Chapter 11
Sheridan
“Another bag for the super soil mix,” I called, hefting the sack on my shoulder.
The next afternoon, I was at Mom and Dad’s, helping haul the bags of peat moss from the back of Dad’s truck. Sand and perlite and potting soil. Next weekend we’d be spreading the mulch and the bark.
Dad loved his yard.
“I want to turn that far back corner into a water feature.” He flopped a bag of steer manure onto the back porch. “Should I add koi or just keep it fish-free?”
“King!” Mom huffed loudly. “We’ve talked about fish.” Mom didn’t like the idea of fish in her yard. They lived within two miles of the ocean. Live fish were close enough for comfort.
“It’ll be a lot of digging. I don’t really want to rent a dirt-mover …” Dad hadn’t agreed or disagreed about the fish. “You want to come help me dig, Sheridan?”
“King. She has a life.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t true. “My clients are done for the week. The only thing on my radar right now”—other than whether I could force myself to attend the Quake Commemoration—“is getting the oil changed in the Bronco, so I can probably come help.”
“Maybe you could get that nice young man to accompany you.” Mom’s wink just looked like a palsy of some sort. Or like she was choking on leftover cocktail shrimp from the anniversary party. “He was so good-looking.”
“Mom, he talked like a surfer.” My guess was that SurfBoyLawyer wasn’t going to be the best at yard work. “Not really my type.” Did I mention he was six-six? He was attractive on some levels, but I’d have to stand on the third step of the staircase to kiss him, and that would involve a dangerous amount of leaning.
Not safe. No SurfingGiant for me.
“I didn’t notice the surfing accent.” She looked at her nails and picked out some of the dirt from beneath them. “Your father certainly would love to have his company so he can pump him for heart surgery information.”
“You’re talking about Luke?” I made a gagging noise.
“See, honey?” Mom’s eye gleamed, practically light-sabers. “I told you they were on a first-name basis, not just acquaintances. Pay up.”
They’d made a bet on me? “Mom! That’s ridiculous. That doctor has some serious issues he needs to deal with. We are not on a first-name basis.” Except, we were, as of last night. “Plus, he’s very weird. Did you invite him to your party?”
They looked at each other, then back at me, blank-faced. “He didn’t seem all that weird,” Dad said. “For once I had something in common with someone you’re dating.”
“We’re not dating! He …” What could I say to express forcefully enough how much we were not dating?
The doorbell rang faintly from inside. I went around the porch to greet whomever waited.
“I thought this was the address for the Allens, but does anyone with a different last name live here, Mr. Allen?” The man’s voice came from behind an enormous bouquet of pink and white peonies.
Peonies? I stopped in my tracks and gaped at the huge heads of the pink and white flowers, almost spherical with their individual long petals gracefully reaching toward a center, stacked tightly together, none in full bloom.
“I love peonies.” Love them like I love springtime and red brick houses and plaid skirts and …
Dad and Mom sailed around the corner of the porch.
Mom gasped. “Oh, sweetheart! They’re your favorite!”
“What’s the name on it, Marty?” Dad walked over and pulled out his wallet to tip the guy.
“Chandler?”
“Me?” I spluttered. “But I don’t live here.”
Marty the Flower Guy handed me the huge bouquet in its lead crystal vase. Whoa, they weighed a ton. “Some dude named Hotwell thinks you do.”
I gulped. “Hotwell?”
“See, honey?” Mom grasped me around the shoulders and pulled me into a sharp side-hug. Some of the water from the vase spilled on my t-shirt. “I told you he was interested. He went to the trouble of finding out your favorite flower.” Again with the scary winking.
“Hey, isn’t Hotwell the name of that doctor who got bludgeoned in the parking garage last week?” Marty was the one making the scary face now. “What bad luck. Probably not the same dude. Enjoy your flowers. Thanks for the tip, Mr. Allen.”
Marty left me standing with my head full of peonies’ floral scent, a heavy lead-crystal vase, and a heavier freak-out.
What on earth was Luke Hotwell doing sending me peonies, of all flowers? First Jasper, and now this?
What else did he know about my secret heart?
This was getting weird. And I was going to find out exactly what was going on.