Wait until dusk when the lights come up. Even more serious wow. Must pass on the beer or wine and lasagna. Gotta catch up on paperwork. Take a walk outside for me after dark.

I will. Don’t work too hard. See you tomorrow.

Didn’t anybody check the weather forecast? But she only typed back:

Night.

* * *

The storm crashed in with a flash and a boom. A solid sleeper, Darby slept right through the war of it. Then popped out of a dead sleep a full hour before her internal alarm. She lay in the dark, watching the electric slaps, listening to the echoing bangs and the thunder of flooding rain.

With sleep a fond memory, her mind circled from waterfalls—couldn’t wait to start on it—to paperwork—all nicely current—to Zane. Was he awake, too?

If she’d gone back as he’d asked, she’d have company right now through the big, bad storm.

And her paperwork wouldn’t be all nicely current.

Trade-offs, she supposed, as her mind continued to wander.

When lightning lit up the bedroom like a Broadway stage, she decided to get up. In the kitchen, she made coffee and drank it in the open doorway, absorbing the wrath of the storm.

Something to see, she thought, all that energy rolling and pounding, the cracks over the sky like shattered glass, the rocket flashes that threw the mountains into eerie relief before plunging them into the black again.

Still, it brought home to her just how isolated she was. She might be on an island somewhere on a raging sea.

With plenty of food, she reminded herself, a solid roof over her head, and power. At least she had power for the moment.

Thinking of that, she gathered up flashlights, checked the batteries, filled a couple of jugs with water, and thought about getting a small generator.

And a dog. Dogs were good company, she mused. She should definitely consider getting a dog.

But right now seemed a great time to attack ugly wallpaper.

By midday the storm had long since turned into a steady, soaking rain and the air to a steam bath. After breaks to vent frustration, Darby scraped off the last stubborn strip of kitchen wallpaper.

“Eur-fucking-reka,” she muttered, and shoved her cap back to swipe at her face. “I won, you bastard.”

Maybe her kitchen resembled a war zone, but she’d won. Now all she had to do was wash down the walls, which revealed themselves in a hideous shade of moldy green, wait for them to dry—probably sometime in the next century—prime, and paint.

She stepped over a pile of defeated wallpaper, crouched down to get a bucket from under the seat. And lost ten years of her life at the rap-rap on her open kitchen doorjamb.

There stood Zane, hair a little damp and wearing a dark suit.

“God, you gave me a start. I didn’t hear you drive up in all this rain.” A dog, she thought again. She needed to look into getting a dog. “You’re wearing a suit.”

“I was in court this morning.”

“You look different. Good, but different.”

He glanced around her war zone, smiled. “Housecleaning?”

Straightening, she jabbed a finger at ragged strips, piles, scraps of wallpaper. “I killed it.”

“From what I can see, it looks like self-defense. I’ll get you off.”

“They wallpapered over wallpaper. Who knew?”

He studied the walls. “That paint color might be worse.”

“I know it. I know it. I may have to get a priest, a shaman, a white witch, whatever, to come in here and exorcise the spirits of evil decorating.”

“Are you doing this and lots of laundry? It smells like lots of laundry.”

“Fabric softener. One part to one part really hot water equals a good, nonchemical wallpaper solvent.”

“How do you know that?”

“Internet. Don’t get any of this crap on your shoes. They look like really nice shoes. Is there food in that bag?”

“You were on my way back, sort of, from court, and I’ve got a couple hours before I need to be in the office. I picked up Chinese.”

“You picked up Chinese.” She may have fallen at least a little bit in love as he stood in her steam bath of a kitchen with its horrible walls in his lawyer suit and excellent shoes, holding a bag of Chinese takeout.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. That was one bitch of a storm this morning. Branches and limbs all over the place. Plus, I wanted to see you.”

Straight-up honesty, she decided, on both sides. “Hallie mentioned she—and people—are speculating about you and me.”

“You’re not in Baltimore anymore,” he began, then angled his head. “Is having people speculate a problem for you?”

“No. I thought it might be for you.”

“Why?”

She puffed out her cheeks. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m out of practice, Zane, on how this all works. Plus, I’m the new girl around here, and you’re the returning son.”

And, he thought, their relationship, so far, almost exclusively consisted of evenings, nights, mornings at his house.

That he could fix.

“What are you doing Saturday night?”

“I’ll have to check my busy social calendar.”

“How about you squeeze in dinner at Grandy’s?”

“I think I can juggle that in.”

“For now, how do you feel about sweet and sour pork?”

“I feel really good about it. Why don’t we eat out on the front porch. It’s probably cooler out there than in here. And it’s certainly less ugly.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Just let me wash up—No, no, don’t touch me. I’m disgusting.”

“I think there’s a clean spot right here.” He continued in, cupped her chin, kissed her.

PART THREE

FROM ROOTS TO BLOOMING

Kind hearts are the gardens,

Kind thoughts are the roots,

Kind words are the flowers,

Kind deeds are the fruits.

—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The earth remains jagged and broken

only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.

—WALT WHITMAN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The following evening, though she discouraged it, Zane came to her place to partner up in the battle of the wallpaper.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“You think I can’t handle it. I have my own scraper.” He held it up.

“Oh, it’s all shiny and new. Not for long. All right, come on up. I’ll show you the battlefield. And I’m letting you know right now, if you decide to back out at any time, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Obviously you doubt not only my skills, my endurance, but my … Holy shit.” He gaped at her bedroom walls. “What is it?”

“It is the beast. It’s what slouched toward Bethlehem to be born.”

“It’s…” Cautiously, he ran a hand down it, felt the weird texture. “It’s somewhere between abandoned bordello and fresh hell. How do you sleep in here?”

“With my eyes closed.”

“Even then. Maybe we need reinforcements. Or napalm.”