guy. Gal, actually,” he said, falling into step beside her. Kevin trotted ahead of them to begin his sniffing inventory.

“Good. Then we’ve got these prehistoric shrubs crowding in the front and around the east side. A bumper crop of poison oak.”

“I’m immune,” he told her. “It’s one of my many superpowers. What’s yours?”

“Built-in bullshit detector. All of this needs cleaned up,” she said, gesturing at the tangle of underbrush and trees that had cropped up alongside the house.

“Agreed. We’ll get a lot more light into the first floor if we cut all this back. What’s your favorite holiday?” he asked.

“Thanksgiving,” she answered without missing a beat. “Back here we’ve got another small issue for your tree gal.”

The small issue was a seventy-foot fir that had decided to take a nap against the house.

He took a closer look. “Been here so long it’s all dried out. We’ll give you a nice stack of firewood, since I’m assuming you won’t be converting all of the fireplaces to gas.”

“I’m keeping the two first-floor fireplaces wood-burning,” she said.

“Good. I’d hate for us to hit a deal breaker this early in our relationship,” he said, lifting a branch of a crabapple out of her way as they picked their way through the backyard. She ducked under his arm.

The dog joyfully barreled past them, nose to the ground as he sniffled and snorted his way around the perimeter of the old iron fence.

“The fence kind of makes me think haunted cemetery,” Maggie said, eyeing it. “I wouldn’t be heartbroken if you said it needed to come down.”

“Easy enough,” he said, pausing to take in the backyard. The morning sun was behind them on the front of the house. The weeds already coming back to life had no problem with the shade. Rocky Mountain maples sprang up from waist-high grasses in a jumble of branches and buds. A pair of spindly looking hawthorn trees loomed too close to the house.

“Might take a few of these taller trees down,” he advised. “You won’t want a sequel to that one. Plus, a house this size needs a backyard kids and dogs can run around in. Do you have any? Kids or dogs?”

“Agreed. And no, I don’t. But the next owner might.”

“Big project for a flipper,” he observed.

“Biggest I’ve tackled,” she said, leading him out of the jungle to the north side of the house. “But scope doesn’t scare me, and I don’t want anyone on my team that’s afraid of a little—okay, a lot—of hard work.”

He stopped in front of her and placed a hand over his heart. “Maggie, I’m deadly serious when I tell you that Hard Work is my middle name.”

She shot him a look that told him he was definitely charming the hell out of her. “No. It’s not,” she said.

“Okay. Fine. It’s actually Andrew. But my motto is Work Hard, Play Harder.”

“Now, that I believe.”

“I’m your guy, Maggie.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. I’m less concerned about the backyard and more hopeful that a smart, challenge-embracing landscape architect can bring this area back to life.”

What had been a stately stone terrace was now about 167 trip-and-fall lawsuits waiting to happen. The retaining wall at the far end had given up on retaining and leaned into, well, just plain leaning. And then there was the fountain. Four huge horses, stallions if their equipment was accurate, claimed the center.

Dark, soupy water from the rains puddled at the base around years of nature’s seasonal debris.

In its current state, the fountain was a mosquito breeding ground at best. At worst, it would have to be completely dismembered.

“Wow,” he said for the second time since he’d arrived. Unhooking the tape measure from his belt, he turned his ball cap around backward.

“Uh. I don’t know how long it’s been since it ran, but I’d love to get it in working order,” she said, a hint of wistfulness in her tone.

Kevin bounded up to her, a tree branch clenched in his massive jaws. He spit it out at her feet and waited expectantly. Silas noted the tangle of roots and dirt on one end and hoped the dog hadn’t actually yanked it out of the ground. He was dirty from nose to tail, the bottom half of his pudgy body obscured with dark, fresh mud.

“Did you fall in a well?” Maggie asked.

The dog gave a happy bark.

She snapped off a significantly smaller branch and gave it a toss in the direction of the backyard. She had a good arm, and the dog barreled after it, flinging wet mud in all directions.

“I apologize for my brute of a friend there,” Silas said. “I would assure you he is not always an asshole like this, but then I’d be lying. This is exactly why he got the boot from therapy dog school.”

Her sharp brown eyes darted to where the dog was rolling, stubby legs in the air. “Therapy dog school?”

“The rescue thought, since he was smart and affectionate, he’d make a good therapy or emotional support dog. He was a fast learner, but they underestimated the stubborn streak. They could get him to open drawers and refrigerators, but only when he felt like it. Nailed my shin just this morning on a dresser drawer he left open before he helped himself to all my bacon.”