Page 9 of Suzanna's Surrender
Like her children, she thought with a smile. Her babies. Every time she put them to bed at night or watched them run in the sunlight, she knew that nothing that had happened to her before, nothing that would happen to her in the future would dim that glow of knowing they were hers.
The failed marriage had left her shaken and uncertain, and there were times she still had terrible doubts about herself as a woman. But not as a mother. Her children had the very best she could give them. The bond nourished her, as well as them.
Over the past two years, she’d begun to believe that she could be a success in business. Her flair for gardening had been her only useful skill and had been a kind of salvation during the last months of her dying marriage. In desperation she had sold her jewelry, taken out a loan and had plunged into Island Gardens.
It had made her feel good to use her maiden name. She hadn’t wanted any frivolous or clever name for the business, but something straightforward. The first year had been rough—particularly when she’d been pouring every cent she could spare into legal fees to fight a custody suit.
The thought of that, the memory of it, still made her blood run cold. She couldn’t have lost them.
Bax hadn’t wanted the children, but he’d wanted to make things difficult for her. When it had been over, she’d lost fifteen pounds, countless hours of sleep and had been up to her neck in debt. But she had her children. The ugly battle had been won, and the price meant nothing.
Gradually she was pulling out. She’d gained back a few of the pounds, had caught up a bit on her sleep and was slowly, meticulously hacking away at the debt. In the two years since she’d opened the business, she’d earned a reputation as dependable, reasonable and imaginative. Two of the resorts had tried her out, and it looked as though they’d be negotiating long-term contracts.
That would mean buying another truck, hiring on full-time labor. And maybe, just maybe, that trip to Disney World.
She pulled up in the driveway of the pretty Cape Cod house. Now, she reminded herself, it meant getting to work.
The grounds took up about a half acre and were gently sloped. She had had three in-depth meetings with the owners to determine the plan. Mrs. Anderson wanted plenty of spring flowering trees and shrubs, and the long-term privacy factor of evergreens. She wanted to enjoy a perennial bed that was carefree and full of summer color. Mr. Anderson didn’t want to spend his summers maintaining the yard, particularly the side portion, which fell in a more dramatic grade. There, Suzanna would use ground covers and rockeries to prevent erosion.
By noon, she had measured off each area with stakes and strings. The hardy azaleas were planted. Two long-blooming fairy roses flanked the flagstone walk and were already sweetening the air. Because Mrs. Anderson had expressed a fondness for lilacs, Suzanna placed a trio of compact shrubs near the master bedroom window, where the next spring’s breezes would carry the scent indoors.
The yard was coming alive for her. It helped her ignore the aching muscles in her arms as she drenched the new plants with water. Birds were chirping, and somewhere in the near distance, a lawn mower was putting away.
One day, she would drive by and see that the fast-growing hedge roses she had planted along the fence had spread and bloomed until they covered the chain link. She would see the azaleas bloom in the spring and the maple leaves go red in the fall, and know that she’d been part of that.
It was important, more important than she could admit to anyone, that she leave a mark. She needed that to remind herself that she wasn’t the weak and useless woman who had been so callously tossed aside.
Dripping with sweat, she picked up her water bottle and shovel and headed around to the front of the house again. She’d put in the first of the flowering almonds and was digging the hole for the second when a car pulled into the driveway behind her truck. Resting on her shovel, Suzanna watched Holt climb out.
She let out a little huff of breath, annoyed that her solitude had been invaded, and went back to digging.
“Out for a drive?” she asked when his shadow fell over her.
“No, the girl at the shop told me where to find you. What the hell are you doing?”
“Playing canasta.” She shoveled some more dirt. “What do you want?”
“Put that shovel down before you hurt yourself. You’ve got no business digging ditches.”
“Digging ditches is my business—more or less. Now, what do you want?”
He watched her dig for another ten seconds before he snatched the shovel away from her. “Give me that damn thing and sit down.”
Patience had always been her strong point, but she was hard-pressed to find it now. Working at it, she adjusted the brim of the fielder’s cap she wore. “I’m on a schedule, and I have six more trees, two rosebushes and twenty square feet of ground cover to plant. If you’ve got something to say, fine. Talk while I work.”
He jerked the shovel out of her reach. “How deep do you want it?” She only lifted a brow. “How deep do you want the hole?”
She skimmed her gaze down, then up again. “I’d say a little more than six feet would be enough to bury you in.”
He grinned, surprising her. “And you used to be so sweet.” Plunging the shovel in, he began to dig. “Just tell me when to stop.”
Normally she repaid kindness with kindness. But she was going to make an exception. “You can stop right now; I don’t need any help. And I don’t want the company.”
“I didn’t know you had a stubborn streak.” He glanced up as he tossed dirt aside. “I guess I had a hard time getting past that pretty face.” That pretty face, he noted, was flushed and damp and had shadows of fatigue under the eyes. It annoyed the hell out of him. “I thought you sold flowers.”
“I do. I also plant them.”
“Even I know that thing there is a tree.”
