Chapter 6 Olena
OLENA
This is not happening. He can’t be here.
What’s he doing here? My mind spins with questions.
Our chaotic roadside encounter suddenly lurches back to the forefront of my awareness, regret once again gripping me by the throat.
But I’m late showing up; I can’t linger in my car any longer than necessary.
I park beside his truck, which bears the business name Sharpe Blades Landscaping in bold, white lettering with the shape of a saw blade emerging from the bottom.
Clever, I think vaguely as I try to pull myself together.
A jolt of panic hits me. Is he the landscaper Charles mentioned? Shit. Shit shit shit. It would be just my luck to get stuck working with him after humiliating myself.
Shame threatens to wash over me as I recall my accusations from earlier. You called him an asshole, my inner voice screams. I scrunch my nose, stuffing the memory down; I can’t think about that right now. Just focus on getting out of the damn car.
The rain has now stopped completely, giving me a sliver of hope. Small white clouds drift across the blue sky and it’s clear the gray monstrosity that drenched me on the way here has passed. Sunlight cuts through the nearby trees.
I awkwardly peel off my jacket and realize, with relief, that I’m not as drenched as I felt when wearing it, the damp having made me feel colder and wetter than I was.
Careful to extract my portfolio first, I throw the jacket in a crumpled heap onto the passenger seat and pull my purse onto my lap.
With closed eyes, I inhale what I hope is some semblance of bravery and calm.
Holding my breath, I step out of the car to face reality.
Those green eyes instantly meet mine before we both look away. He turns his attention back to the gray-haired man opposite him, who is gesturing enthusiastically at the landscape.
I know he must have spotted me pulling in; Nat’s ridiculous yellow car doesn’t exactly blend into the background.
Plus, I’m sure he couldn’t forget it after following me on the road for so long—especially after what I said to him.
I can’t imagine what this guy must be thinking about me showing up here.
I risk a glance at him but his expression is unreadable. I’m not sure I can do this.
I push the doubt aside and give myself a quick mental shake, determined to forge ahead. I hope plastering on a cheerful demeanor will effectively mask my inner reality, which is clearly a total raging mess.
“Hi, Mr. Faulkner?” I meet the older man’s eyes with a genuine smile as I remember his kindness from our phone call the other day. I grip my portfolio in one hand and readjust the strap of my purse with the other, then reach out to shake his hand.
“Olena,” he replies, his kind eyes crinkling. “Lovely to meet you in person. And remember, please call me Charles.” A smile spreads over his round face.
I nod quickly. “So sorry I’m a bit later than expected,” I venture with a weak smile, pointing a thumb behind me toward the road. “I got… held up.”
Operating against my will, my eyes jump to the man I called an asshole only ten minutes ago.
He returns my gaze with one dark eyebrow raised.
He looks like he’s enjoying watching me explain myself.
I can’t bear to face the reminder of my earlier behavior and decide to focus my full attention on Charles.
Mercifully, he doesn’t press me for details.
“Oh, nonsense.” He waves dismissively. “You’re here now,” he adds, patting a weathered hand on my forearm.
The gesture is reassuring in a fatherly way, and I smile gratefully, remembering again why I liked him so much when we spoke on the phone.
“Olena, this is Jude Sharpe, my landscaper.” He turns, gesturing at the man before returning his gaze to me.
“Jude, this is Olena MacMillan, the designer I was telling you about.”
No one speaks as we consider each other a moment, my jaw hanging slightly open in a silent expression of understanding.
“Nice to meet you,” Jude says politely.
Jude. Well, it’s a better fit than ‘Asshole’, I think wryly to myself. I inhale as if to say something professionally relevant, but find I have no idea where to begin. Charles and Jude are looking at me.
“Hi, nice to meet you too,” I blurt out, because that’s how normal people respond to being introduced to someone new in a work setting. I’m kicking myself for letting that dead air hang.
Jude smiles and holds my gaze with a quiet intensity that brings a hint of heat back to my cheeks.
I bite my lip.
