"Yeah?" His gaze sharpened as Stella labeled the pot. "If you're worried that she might hurt him, or Gavin, don't. She's, I don't know, maternal. "
"Perfect, then - an unidentified yet maternal ghost who haunts my sons' room at night. "
"It's a Harper family tradition. "
* * *
After a conversation like that, Stella needed something sensible to occupy her mind. She grabbed a flat of pansies and some trailing vinca from a greenhouse, found a couple of nice free-form concrete planters in storage, loaded them and potting soil onto a flatbed cart. She gathered tools, gloves, mixed up some starter solution, and hauled everything out front.
Pansies didn't mind a bit of chill, she thought, so if they got a few more frosts, they wouldn't be bothered. And their happy faces, their rich colors would splash spring right at the entry way.
Once she'd positioned the planters, she got her clipboard and noted down everything she'd taken from stock. She'd enter it in her computer when she was finished.
Then she knelt down to do something she loved, something that never failed to comfort her. Something that always made sense.
She planted.
When the first was done, the purple and yellow flowers cheerful against the dull gray of the planter, she stepped back to study it. She wanted its mate to be as close to a mirror image as she could manage.
She was half done when she heard the rumble of tires on gravel. Logan, she thought, as she glanced around and identified his truck. She saw him start to turn toward the material area, then swing back and drive toward the building.
He stepped out, worn boots, worn jeans, bad-boy black-lensed sunglasses.
She felt a little itch right between her shoulder blades.
"Hey," he said.
"Hello, Logan. "
He stood there, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his work pants and a trio of fresh scratches on his forearms just below the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
"Picking up some landscape timbers and some more black plastic for the Dawson job. "
"You're moving right along there. "
"It's cooking. " He stepped closer, studied her work. "Those look good. I could use them. "
"These are for display. "
"You can make more. I take those over to Miz Dawson, the woman's going to snap them up. Sale's a sale, Red. "
"Oh, all right. " She'd hardly had a minute to think of them as her own. "Let me at least finish them. You tell her she'll need to replace these pansies when it gets hot. They won't handle summer. And if she puts perennials in them, she should cover the planters over for winter. "
"It happens I know something about plants myself. "
"Just want to make sure the customer's satisfied. "
He'd been polite, she thought. Even cooperative. Hadn't he come to give her a materials list? The least she could do was reciprocate. "If Graceland's still on, I can take off some time next Thursday. " She kept her eyes on the plants, her tone casual as a fistful of daisies. "If that works for you. "
"Thursday?" He'd been all prepared with excuses if she happened to bring it up. Work was jamming him up, they'd do it some other time.
But there she was, kneeling on the ground, with that damn hair curling all over the place and the sun hitting it. Those blue eyes, that cool Yankee voice.
"Sure, Thursday's good. You want me to pick you up here or at the house?"
"Here, if that's okay. What time works best for you?"
"Maybe around one. That way I can put the morning in. "