porch swing, a high-backed bench. Pots and baskets of flowers were arranged among them.
On the side, a deck jutted out, and she could see a short span of steps leading from it to a pretty patio.
More chairs there, more pots - oh, she was falling in love - then the land took over again and spread out to a lovely grove of trees.
He was doing shrubberies in the terraces - Japanese andromeda with its urn-shaped flowers already in bud, glossy-leaved bay laurels, the fountaining old-fashioned weigela, and a sumptuous range of azalea just waiting to explode into bloom.
And clever, she thought, creeping the car forward, clever and creative to put phlox and candytuft and ground junipers on the lowest terrace to base the shrubs and spill over the wall.
He'd planted more above in the yard - a magnolia, still tender with youth, and a dogwood blooming Easter pink. On the far side was a young weeping cherry.
Some of these were the very trees he'd hammered her over moving the first time they'd met. Just what did it say about her feelings for him that it made her smile to remember that?
She pulled into the drive beside his truck and studied the land.
There were stakes, with thin rope riding them in a kind of meandering pattern from drive to porch. Yes, she saw what he had in mind. A lazy walkway to the porch, which he would probably anchor with other shrubs or dwarf trees. Lovely. She spotted a pile of rocks and thought he must be planning to build a rock garden. There, just at the edge of the trees, would be perfect.
The house needed its trim painted, and the fieldstone that rose from its foundation repointed. A cutting garden over there, she thought as she stepped out, naturalized daffodils just inside the trees. And along the road, she'd do ground cover and shrubs, and plant daylilies, maybe some iris.
The porch swing should be painted, too, and there should be a table there - and there. A garden bench near the weeping cherry, maybe another path leading from there to around the back. Flagstone, perhaps. Or pretty stepping-stones with moss or creeping thyme growing between them.
She stopped herself as she stepped onto the porch. He'd have his own plans, she reminded herself. His house, his plans. No matter how much the place called to her, it wasn't hers.
She still had to find hers.
She took a breath, fluffed a hand through her hair, and knocked.
It was a long wait, or it seemed so to her while she twisted her watchband around her finger. Nerves began to tap-dance in her belly as she stood there in the early-evening breeze.
When he opened the door, she had to paint an easy smile on her face. He looked so male. The long, muscled length of him clad in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was mussed; she'd never seen it any other way. There was too much of it, she thought, to be tidy. And tidy would never suit him.
She held out the pot of dahlias she'd put together. "I've had dahlias on the mind," she told him. "I hope you can use them."
"I'm sure I can. Thanks. Come on in."
"I love the house," she began, "and what you're doing with it. I caught myself mentally planting - "
She stopped. The door led directly into what she supposed was a living room, or family room. Whatever it was, it was completely empty. The space consisted of bare dry-wall, scarred floors, and a smoke-stained brick fireplace with no mantel.
"You were saying?"
"Great views." It was all she could think of, and true enough. Those generous windows brought the outdoors in. It was too bad it was so sad.
"I'm not using this space right now."
"Obviously."
"I've got plans for it down the road, when I get the time, and the inclination. Why don't you come on back before you start crying or something."
"Was it like this, when you bought it?"
"Inside?" He shrugged a shoulder as he walked back through a doorway into what might have been a dining room. It, too, was empty, its walls covered with faded, peeling wallpaper. She could see brighter squares on it where pictures must have hung.
"Wall-to-wall carpet over these oak floors," he told her. "Leak upstairs had water stains all over the ceiling. And there was some termite damage. Tore out the walls last winter."
"What's this space?"
"Haven't decided yet."
He went through another door, and Stella let out a whistle of breath.
"Figured