Charles glances between us, a question in his eyes. “Tell me,” he ventures, “why do I get the feeling you two know each other? Have you worked together before?”
Jude looks at me with a slight smirk, both of us clearly calculating how much to divulge in this professional scenario.
I contemplate my words for a moment before he rescues us.
“No, actually, we hadn’t met before today,” he says, pinning me with a knowing look that Charles doesn’t catch. Carefully chosen words.
A slight smile touches my lips as I direct a sharp nod to Charles, showing my agreement. This seems to satisfy Charles’ curiosity and he moves on. I throw Jude a grateful look.
“Would you like to see the property?” Charles smiles.
Charles looks to be in his element as our tour guide, gesturing broadly and often to punctuate his ideas for the place.
I scribble notes furiously and snap photos with my phone to document the layout and problem areas he points out along the way.
A pang of dread hits me as I realize how extensive the work will be for this project. But I continue smiling.
Charles had said the previous owners, his brother and sister-in-law, had lived here for over forty years before they got sick and couldn’t keep up with caring for the property.
I can see now he understated that point.
The place is in really rough shape. The house itself needs a ton of major work done: moss creeps over the roof shingles, the mortar between the stonework is crumbling, and the painted wood trim is peeling.
Nature is also slowly reclaiming the cobblestone path, which is overgrown at the sides and riddled with dandelions.
The rest of the grounds are even worse. There are forgotten vegetable beds with dead and crushed plants, weeds pushing between their skeletal stems and bent stalks.
The trees are all sprawling and weighed down, their branches brushing near the ground in several areas, a few of the evergreens sporting dying sections of brown or gray where they should be green.
The perimeter of the main yard is surrounded by various ornamental plants and shrubs that have grown wild and unruly over the years, and the grass brushes against my knees.
None of this dampens Charles’ enthusiasm when articulating his vision for the property.
He and Carol have always dreamed of running a bed-and-breakfast. They want to turn this mess into a beautiful garden oasis: a romantic retreat on the cliff-side.
I admit this place has potential, but the work is going to take a while.
And it’s not going to be easy. Or cheap.
I fill pages in my notebook with wild and often disconnected details—some, Charles’ ideas or instructions, others, my own inspiration—to remember for later.
Tiered planters for succulents, sapling trees to order, raised flower beds, ornamental grasses, bistro seating area, an arbor covered in white wisteria…
My head spins trying to keep track of all the information.
The three of us agree the first step is a lot of clearing out: cutting down the sick trees, pruning any overgrown plants worth saving, cutting the grass, digging out particularly nasty sections entirely to start fresh…
Jude and his crew can start this part the following week while I work on the design planning. Charles is delighted.
Jude is quietly attentive as Charles articulates his plans, sketching and jotting his own notes diligently on a pad of graph paper.
His brow furrows slightly in concentration as he writes, a lock of dark hair tumbling in front of his face.
My eyes drift to his arm muscles, working as he moves the pencil, then to his strong chest. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hands over his—
My cheeks flush as I catch myself staring. Thankfully, I look away before he catches me in the act. What is wrong with me?
I grip the edges of my portfolio tighter. Scanning my surroundings, I force myself again to focus on the project at hand, banishing any unprofessional thoughts from my mind. Get it together, Olena.
I make note of a large oak tree touching the roofline that will need trimming, then snap a quick photo of two maples that are showing signs of disease and will need to get cut down.
Yes. Good. Just focus on the work.
Having made a rough circle of the property, we return to the driveway, the tour complete.
Charles grins with satisfaction and clasps his hands together, looking at each of us expectantly.
He explains he wants my vision for the design and for Jude and his team to do the execution.
He’s seen our work and trusts us to do the job right.
Throwing around some quick numbers, it sounds like we can make it work within Charles’ admittedly generous budget.
“You two will be working very closely together over the next few weeks,” Charles says. “There will obviously be a lot of logistics to work out between you… the division of labor, so to speak.” He smiles at us.
Jude and I share an uncomfortable glance.