The Reading Garden - Rock Solid
Important notice: All excerpts have been submitted by the author.
Authors: Cheryl Cooke Harrington & Anne Norman
It seemed there were more weeds than flowers in the garden
this year, a lot more. Rachel rested on her heels among the
struggling clusters of perennials in the rockery. She'd been at it
for nearly two hours, and had barely made a dent in the bumper crop
of thistles, purslane and burdock that threatened to obliterate the
carefully planted hillside.
"Oh, Peter," she whispered, "how could I have let it get this
bad?" She sighed, fighting back tears at the thought of him. It
seemed like only yesterday that they'd planned this hillside,
scoured the property for rocks and boulders, wrestled each one into
place, nestled tiny sprouts and tubers between the stones. A
labor of love.
By their third summer at 'The Willows' they'd had their
reward. The garden had burst into bloom with crocus--yellow,
white and purple--even before the last snow had melted, and
carried on with an endless succession of colour and fragrance until
first frost. That had been Peter's last summer.
Rachel sniffed, swiping tears off her face with a dirty glove.
She missed him so much. It was all so unfair.
Bracing her foot against a boulder, she began a fierce
tug-of-war with an enormous burdock. It wouldn't budge.
"Let...go...you...ohhhh, no!" The weed gave way, tumbling
her backwards down the slope. She came to a painful halt with her
back wedged against a sharp rock, bare arms buried in mass of
thistles. For one split second, her world faded to black.
***
Rachel hadn't heard him run across the yard, the sound of his
footsteps drowned out by her own shout. And so, the strong arms
that suddenly embraced her, sweeping her out of the dirt to hold
her tenderly close, came as quite a shock. Such a shock that, for
a moment, she imagined Peter had somehow come back to rescue her.
Or maybe that bump on the head had been harder than she thought.
Could this be heaven? she wondered, as he rose to his feet,
cradling her safe in his arms. No. The warmth of his
breath in her hair, and the pounding rhythm of his heart told her
this was all too real.
She moaned as he turned toward the house, sending blue sky,
clouds and trees spinning wildly, a dizzying kaleidoscope of
colour. Rachel wrapped her arms around him and squeezed her eyes
shut, trying hard not to faint. Dropping her face into the hollow
of his neck, she breathed deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and
leather and, when he spoke, his voice rumbled through her body.
"Rachel? Are you okay? That was a bad fall."
Her eyes flew open as Street Wellman deposited her gently on
the porch swing, and dropped to his knees in front of her.
"You!"
"Me?"
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, wincing as he dabbed
at her bleeding elbow with an expensive, monogrammed handkerchief.
"I wanted to thank you, for handling that situation with the
R.A.T.S." He cupped his hand firmly around her arm, applying
steady pressure on the now-ruined handkerchief to staunch the
bleeding. "You see, Riverdale only knows me by reputation. Not
necessarily all true, I might add. And since we're all going to be
neighbours...well, I didn't feel I should be confrontational." He
grinned. "Ms. Jennings-Porter to the rescue. I couldn't have done
better myself. Thanks."
A worried expression took shape on his face before she could
reply. "Rachel, we should clean this up, it's a nasty scrape, and
you're breaking out in welts from the thistles."
He laughed then, pulling a burr from her hair and brushing the
tangled mess of curls away from her face. "I'm sorry," he said,
his face frozen in a grin that suggested he wasn't really sorry at
all. "For laughing, I mean. But you should look in a mirror."
Brusquely pushing his hand away, Rachel struggled to her feet
and tottered toward the door. Wellman's tautly muscled arm
materialized around her waist again, uninvited and unwanted, but
she let him support her for fear of falling. She was feeling
dizzy, and not at all sure she could make it to the kitchen on her
own.
***
"Witch hazel," he said firmly as he eased her onto a chair at the
kitchen table. "That's what we need to soothe those welts. Where would
I find it?"
Rachel stared up at him blankly, feeling bruised and battered,
and wishing he'd just go away and leave her to die. Of
embarrassment, if nothing else. She'd caught a glimpse of herself
in the mirror as they crossed the hallway. Street Wellman
certainly had a knack for catching her at her absolute worst.
Her face was slightly sunburned beneath the tear-streaked
layer of garden dirt, giving her a permanent and, she thought, most
annoying blush. Bits of twigs and leaves clung fast to the ratty
tangle of hair that hung limply around her shoulders. Her arms
were scraped and bleeding, covered top to bottom with burning,
itchy welts that grew larger, redder, and hotter by the second,
begging to be scratched. And Street Wellman wanted witch hazel?
"I don't think...I haven't got any witch hazel," she said,
wondering how on earth the man would know about such an old wives'
remedy. He looked at her as if no home could be complete without
it.
"Well, we'll just have to make do then. Baking soda?"
Rachel pointed to the cupboard above the sink, and watched as
he filled a basin with cool water, sprinkled in a handful of soda
and placed it carefully in her lap. She found herself studying
him, admiring his broad shoulders and the wave of dark hair that
fell over one eye as he leaned toward her. Even the way he moved
was impressive, so confident and graceful. A surprising contrast
to his height and powerful build.
He turned, crossing the room again to pull a clean towel from
the drawer, as if he'd visited many times before and knew exactly
where such things were kept. Then, Street Wellman, the great and
powerful man of quarry-wrecking and turtle-slaughtering fame, knelt
before her on the kitchen floor and, ever so gently, began to bathe
her arm.
Rachel shivered as the cool water splashed onto her T-shirt.
Too much sun again she thought, as Wellman turned his attention to
her other arm. He seemed intently focused on what he was doing,
and she sensed he'd had some experience in this kind of 'taking
care'. His movements were naturally gentle, and she couldn't help
but enjoy how it felt to be touched by those hands.
