“Okay then, all good.” She breathed out one more time, then ordered up her phone, the number for her stone company. Asked for her rep.

“Hi, Kevin, Darby McCray, High Country Landscaping. You can put that order through. How about we go over it, make sure we’ve got it right?”

By the time she parked at Emily’s, she had her first deliveries confirmed. She hauled out the bag of subs and chips, stood studying the now completed shrubbery.

Perfect.

The foundation plantings, also perfect. And with the new stonework, the fresh paint, the clematis climbing up the new lamppost, the house had some serious curb appeal.

She had some great planters in mind for that fabulous wraparound porch. And since Emily actually cooked, there’d be a couple of tomato plants, plenty of herbs.

She walked around the back to where Roy and Hallie tested another section of irrigation.

She beamed at both of them. “We’re going to need a bigger crew.”

* * *

The following week, Graham Bigelow walked out of prison after eighteen years. His hair, shorn short, was steel gray with hints of white at the temples. Deep lines carved into his prison pale face, around his mouth, his eyes, in his cheeks, his forehead. He wore khakis and a pale blue golf shirt over a body, a bit thicker in the middle than it had been, but one he’d kept fit in the prison gym.

Eliza waited for him outside the gate. She wore a sundress in emerald green. Her hair, freshly colored and styled, swept dark around a face she’d spent a full hour perfecting.

Legs shaking, she walked to him, wrapped her arms around him, felt his wrap around her. She fought back tears as she lifted her face, and for the first time is nearly two decades, felt his mouth on hers.

He turned her to the car, the black Mercedes he’d approved her to purchase. Though his hands balled into fists for an instant—he had no license to drive—he opened the driver’s door for her, walked around to take the passenger seat.

His eyes held hard on the prison gate, the prison walls, the prison guards, all that had kept him locked away and humiliated. Still shaking, Eliza drove away.

“Graham. Oh, Graham.”

“Just drive, Eliza. I need to get away from here.”

“Everything’s ready for you, my darling. Your new clothes, your favorite foods. I sold the house like you said, rented the one you wanted in another neighborhood. The lawyer said we have to stay in North Carolina, but we can apply to move from Raleigh. I thought Charlotte. We can start fresh there.”

The cars whizzed by, too fast. Too many. Too much sound, too much open, too much sky.

“Don’t worry.” She laid a hand over his. “Don’t worry, Graham. You’re free now. We’re free, and we’re together. We’ll be home soon.”

Finally, she pulled into the drive of a two-story brick home—smaller, much smaller than the one he’d left so long ago. But the old neighborhood with its cracked sidewalks meant room between houses, trees and fences forming borders and separation.

She drove into the one-car garage. And he felt a terrible relief at the sound of the garage door closing.

Inside again, away from too much open, noise, prying eyes. Inside with no bars, no locks.

They had sex first, fast and hard. Driving himself into her, feeling the bite of her nails, the rush of her breath, he began to feel like a man again.

They showered together.

She heated up the meal she’d hired a caterer to cook so it would be perfect, and set the table with candles, poured champagne.

They ate and drank together, went back to bed together, more gently this time.

They slept together and woke together, snuggled in bed with coffee together.

Began a new life together.

It took him nearly forty-eight hours to strike her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As spring rolled toward summer, Darby hired Ralph Perkins as a part-time laborer. The squat barrel of a man with a mass of gray hair and bifocals came with experience as a stonemason and could operate the heavy machinery. What he knew about trees and plants wouldn’t fill a bucket, but she wanted an experienced hand to help with Zane’s hardscaping.

And to Darby’s thinking, anyone could be taught to plant, from an oak to a petunia.

Ralph didn’t use two words if a grunt would do, drank Dr Pepper like water, and had a delicate touch with the mini excavator Darby had invested in.

He’d also taken a shine to Gabe, and patiently taught the boy the art of building a retaining wall.

Zane watched the lower terrace take shape, move from a steep, rocky slope to a wide ledge formed from the bite of the excavator’s claw.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d stood on his bedroom terrace, drinking his morning coffee, and worried that damn machine would slide right over the edge.

But Darby appeared to know what she was doing, and so did the new guy. So disaster was averted.

He shot them a wave each morning as he headed to his office. Most days they’d knocked off before he returned. But he’d see little bits of progress—mostly bigger, wider holes.

One day he drove home and found trees lining the steep road, and the foundation or footers or whatever they called it for the front-facing wall.

As the wall began to take shape, actual stone rising, he’d catch himself slowing, even stopping on the drive up. He thought, every time, how it should have always been there.

He thought of Darby and her crew like elves who labored away when no one could see, then vanished like mists.

It surprised him to find her there one evening when he pulled up. Almost as much as it surprised him to see the spread of foundation plants along his veranda. Darby, in cargo shorts and boots, a T-shirt and cap, was on her hands and knees spreading mulch.

She stood as he parked, waited for him to walk over.

“What do you think?”

“It looks great. Scary great. Like ‘I have to learn stuff’ great, which isn’t great.”

“Low, slow growers, easy care.”

“Those don’t look easy. What are they?”

“Mophead hydrangeas, and they are easy. I love that variety with the intense green and blue, the touch of pink on each petal. Unique. The flowers grow on the old wood, so you don’t want to prune at the wrong time of year. So don’t prune. They’re going to give you color until well into the fall. And you’ve got evergreens for structure year-round, more bloomers, good texture.”

She dusted her work gloves against each other. “The wall’s coming along, so I put Roy and Hallie on this to give you a nice little bang when you got home. You’ve been really patient, Walker, and deserved a splash.”

“It’s a splash. Seriously, it’s beautiful. You’re an artist.”

“That’s a lift to the end of my day. Thanks.”

She had damn good legs, he mused. Long, toned arms. She smelled like cedar chips and grass.

“I haven’t talked to you except by email since you were in the office.”

“You give good email.”

“So do you. Want a half a beer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Come on in.”

“Ah, grungy,” she pointed out, spread her arms. “I’m not going to track through your house.”