“They look good. A really nice mix of textures, colors, heights. Good thing, too, as the cabin’s booked starting tomorrow. Why don’t you help me do the patio planters, then we can clean up and be done.”

“I’d be glad to.”

“Great.” Darby held out a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

“I—I got the job?”

“You got the job. We can talk the details while we plant.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zane managed to push Darby’s settlement up a full week, but her time still overlapped. To make room for incoming guests, she moved from her bungalow to another until the deal could be sealed.

With Hallie giving her two days a week until her two-week notice ran its course, and Gabe pitching in on weekends and after school—after baseball games or practice—they finished three more bungalows before she had her house keys in her hand.

With Walker Lakeside Bungalows fully booked, she switched her crew—she had a crew!—to reception, where she wanted to go a little bigger, a little bolder. It required her new Bobcat mini excavator, a lot of heavy lifting, loads of dirt, but she created what she considered an excellent rock garden.

“That looks a picture, boss,” Hallie told her.

“And more of one after a few weeks. We should finish this tomorrow. Best plan is to shift to Bungalow Eight—no booking until next weekend. We can get the stonework done, so no stonecutter noise to disturb any guests. We’ll wait on the painting, but should be able to get some shrubs in before it’s occupied. Then we start on Emily’s place, but go back and forth as other bungalows open, even if it’s just a couple days.”

“The woman works us to death.” Roy shoveled dirt around the roots of a redbud. Wish I didn’t like her so much.”

“Maybe you wish you weren’t so good at the work,” Darby tossed back.

“I am pretty damn good at it. Always liked flowers and such well enough, but now I dream about ’em. And what happened just last Sunday? My own mama asked why I didn’t plant her something pretty. Can’t get away from it.”

However he complained, Darby saw on his face that pleasure of planting time after time.

Hours later, after shoveling sand, laying stone, digging holes, she drove up her steep lane, parked her truck in front of her little house.

What she saw when she got out, stood, circled was potential. Land to clear, dirt to move, spaces to build, more to plant. A view of mountains going quiet with twilight, a stretch of woods swimming in shadows. And if she walked to where that land dropped off, hints of the lake below.

She imagined it, photographs in her mind, the retaining walls she’d build, the equipment sheds and greenhouse, the paved driveway, the color she’d add with shrubs, a cutting garden, a shade garden.

She had all the time in the world to plan, to make it happen.

Because she stood on her own land in front of her own house.

She danced her way back to the truck for the supplies she’d picked up.

Two trips later, she wandered the main floor. She could make the living room cozy—when she got some actual furniture. And the little powder room under the stairs could, with some work, transform from bare utilitarian to cute.

The kitchen … well, she’d never been much of a cook, so the ancient appliances would do. And she could paint the cabinets something cheerful or funky, find herself a fun table—or build one—a couple of chairs.

Stingy counter space, she admitted, and the dull yellow countertops needed serious help. Plus, the wallpaper—an explosion of yellow and orange daisies—had to go first chance.

But the windows throughout the house opened to the light, the views, and with no close-by neighbors, she intended to leave them undressed.

And she loved that the kitchen door led out to a good stretch of flat. She’d lay a pretty patio, plant a little kitchen garden. You didn’t have to be a good cook to enjoy a little kitchen garden. Since she got plenty of sun, maybe a cute solar water feature.

Her house, she thought, and gave herself a hug. She could do anything she wanted with it.

She went upstairs. Two small bedrooms, one bath. She’d taken the front-facing bedroom, delegated the second for her office.

The office already held her computer and station, a desk chair, two visitor-hopefully-client chairs, and a money tree in a pot boldly striped in reds and blues.

Happily, very happily, she hadn’t had to deal with wallpaper here, and had painted the walls a calm lake blue, and the trim a crisp white.

The bath? Well, wallpaper. This time fish, a whole lot of fish, bug-eyed and circling the walls. The sellers had left the shower curtain on the tub/shower combo. More fish.

It was downright creepy.

She’d take care of it, but for now she just had to live in the aquarium, and with the sad, peeling vanity and bucket-size sink, and the toilet that rocked just a little whenever she sat on it.

Better than camping, she told herself as she walked the few steps to her bedroom.

She had a bed, or at least a new mattress and box spring, and lovely new sheets and pillows. She had the view from the window, which was worth everything.

She just needed time to get to a furniture store and fill out the rest. And a decent chunk of time, more than decent effort, to rid herself of the wallpaper.

In here it ran red and gold, in what she thought they called flocked. She supposed some tastes might have deemed it elegant, but she found it creepier than the fish.

She showered off the day, dressed in the cotton pants and T-shirt she’d sleep in. In the kitchen, she stuck a frozen pizza in the oven.

Darby considered frozen pizza and microwave popcorn staples of life.

She carried her pizza and a glass of wine up to her office, turned music on—loud. And spent a very contented evening working on plans for her house and headquarters.

* * *

While Darby ate her pizza, Zane sat at a high-top in the bar section of Grandy’s Grill. Ashley spoke truth about the selection of local brews, and plenty of locals, a good smattering of spring tourists kept the waitstaff hopping.

The place had the feel of a good Irish pub, a lot of dark, gleaming wood, quiet lighting, the long bar with an easy dozen or so draft beers on tap backed by a brick wall, shelves lined with bottles.

He hadn’t ventured into the dining area as yet, but from what he’d seen through the wide opening between the two sections, business looked brisk.

Since the night’s highlighted beer was Hop, Drop ’n Roll, Zane went with it. Dave, who sat with him, drank a Dark Angel.

The man, one Zane firmly believed had helped save his life, looked good. Time had threaded gray through his hair, but it suited him. Always the health and fitness guy, he now wore a tracker watch. The cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fit broad shoulders, strong arms.

Clearly, he still made good use of his weight room.

They talked lifting awhile, home gym setups. Once Zane moved into the new house, he had a whole lower level, and intended to install a home gym.

With the ease of longtime friends, they segued to town talk.

“I guess you know Grandy,” Zane began.

“Yeah, sure. Nice guy. He and Ashley put a lot into this place.”

“It works.”

Dave cocked an eyebrow. “Not carrying a torch there, are you?”