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CHAPTER TWO
EVERETT
My Flora.
Still so beautiful. And she still owns me, body and soul.
I saw her at the funeral, grieving but unbowed, and was so proud of her. I know how close she and Miss Zinnia were. Flora might have been away awhile, but she’s still a mountain girl underneath.
I have to make myself stop thinking of what else might be underneath.
Because here she is, sitting across from Bobby Cattrall’s desk, angry and confused and hurting and so, so beautiful. She’s still so much part of my heart that it hurts to breathe, looking at her.
My wife, Flora.
Her hazel eyes are red-rimmed, and narrowed in suspicion. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hands are in fists. “You,” she mutters viciously. I wince. “I should have known you’d suckered her into something diabolical, when she wouldn’t say who was working on her house.”
“There was no suckering,” I say as calmly as I can, although my heart is pounding at being so close to her. “Miss Zinnia called me out of the blue and asked my price to fix up her house. I gave her a fair one.”
“No special deal at the friends-and-family rate?” Flora hisses at me. “You deliberately lowballed her?”
I lift one shoulder. “Ten percent discount on labor, no discount on materials. And I warned her it would be very labor-intensive. House as old as that, you have to do a lot by hand.”
“She took bids,” Bobby says, with an air of desperation. “It was all in her papers, you can see here—”
“Undue influence,” Flora says suddenly, whirling away from me to point a long finger at the lawyer. “That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? I can claim that.”
Bobby spreads his hands, looking conciliatory. “Well, no, Miss Flora. That is, if there was undue influence, you could, but Miss Zinnia kept very good notes on which construction company she chose and why. And her notes say that it was her idea for Everett here to live in the house with her, so he wouldn’t have to commute.”
“Commute?” Flora scoffs. “This is a small town. The longest commute in town is, what, five minutes?”
“Honestly? I think she just wanted somebody in the house with her. She wasn’t afraid of anything, mind you, but I think she was right lonely.”
I don’t mean to hurt Flora with that observation, but she flinches like I’ve struck her. “I called her twice a week,” she whispers. “I sent her airline tickets to visit me.”
“She loved talking to you.” I smile absently, thinking of Miss Zinnia settling on the couch with her granny-square crocheted afghan and a cup of tea for Flora’s regular Wednesday night call.
Flora sniffles, then lifts her head defiantly. “So tell me. Why didn’t she mention that she’d hired you?”
I lift one shoulder. “I don’t know. I assumed she told you.”
“I would definitely have had something to say about that,” Flora says in a dark tone.
“I assumed that, too. I thought she was being diplomatic.”
“I can’t believe you’re supposed to move into her house—my house.”
“I’m already there. Staying in what Miss Zinnia called the green bedroom.” It’s one of the few rooms that didn’t need much restoration, beyond refinishing the wood floors—and it’s right next door to Flora’s childhood bedroom.
Flora shakes her head, breathing out through her nose. “Okay. Fine. It’s not like I have a choice, unless I want her house to go to strangers.”
“I’ll try to stay out of your way,” I tell her, although I have no plan to do that. Every moment spent with her is one to treasure.
I only hope I can make her remember why we got married.
“And how long will it take to finish the house?” Flora demands.
“I estimate another six months. Maybe as few as five, depending on how fast the renovations go, and it’s hard to say exactly because of the uncertainty in sourcing the appropriate materials.”
