Windswept Way (Hope Harbor #9)(11)
Author: Irene Hannon
“Yes. And you’re the guy with the chain saw who came through the gate on Monday. Aka Jonathan Gray.”
“Guilty. And I go by Jon.”
She offered him a tentative smile as she resumed walking. “I have to tell you, your sudden appearance that day invoked visions of the old chain saw massacre movie. I’m not used to driving around in isolated areas alone on dead-end roads, and—”
Her gaze dropped from his sunglasses to the asymmetrical line of his jaw and the scar on his cheek that ran through and slightly distorted the left side of his mouth.
A flicker of shock dulled her eyes for a millisecond as her voice trailed off. So brief he’d have missed it if he wasn’t watching. But it was there.
Like it always was the instant people got an up-close glimpse of his appearance.
And she hadn’t even seen the whole picture.
Best to address her reaction straight-on.
“War injury. IED in the Middle East.” He ran his left hand—the one with the two missing fingers—along the side of his chin.
Fixating on his hand, she moistened her lips. Swallowed. “I’m sorry.” All of the bounciness and enthusiasm she’d exhibited during their phone call had evaporated.
“I came out of it better than most of my men. Only a few survived.” And those who had were maimed for life. Like him.
“I’m so sorry.”
Gut twisting, he took a long, slow breath and forcibly rechanneled his thoughts. This was not a subject he talked about. Ever. Bringing it up had been a mistake. “It’s history now. Shall we discuss the job?”
“Um . . . sure. I was going to suggest we walk the grounds while we talk, but if you’re not—”
“It happened a number of years ago. My leg has healed. Walking is no problem.” His response came out stiff, and he relaxed his tone. “However, if you’re concerned about my capabilities, there are a number of excellent landscaping companies in Coos Bay.”
Despite the out he’d offered her, she wouldn’t bail on the bid session. No one would in today’s world, with discrimination suits a constant sword of Damocles for anyone who exhibited the slightest perception of bias. But there had been more than a few potential clients who’d passed on his bid later, despite the fact it was the lowest. They’d found his injuries too distressing to deal with. Not that they’d put their aversion into words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. Ashley Scott could be one of them.
So while the job she’d sketched out over the phone would raise the stature and profile of his business, it would be foolish to get his hopes up.
“No. No, of course not. BJ Stevens Nash gave you a glowing review.”
“Is she involved in this project?”
“I hope so. We’re meeting tomorrow to do a walk-through. The gardens are my priority today.” She held out one of the two folders in her hand. “Those are copies of the garden plot drawings I mentioned on the phone, done by Rose’s mother. I thought it would be helpful to consult them as we walked around.”
He tucked the clipboard under his arm, took the file, and flipped through it. “Are you hoping to re-create these?”
“Not necessarily. I view them more as a starting place.”
“Good. Some of these plantings would be high maintenance. Unless you intend to hire a full-time grounds crew, you may want to consider alternatives.”
“A full-time crew isn’t in the budget. Alternatives are fine. My goal is to create beautiful, low-maintenance gardens that will offer a photogenic backdrop for weddings, especially in the gazebo area.”
“The gazebo is in ruins.”
“It won’t be after BJ rebuilds it, assuming all the costs shake out and we’re able to proceed with this project. Shall we start there?” She motioned toward the side of the house and struck off.
He fell in beside her, assessing the grounds with an eye to more than his customary grass cutting as he took multiple photos with his cell.
The place did have immense potential for the sort of special event usage Ashley had in mind, but what magic had she used to convince a recluse like Rose to consider that? How had the two of them connected? Where did the woman beside him call home?
A dozen questions spun through his mind as they walked the grounds and discussed planting locations for hydrangeas, perennial flowers, spring bulbs, and dahlias, along with the possibility of a formal rose garden, but no opportunity came up to pose more personal queries.
As they ended their circuit back in front of the house, Ashley waved a hand toward the loop road. “There should be a garden in the middle of that too. Like in the old days. And flowers along the walkway to the porch.”
He jotted more notes as he mentally crunched a few numbers. “You may want to do the landscaping in stages. The scope of this job is huge.”
“In other words, very expensive.” She bit her lower lip.
“Labor and materials don’t come cheap.”
“Can you itemize the different garden areas on your bid? That may help if I have to prioritize.”
“No problem. What’s your target date to be up and running?”
“The sooner the better. Weddings are booked far in advance, but deposits will help with cash flow. And smaller events book closer in. I should be able to launch the speaker program even faster. Realistically, I’m hoping for September 1. I’d like to start generating a revenue stream ASAP.”
“Understood. The landscaping alone will take a chunk of change. I hope you have deep pockets.”
“Not super deep, but I do have funds in reserve beyond the purchase price. Hopefully I can swing this and make it pay off. I’d hate to squander my inheritance, even though my dad would have loved this project.” Her features softened, and a smile whispered at the corners of her generous lips.
He forced himself to refocus on the clipboard in his hand and the information she’d shared rather than her striking profile as she gave the grounds a sweep.
A bequest would explain why someone as young as Ashley had the resources to tackle this sort of venture.
What it didn’t explain was her interest in a century-old home.
“Was your father a historian?”
“No.” She redirected her attention to him. “Anthropology professor. I’m the historian in the family. But he was all about following your dreams.” She swept a hand over the house. “And this is one of mine. A historic property to not only manage but own a piece of. Not that I ever expected it to come true. I don’t think I’ll believe it until I sign on the dotted line with Rose.”