Gardening and Gargoyles (Pine Ridge Universe #30)

Chapter One June

“It’s no trouble to fly over. Just let me use a few hundred of those million miles you’ve got saved up,” I wheedle over the phone. “You know I have your account stuff. I’ll buy myself the ticket.”

Daniel laughs. His dreamy voice with its cultured English accent always makes him sound like something out of Pride and Prejudice, seducing me across an ocean.

“No, love, we really can’t. It’s all go, all the time.

London, Belfast, Dublin, Glasgow, one after the other.

Meetings from hell. Long hours. Plus, my nan expects me to call on her if I get even a second to breathe. ”

I pout. “But this is our first summer together. You’re missing it.”

“Are you sure you really want to fly out? Especially since I’ll be back in July?”

My heart says yes, but my broke ass, which is used to a studio apartment, isn’t sure. I might waffle on this issue a bit, but I also don’t want to seem ungrateful. My previous boyfriends’ idea of spoiling me was a night in Atlantic City with a steak the size of my head.

Daniel is a world away from that. Sometimes it seems like a different universe, something pretend, a fantasy.

“I miss you, but I have to admit this place is a nice consolation prize,” I sigh, opening the rustic cabinets in the kitchen of our rental. Everything is wood and light, and no matter what room I’m in, there’s a view of the mountains and the huge pine forests this place must be named after.

To a city girl who treated her windowbox like a baby and asked to go to Bartram’s Gardens or Longwood Gardens every year as her birthday gift, Pine Ridge in early summer is heaven. Heav. En.

Daniel laughs. “I’m glad it takes a mountain to compete with me. Nothing’s too good for my June.” His smooth, sweet voice makes me feel pampered. Luxurious. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up like some spoiled socialite (and I’m not sure I’d mind).

“How did you even find this place? Pine Ridge? I’ve lived near Philly all my life, been to New York a dozen times, and never heard of it. It’s only about a four-hour drive from where I grew up, but it’s like a tiny blip on the map. How did my London lover know about it?” I tease.

“I may have been looking at wedding venues with a breathtaking view for my breathtaking bride,” he purrs, and I melt. “There’s a lovely 1920’s estate there, White Pines, and it’s a perfect wedding venue for you. A huge garden, topiaries, a hedge maze....”

I have to stop myself from squealing like a giddy toddler. “It sounds so perfect, baby. If your nan approves of your American girlfriend, that is,” I remind him with a sigh.

I’m sure his grandmother is nice, it’s just that she’s never met me. She doesn’t like flying, and I’ve never left the tri-state area.

That’s another reason I feel like I’d never fit in with Daniel’s family or friends. Not really.

Daniel is everything I’m not. He’s pale, polished, and sophisticated.

I’m a cross between a chaotic trash panda who is one parking ticket away from a street brawl and one of those bougie girls from Jersey Shore reruns.

He wears suits and ties, and drinks expensive Scotch while sitting in leather armchairs.

I eat bags of cheese curls while wearing tank tops, cut-off denim shorts, and flip-flops that have seen better days.

His hobbies include fine dining and dressing me in slinky gowns that show off my about-to-be-chubby ass and hips, and mine include hauling him around parks and drooling over raised garden beds.

He curates a wine cellar and cigar humidor.

I can tell you where to get the best cheesesteaks in the city and how to make compost on a kitchen counter.

Opposites attract, big time.

“My grandmother will love you. You’ll come to London next time, I promise. I’m not going to be in one place for more than two days at a time, darling. It’d be hectic and horrible. You’d see more of the underground than the majestic sites of the Scottish Highlands or Buckingham Palace.”

I pout and keep wandering through this lodge that’s mine for the summer.

Ours for the summer. Daniel will be back in a month.

He does real estate acquisition and development.

You know those run-down old castles in the British countryside that are now exclusive hotels with spa amenities?

That’s him. Or those old farmhouses and outbuildings all over the Midwest and South that become rustic wedding venues, the kind where the tables hold mason jars filled with wild flowers and the bride wears white eyelet lace and cowboy boots? That’s him, too.

“I wouldn’t mind fast-tracking around the British Isles, babe. You know I’ve never traveled farther than New York.”

“Now, don’t! I feel guilty already,” he groans, but he’s laughing.

