Golden in Death(92)

To another terrace with tables, chairs, benches, big urns with exotic-looking viny things spilling out.

Who thought of all that? she wondered. The viny things, the sassy things, the happy pink and white and yellow and purple things poking up out of the ground as if they’d just decided to bloom there?

She supposed Roarke had final say on all of it.

And it felt good to be outside, she had to admit it. The air definitely felt like spring—a stroke instead of a bite. Smelled like it, too, sort of green and fresh and promising.

Trees and shrubs had begun to bud or unfurl. She heard birdsong instead of traffic. It didn’t take her long to relax, or to figure out where he was headed.

“Did they finish the pond?”

He smiled. “You’ll soon see. We’ll supply the finishing touch ourselves.”

They wandered through a grove of fruit trees—she remembered the peaches from the previous summer, how they’d smelled, tasted. How they’d looked out and discussed adding a pond, a bench for them to sit on.

And there it was, tranquil and lovely through the greening trees. Naturally, being Roarke’s, the reality leaped well over her initial mental image.

“Jeez, you got a waterfall.”

“A small one. It adds to it, doesn’t it?” He drew her along to that music of water striking water as it spilled over stone rises into a pool where water lilies floated serenely.

Around the stone walls of the pool danced budding shrubs and little trees, lush grasses. She could smell them, and the water, the rich, thick mulch that gave way to pavers in that same natural stone gray. Pavers, she noted, that had been etched with the same Celtic design as their wedding rings.

Jesus, the man knew how to get to her.

The bench stood on the pavers, the perfect spot to look over the pond, its magical little falls of water, the castle of a house in the distance, the grove of budding trees.

“I thought it was going to be a hole in the ground filled with water.”

“We wanted to do a bit better than that.”

“It’s…” She could only shake her head. “It’s great. It’s like it was always here.”

“We wanted organic as well.”

“Well, it works. I can’t say I ever pictured myself sitting beside a pond drinking wine, but this works.” She frowned, pointed. “What’s all that?”

“The finishing touch.”

He led her around behind and to the side of the bench where a small tree, its trailing branches fat with pink buds, waited beside a hole in the ground. With it, a couple of shovels leaned against a wheelbarrow full of mulch, another filled with rich brown soil. A bucket held work gloves, small spades.

“They didn’t get to plant this?”

“They’re not planting this. We are.”

She shot him a look that fell between shocked and amused. “We are?”

“That we are.” He set his glass, the bottle on the bench, took her glass and did the same. “Think of the satisfaction as we watch it grow over the years, bloom every spring.”

“Think of the guilt when it dies because we killed it.”

“We won’t be killing it.” He took gloves out of the bucket, handed her a pair. “I have very specific instructions on the process. The landscape crew dug the hole as, though I’ve dug a few holes in my time, literally and metaphorically, the head landscaper didn’t trust me on it. And made that one clear.”

She had to laugh. “He’s still employed?”

“He is, as I have to respect a man who stands his ground. So.” Roarke pulled on his gloves. “Into the hole with it, Lieutenant.”

“Just … put it in there?”

“That would be the first step.”

She looked at him as they maneuvered the tree to the hole. “This is why you changed out of your suit.”

“And how handy it is you did the same. There now, you hold it up there, let’s keep it straight, while I shovel some dirt around the root ball.”

“Okay. How do I know it’s straight?”

“You’ve eyes in your head, don’t you? They’ve mixed peat in with the soil—I did have a bit of a go at that, under supervision.”

It smelled, well, earthy, she supposed, as he shoveled the mix from the barrow into the hole. It was a pretty good look for him, too, she thought, the shoveling.

“She’ll hold now. Do your share.”

“I thought I was.”

“Get your shovel.”

Fully amused now, she did. Maybe she did get some satisfaction out of dumping dirt in a hole. Who knew? But the air, the scents, the light, the physicality all worked. Until, well, son of a gun, they had a tree in the ground.

“Now, we’re to take the small spades, tamp the dirt down. Lightly, I’m cautioned, against the roots.”

That required hands and knees, which was surprisingly okay. She wouldn’t want to make a living at it, or even a habit, but as that finishing touch, it was really okay.

“How do we know if it’s enough?” she wondered.

“It feels like it is, so we’ll go with that.” He pushed up, picked up a large silver container with a spout.

“What’s that?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a watering can?”