Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“You said you were sick. I brought some lemons and mint from the garden.”
I glimpse the mint squished in beside the lemons. “I haven’t planted any mint.”
He shrugs, toeing off his shoes and peering at me from the corner of his eye.
I step back from the door and take the box out of his arms. He gives me a look as I back down the hall towards the kitchen, but he chases after me and drags out a chair at the table. It’s the same chair Robin usually sits in when he comes over. Lyle fills it differently; he’s an inch shorter, and his sandy hair, swept over his forehead, frames a pretty face rather than Robin’s strong-jawed handsomeness. He smells different too, subtle hints of soap instead of ocean salt.
I fill the jug and plant my still-booted foot on the chair across from Lyle as I undo the laces. I just have to convince Lyle I’m sick, get him out of my house, and race over to sort out the fir while Robin is still out.
I recall Lyle’s younger brother clomping dirty shoes through his nice house. Maybe I should take a page from that playbook.
I slip my boot off and set it on the table, close enough that if he leans over his nose will touch it.
His brow shoots up. He picks up the boot and inspects it. “I’m thinking of getting some like this too.”
“For all the gardening you love to do?”
His lips twitch.
I make lemon and mint teas. He stares into his cup for a long time. The smile he brought with him fades, and suddenly there are dark shadows over his face. The happy crinkles at the edges of his eyes don’t deepen like they usually do. Pretty though the man is, right now he looks like one who hasn’t slept. Who might have recently had a good, hard sob.
Strange what difference a smile can make.
We sip our tea. My watch ticks loudly, but I don’t care quite as much about hurrying him out of here as I did a moment ago.
Lyle looks at me over his cup. “I came because I understand. This bug. It’s not nice. I hope we get over it quickly.”
“Should I have made lemonade?”
A small laugh, then Lyle takes a larger gulp of tea and grimaces. “Actually, yeah.” He lowers my boot to the floor. “I won’t stay long. I just wanted to say . . .” He looks at me. “I hope you’ll finish my yard. But I understand if you don’t want to. You’re still allowed to rob me for it.”
He rises and heads to the front door, where he sinks his feet into his shoes, paying attention to everything else but me.
The fir’s getting big now. Soon I’ll have to start thinking about how I’ll manage the bigger trees. Maybe Mr Cole will help.
I spread the bark around the base and then hook an arm around Tool. We stare at the moonlit fir bristles. Why am I still doing this?
I glance over my shoulder, as if I could see all the way to the house and through it. Robin and Lyle are in there having a movie night. At least I don’t torture myself as badly as Lyle does. He seems to be here more than ever.
I look at myself—covered in soil and bark, smelling of fir—and wince, rolling my face into Tool’s fur.
Ah, shite. “This is the definition of delusional.”
Tool pants in agreement.
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and carefully haul up the old fir. Holding the pot firmly, I tiptoe down the side of the house.
Tool bounds past me and I lose my footing. My shoulder bangs against the side of the house with a resounding thump and I freeze, ears straining.
Dammit. I should never have risked this while they were home.
I just . . .
Muted voices, the sliding door, footsteps.
I dash down the never-ending length of the house—
Feet on the deck.
I won’t make it unseen.
I press my back hard against the weatherboards and hope, if I remain still, the downpipe and the darkness will disguise me.
I gulp as the grass muffles the footsteps—
This is it. The magic will disappear.
Lyle’s shadowy figure stops a few steps from me. His gaze meets mine and drops to the fir I’m carrying. For a few moments, neither of us reacts.
Silently, I plead with him to stay quiet, not to give me away.
Finally, he shifts a step closer, letting out a soft sigh. No cheeky or charming smile tonight. He glances down the house as he rubs the back of his neck. “What are we doing?”
He steps closer, body a wall of warmth blocking the slight breeze, the scent of his recently shampooed hair catching in my nose. His sympathetic stare squeezes my chest, makes it hard to breathe. I lose my grip on the fir and it drops to my side.