Golden in Death (In Death 50)

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?”

“Probably. Sure. It’s big.”

“It’s got some weight.” He planted his feet, poured water around the tree. “We put in underground irrigation, but I’m told we water it well at planting.”

She sat back on her heels a moment, then pushed up herself. “I’ll do this side.”

Into it now, she thought as she let the water flow. Christ, next thing she’d want to name the damn tree.