There’s always laughing between us. So much in fact, that it almost made me faint when he proposed a couple of weeks ago.

I even teased him that he was just trying to put a ring on it to lock down his freaky Philly girl, and then he pulled a ring out of his pocket—right on the steps of the Art Museum, near the Rocky statue.

That’s us.

I smile and flop down on the bed that must be made for NBA players. Or maybe Sasquatch. This place gives off prime Sasquatch vibes with its rural and rugged landscape.

“You should feel guilty. This place has a view to die for and a bed that would sleep six. Think of all the rolling around we could do,” I suggest, sultry voice intent on making him miss me even more. Maybe enough to tell me to use his miles and book myself a flight.

“Well, you should feel guilty. I’m up at the old Mackintosh Castle in Gilcreedy. Of course, if you’re local, you must call it ‘Castle Mackintosh’.”

“Yes, working out a deal for a luxury golf hotel. With or without a day spa?” I grin.

“But it’s not luxury yet! The toilets are the old pull-chain sort, and the toilet seats are wooden. I don’t know whether to take loo roll or sandpaper with me to save my bum from splinters.”

I laugh, but commiserate. “Oh, poor baby. That sounds like a crappy situation.”

“Ha. Ha. It’s actually a fascinating place.

It was sold to some American steel magnate in the late 1800s, right around the turn of the century, when the old laird was hard up.

He tried to fix it up to look like some ancestral home, but all he did was knock the battlements about.

Oh! And we were excavating for the wine cellar, and I found you a little present.

Actually, it’s rather a large present. It’ll go perfectly with your surprise.

It’s supposed to be repaired by tomorrow morning and sent over on an early-morning flight.

I got it on a jet to JFK, and then a little puddle jumper to the airport in Binghamton.

Some fellow, Nigel something or other, of Promises Kept Handyman Services and Odd Jobs, should have it to you by tomorrow night. ”

“Wait, a surprise? A present? Aren’t those the same?” A summer in a mountain lodge with endless places to hike and tons of verdant scenery isn’t enough?

“Wait, wait, Junie Pie. First, the surprise, then the prezzie, and no, they’re two different things.

I talked to the owner of the lodge. He’s a gruff old Scot with an accent so thick that he sounds like some cartoon character.

Probably a put-on. Anyway, he says he doesn’t mind if you want to do up the garden.

He says, as long as you don’t leave any holes and you intend to leave the plants at the end of the summer, so he doesn’t have to come behind you and fix it all up again, you can go mad.

Plant hydrangeas, azaleas, rhododendrons, the lot. Lilac trees?”

I squeal, and it’s tempting to run to my sketchbook full of “Someday Garden Ideas” and pull up Pinterest. But I hesitate. “That’s amazing! But I don’t know the boundaries of the land, I don’t know where anything in this town is, and the money—”

“Well, that’s why I insisted on getting you a duplicate card for my account.

You’re allowed to use it as much as you like, and there’s a place in Pine Ridge called Kane Garden Center, I think it is.

Make it lush, darling. Who knows, maybe we’ll honeymoon there.

Hm? Married at White Pines, honeymoon at the Pink Lodge? ”

Pink is my favorite color, and I snicker, because I have a stupidly juvenile mind.

I could easily turn this into a dirty phone call with references to lodging him in something pretty and pink, so I stop and focus on being a mature adult.

“I love it, and I promise not to go wild. I don’t know about honeymooning here.

Renting it out again next summer? Yes, please. ”

“Perfect. I’m sure that’ll keep you nice and busy, nice and distracted, and stop you from missing me too much. As for the boundaries, Mr. Fenclan can tell you. You have his number in the rental contract in your email. I’m sure you can at least go right along the house to start.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“I love you, too, Junie. You’re my dream girl.”

Do I actually hug myself and kick my feet a little? Yes, I do. So what? “So what’s the surprise? You know you can’t top an actual lawn and garden for me to go wild in all summer, don’t you?”

“Ohhh, I don’t know. What have you always wanted in your garden?”

“Um, a garden. Period. Apartment-dweller, remember?”

“In your fantasy sketchbook that you think I don’t look at, even though you leave it open on your kitchen table all the time, what is always in the center of your pink-to-the-hilt garden?”

I swallow down another juvenile comment about him being in my pink to the hilt in favor of gasping. “No! A fountain?”