Page 18 of Edge of Ruin
“Vivi D’Onofrio. Pleased to meet you.” I extended my hand.
The old lady set down the paper bag and took my proffered hand, squeezing it gently. “My name is Margaret Moffat O’Keefe, but you can call me Margaret. So! My Jack has been a naughty fellow, hmm?”
I was nonplussed for a moment, until I finally grasped the mischievous twinkle in the old lady’s eyes. “Oh, no! Not with me, not at all! I barely know the man, to be honest. I’m just a friend of a friend, staying here for a while in the apartment. Up there.” I pointed to the barn. “I was just looking for him, to ask if I could use his phone, since my phone has no coverage. But I was afraid he might be sleeping. I didn’t want to?—”
“Oh, good heavens, no. Jack’s no slug-a-bed.”
Luckily, her brisk response cut off my nervous babbling. Margaret stumped up the porch steps and rapped smartly with the head of her cane on the front door. “Jack, dear?” she called out. “Are you home?”
There was no response. “Well, his truck is here, so he’s probably just gone down to see to his flowers,” Margaret said. “Have you seen his flowers yet?”
I shook my head, and Margaret clucked her disapproval. “Young Jack must show you his flowers! They are a sight like you will never see again. That man. Such talent.”
“Um … not these, you mean?” I indicated the flower beds in the yard.
“Oh, no. These are just the front gardens. They’re just for fun. I mean the big gardens down by the river. I think he has columbines and lamb’s ears and sweet william coming in now. And bachelor buttons, of course, and heaven only knows what else.”
I smiled at the beaming old lady. “It sounds magical,” I told her, quite sincerely.
“I’d take you down myself, but this arthritis has slowed me down some. You just sit down on the porch and have a cookie, and Jack will be along. I baked some molasses crinkles for Jack. He loves cookies.”
“Is he related to you?” I asked.
“Not technically, but I think of Jack as my honorary grandson, since he came here to live with me some twenty-five years ago, or so. In fact, he bought this property from me some years back. Dear boy.”
I had to stifle a giggle at the thought of that big block of seasoned manhood being referred to as a “dear boy.”
“Well, I’ll be running along now. Come have a cup of tea with me one of these mornings when you’re settled in. And say hello to Jack for me.” She held out the bag. It was heavy and fragrant. “Oh, and tell Jack to show you the hot springs.”
“Hot springs?” I was intrigued.
“Oh, my goodness yes, dearie. There are some natural hot pools a couple of miles upriver. Very private. No one ever found out about them. They are just beautiful. Something tells me you would like them, bless your heart.” She patted my shoulder.
“Something told you right,” I said, with relish. Wow. Cookies. Flowers. Hot springs. I’d hit the motherlode. This place was paradise on earth.
I gazed wistfully after the old lady as she made her slow, careful way down the walk. How incredibly sweet of her. She was not like Lucia in any obvious way—Lucia had been fiercely elegant, a professor, multilingual, a brilliant and cultured expatriate intellectual. But there was something about Margaret’s warmth that made me think of Lucia. The pang of longing brought tears to my eyes.
Happily for me, I was distraced by an intoxicating buttery-sweet fragrance that rose from the bag. I peeked inside. Molasses sugar cookies, warm and fresh.
I sat down on the porch steps and reached for one.
Predictably enough, my hand was in the bag when Jack strode around the house, carrying an armful of what looked like columbines, though they were much bigger than any columbines I’d ever seen. I yanked my hand out guiltily, licking my fingers with embarrassed bravado. He stopped in front of me and nodded in silent greeting.
“Hi. I, uh, just met Margaret.” I closed the bag and folded down the top. “She brought you cookies.”
“So I see,” he said.
“She said I could have some,” I said, before I could stop myself, and blushed furiously as he began to smile. Lines crinkled up around his eyes, sparking a warm glow somewhere in the vicinity of my navel. That warmth crept inexorably downward.
“Eat all you want,” he said. “What kind are they this time?”
“Molasses,” I informed him. I wrenched me gaze away from a smile that had now become a grin, complete with shockingly white and beautiful teeth, and focused on his long, work-hardened hands, gently holding those long flowers.
Whew. This guy was loaded up with subtle secret weapons. Every one of them was calculated to lay me low. Columbines, for God’s sake. Give me a freaking break.
I struggled to remember what I’d come down to ask him.
“Ah, I need to make a few phone calls, and get online, to check my mail orders. And, ah, my cell has no coverage here. So I was just wondering?—”
