Page 2 of Guarded by My Gargoyle

“Will she keep that up?” Maris asked.

“All year, probably. Are you worried about it?”

“No… No,” she repeated, forcing her hands to relax. “He isn’t shy, exactly, just… quiet. And he’s more used to being around adults than other children.”

“Mm.” Sara nodded slowly. “Dot is kind of a crash course into the world of other kids, but she’s got a good heart. I’m pretty sure she’s already adopted Toby.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“That’s a good thing.” Sara looked away from the classroom long enough to smile at her. “Don’t worry, Maris. I’ll keep an eye on him and I promise I’ll call you if I see any reason for concern. And if you pick up on anything at home, you can always call me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Then go and find something to do. Keeping busy is better than worrying.”

“I’ve got forty flats of asters to pot.”

“I’d say that counts. Now go,” Sara ordered. “Pick him up at three. I’ll give you a full report.”

She hesitated, looking through the open door. Dot was delivering what appeared to be a lecture beside the fish tank, and Toby was listening with the grave attention of a scientist. But his fists weren’t clenched and he wasn’t looking for her. A lump appeared in her throat.

Go, she told herself. Before he sees me crying in the doorway and I ruin it.

She went.

On her way back to the truck, she passed two women waiting by the gate, one of them a pixie in an orange safety vest, and caught the end of something.

“—development on the ridge above Miller’s Creek.”

“They’re always saying that. There was going to be a golf course out there when I was a girl.”

“This one’s got a name, though. Palisade something. The fella’s from New Jersey.”

Miller’s Creek rang a bell for some reason, but she couldn’t place it, and she was more focused on not crying than remembering geography. She climbed into a truck that smelled of potting soil and animal crackers, and forced herself to take several long, deep breaths.

He’s going to be fine.

She repeated it to herself until she almost believed it, which was important, because Cornelia would undoubtedly call to ask. She needed to be able to tell Toby’s grandmother that everything was fine convincingly enough to avoid another vaguely disparaging remark about small town schools. I’ll tell her he wore the shirt, she decided. Hopefully that would please Cornelia enough to redirect the conversation, even if it would also mean another unnecessary package from Charleston within the week.

She took the longer route home—down past the Moonlight Tavern, past the town square and the River Café with its wide windows and a chalkboard sign promising elderflower scones, get them before the pixies do. Two streets past the café, the houses grew older and grander, and then Stonehaven Manor appeared.

It never failed to catch her breath, and not entirely in a good way. The huge Victorian mansion sat behind its high stone wall like a dowager who’d stopped answering the door decades ago—three turrets covered with ivy, a slate roof recently patched in a slightly lighter color, and a roofline bristling with carved stone creatures that leered down at the street with weathered, patient faces. The grounds took up most of the block, wild and overgrown and still beautiful enough that her fingers itched to work on them.

She drove on to the next street and turned into her much more modest property. Hardy Stock occupied a portion of the long slope behind Stonehaven, the mansion rising above the trees like something from a gothic novel. The small cottage that had come with the property nestled against the stone wall like a duckling that had wandered too close to a swan and decided to stay.

Past the cottage, four greenhouses stood with their vents cranked open, and beyond them, the rows of native stock were already showing signs of the upcoming fall. The sign at the entrance to her small shop was the one she’d painted herself on a February afternoon with Toby sitting on an upturned crate telling her the S was crooked.

Those growing beds were the main reason she’d bought the place, the reason she’d used most of the savings she’d accumulated since Jeff’s death and signed a note in the lawyer’s office. Native stock, hardy stock, like the name she’d chosen for her nursery. Stock that had put down roots, just like she and Toby were putting down roots in this small mountain town where what you did was more important than what your family had done.

She parked the truck, pulled on her work boots, and headed for the potting shed. Her brain was still occupied with the image of Toby’s small, straight back disappearing into the classroom, but forty flats of asters would distract her.

She was only on the second flat when Sylvie popped her head in.

“Morning,” Sylvie said. The dryad was carrying a flat of echinacea balanced on her hip, and the streaks of green in her mahogany hair caught the morning light. “Alison wants the urns in front of the inn done over before the leaf peepers start arriving, and she wants them done in orange which I think is a crime. So I’m going to do them in orange and complain about it.”

She laughed. “Orange can be nice too. How many do you need?”

“Six of these. Eight of the little asters if they’re ready. And whatever you’ve got that’s tall and makes a statement.”