All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,23

they wouldn’t be needing them in a retirement village.”

“No, I guess not.”

Since he didn’t seem inclined to leave yet, she leaned against the wall beside him and tried to regain her equilibrium. She stared at the toes of her work boots, angry with herself and a little scared. She’d thought she was over the worst of her divorce. She’d survived the dark early days, held her head high through the ugliness of the settlement, and now she had her own place, her own life, her friends and family around her.

So why was she slipping into old behaviors? Why, out of nowhere, had she suddenly lapsed into Old Mel?

Old Mel, who had run herself ragged trying to be good. Old Mel, who had developed the act of effacement into an art form.

“I know it’s a jungle at the moment, but it’s still bloody beautiful.”

Mel glanced at the man sitting next to her, pulled out of her introspection. He was gazing over the land, the edges of his mouth curled in an almost smile. She turned to consider the view, taking in the sweeping lawn and the nearby stand of silver birches, the overgrown garden beds with their flowing, natural lines, and the distant winter skeletons of a stand of oak trees. It was a jungle—overgrown and unruly, unbalanced and messy. But it was also calm and green and real.

The churning in her stomach slowed. She took a deep breath, let it out again.

“It’s not bad,” she said, her tone deliberately low-key.

Flynn gave her a dry sideways look. Despite everything, she found herself smiling a little.

“It’s a shame about those benches,” he said, his eyes on the view once more.

“There’s a guy at the farmers’ market in the village sometimes. I don’t know his name, but he works with local timber and driftwood.”

“When’s the next market?”

“It’s the first Sunday of every month, so you just missed it.”

“Huh.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Then Flynn gave a sigh and pushed himself to his feet.

“I guess I’d better hand the keys back,” he said with obvious reluctance.

“Don’t worry, it’s only ten days or so till settlement.”

“That’s ten whole sleeps. Pure torture.”

Mel’s laughter burst out of her, as unexpected as his comment. He was like a kid with a new toy.

Or someone fulfilling a lifetime dream.

She studied his profile, intrigued by the idea. “You’ve always wanted this place, haven’t you?”

“I believe the correct word is covet. And yes, I have. I have coveted the hell out of this place ever since I was old enough to understand who Edna Walling was and how freaking amazing this design is.”

“Well, congratulations. That’s very cool. It’s not every day a man gets his lifelong dream.”

By unspoken accord, they turned and started walking toward the house.

“True. So why do I have this cynical voice in my head saying ‘Be careful what you wish for’?”

“Don’t listen to that voice. Stick a sock in its mouth. There’s nothing wrong with this place that you can’t fix.”

He was silent for a long moment, then he gave her a warm look. “Thanks for coming with me today, Mel. I appreciate it.”

There was a shadow in his eyes as they found hers. For the briefest of moments he looked almost sad. Lonely, even. Then he was busy pulling his car keys from his pocket and checking his phone for messages, and the moment had passed.

Mel scoffed at herself. The man walking beside her had everything. He was handsome, wealthy, successful, respected, sought after. No way was he lonely. As if.

FLYNN KEPT UP A steady stream of conversation as he locked Summerlea and led Mel to his car. He talked about some of his plans for the house, the state of the lawns, the contents of the toolshed he’d discovered. As they drove to her place, he talked about the weather, the local village, her business. He tap-danced his ass off, keeping things light and breezy.

Anything to keep her smiling and laughing and engaged.

She’d been close to tears earlier. She’d looked so wounded, so abject as she’d apologized for keeping him waiting. For long seconds he’d been sure she was going to lose it, and he’d been on the verge of offering her a shoulder or a handkerchief or a word of comfort. Then she’d pulled herself together and it was as though the moment had never happened.

Except it had.

There had been that other moment when they were transplanting the orange tree, too. He’d made that crack about Hamish Greggs being an ungrateful ass and