The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [45]
She brought the wheelbarrow to a stop in front of the gazebo. “Thanks, but I think I can manage from here.” And she rewarded him for his trouble with one more smile.
Simon stood rooted to the spot and took her in.
She was tall and willow slender and wore dusty jeans and a dustier T-shirt, large, round tortoiseshell sunglasses that hid far too much of her face. Her hair was tucked up under a baseball cap, all but one brave dark strand that hung down the side of her face.
With seemingly little effort, she lifted the top bag of mulch and tossed it onto the ground.
“That bag weighs, what, forty pounds?” Simon asked.
“Fifty,” she replied as she hoisted another and tossed it to land next to the first.
“You must work out on a pretty regular basis.”
“Every day.” She grinned and grabbed another bag.
“You lift?” Simon was obviously impressed.
“Constantly.” The woman appeared infinitely amused by the question.
“You must spend a lot of time at the gym,” Simon observed.
She straightened up, still grinning, and told him, “Gyms are for desk jockeys.”
Simon laughed. “I get it. You’re the gardener here.”
“If you stay in school long enough, they let you call yourself a landscape architect.”
“This all looks new.” Simon gestured around him.
“It is new. Brand spanking new, every bit of it.” She grabbed hold of another bag and lugged it a few feet away before dropping it onto the ground.
“You do all this work yourself?”
“I’m good, but I’m not that good. I had lots of help.” She stopped at the back of the wheelbarrow and appeared to be looking him over. “This was a community effort. I did the design, furnished most of the plantings, but just about everyone in town had a part in its creation in one way or another. The gazebo, for example.” She stepped back as if to admire the structure. “It was designed by a local contractor, but it was built by the carpentry students at the high school.”
She pointed to the stone walks on which they stood. “The stones were donated by a builders supply company and the paths were laid by volunteers.”
“I see what you mean by community effort.”
“Right down to the bake sales and the flea markets that helped pay for the fencing and the lumber. The people in this town did everything to raise money but put on a show in the barn. When it comes to fund-raising for a good cause, never underestimate small-town USA.”
“What’s the cause?”
“The garden was intended to celebrate cancer survivors. A place to come and find a few minutes of peace, of inspiration. A place for contemplation. We’ve planned it as a place where families can gather quietly together.”
“Ah, hence the separate rooms.” Simon nodded and knew there had been no “we” involved in the planning. He’d have bet his Mustang that she’d designed the entire garden—maybe even proposed the idea—herself.
“Exactly. I—we—thought that there should be places that offered privacy, a little serenity. Often badly needed while doing battle with the disease.”
“Sounds as if you’ve been close to the action.”
“My mother is a survivor. It will be five years in May.”
“You did this for her.” It wasn’t a question.
“Watching her struggle made the disease real to me for the first time. Before that, cancer was just an ugly word. My mother’s illness certainly did bring me closer to it than I ever wanted to be.” She spied a handprint of dirt on her jeans and attempted to brush it away. “But the garden . . . it’s really a memorial for an old friend, a high school classmate. She grew up here, came back after college to teach. And she was quite an artist. Everyone in town knew her and liked her. Respected her. This was just a means of honoring her memory.”
A teenaged boy appeared at the gate just as Simon was about to comment.
“Over here, Will.” She stepped to the path and waved.
The boy, in no apparent hurry, lumbered toward the gazebo.
“You’re late, William.” The woman made a show of looking at her watch.
“I, um, got tied up at school,” the boy mumbled.
“Ummmm, let me guess.