She shivered again when he looked up at her and smiled. A
rush of feelings, long forgotten, stirred deep within her as he ran
those long fingers through her hair, brushing it away from her face
before carefully wiping the grime from her cheeks with the cool
cloth. A steady dribble of water fell onto her shirt, trickling
down her front. Rachel felt herself responding to his touch
against her better judgement.
"I'll do that," she said, snatching the towel from his hand.
"I...I'm feeling much better now, and...and I can't thank you
enough for being so kind, Mr. Wellman."
"Rachel, please, call me Street. We're neighbours now, after
all, and friends, I hope." He lifted the basin from her lap and
took the towel from her hands before she could stop him, turning
quickly away to set them in the sink.
"Where's your first-aid kit? We should cover that scrape."
He bent to examine her elbow again. "It's still bleeding."
"Please, don't bother." Her throat tightened. "I...I'll have
a bath first and then..." For Pete's sake. What was wrong with
her? Why couldn't she think straight?
Street smiled as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"You feel very warm, Rachel. Too much sun, maybe? We'd better get
you something to drink. Tea?"
At least the man knew when to change the subject. "Something
cool, I think. There's fresh lemonade in the 'fridge. Would you
like some?" Rachel tried to stand, but found she couldn't. She
sank back onto the chair with a groan.
Street knelt swiftly by her side. "What's wrong? Where does
it hurt?"
"It's nothing," she lied. "Just a bruise. I think I remember
landing on a sharp stone."
His gentle hands had lifted the tail of her T-shirt before she
could object. "Your back has a nasty bruise, Rachel."
She leaped to her feet, ignoring the pain, spinning away before
Street could stop her. As she stared at him, mortified, he strode
purposefully out of the room.
I've offended him now, and he's leaving, she thought,
shocked to find herself wishing he'd stay. She leaned weakly
against the table, preparing herself to follow, to say goodbye and
offer a proper thank you for his kindness. He was back at her side
before she could set her feet in motion, draping an afghan around
her shoulders and guiding her backwards onto the chair.
His arm lingered around her for a moment and she had to fight
the impulse to lean against him, to breathe that wonderful musky
scent again, to experience those strong arms around her in a
passionate embrace. Then he was gone, rummaging through the
refrigerator, pouring lemonade into two glasses, returning to sit
across the table looking terribly concerned, and incredibly
handsome.
"I think you should see a doctor, Rachel. I don't like the
look of that bruise on your back."
Rachel sipped her lemonade. "I'm sure it's nothing. I'm just
a little stiff, that's all. Some aspirin and a good night's sleep
is all I need, Street."
She smiled as she spoke his name. Street. It suited him, but
she couldn't help wondering what kind of parents would name their
child after a roadway. Perhaps it was a family name, a fashion of
the rich and famous.
Street was studying her seriously from the other side of the
table. He didn't seem convinced that she was really all right.
Well, she wasn't entirely convinced herself, but she appreciated
the fact that he didn't argue with her. Surprisingly enough, she
was beginning to respect Mr. Street Wellman. Respect, with the
added bonus of physical attraction. She wondered if he felt the
same longing when they touched.
"I have to ask, Rachel. What on earth were you doing up in
that weed patch? You were yelling at the top of your lungs when I
drove in. I thought you had some wild animal cornered, or
something."
She hung her head, feeling another rush of guilt over the
dreadful condition of Peter's beloved rockery. "It's not supposed
to be a weed patch. It's our rock garden. My husband and I
planted it together, babied it along for two years while it got
established. It was beautiful last year, Street."
She blinked and swallowed hard, determined not to cry. "After
Peter died, it..." She caught herself, and just in time. No need
to confess the dire financial straits, how there'd been no time to
worry about weeds, how, for a while, every minute of every day had
been a battle to keep from losing the land they grew on. "It's
just so much to take care of. The house, all the gardens. I
didn't realize how bad the weeds were until...it would break his
heart to see it like this." She sighed. "I'll keep at it, a
little at a time. Maybe one of the kids from the high school will
help out. There's always somebody looking for part-time work."
Street nodded. "Good idea. It's too much for one person,
Rachel. You really could have been badly hurt, you know?"
"I guess I'm lucky you arrived when you did, Street." It was
amazing how easy it now seemed to call him by name. She resisted
the urge to reach across the table and touch his hand. "If not for
you, I might still be lying out there."
He nodded, glancing quickly at his watch. Was she keeping him
from something important? Perhaps a business meeting, or dinner?
It had to be nearly eight.
"I'll be fine now, Street." She tried to sound strong and
cheerful. "You don't have to stay and baby-sit me. Really."
"Well," he said, looking down at his watch again, "I really
should call home. Sandy's probably waiting dinner."
Sandy? The man was married. Or living with someone. She
felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. How stupid she'd
been. Alone for so long, thinking she was just fine, making it on
her own. But the first man to come along and touch her managed to
fill her mind with all sorts of wild imaginings. Grow up,
Rachel!
She drew a deep breath. "There's a phone in the hallway,
Street. Please, go ahead and call home. I feel just awful to
think your wife might be worrying about you."
"My wife?" Street laughed, a big, booming guffaw that bounced
around the room making her smile in spite of herself. "Oh, my.
That's a good one, Rachel. Be right back."
He left her feeling incredibly foolish, wondering what was so
terribly funny about the thought of being married to Sandy. Didn't
the man believe in marriage?
"Rachel," he said, rushing back into the kitchen a few seconds
later, "if you're absolutely certain you'll be all right, I should
go. Seems those R.A.T.S. were at the house this afternoon,
marching up and down out front, making a scene. Sandy's pretty
shaken up."
"Oh, Street, what an awful welcome to town. I'll be fine,
really. You should be at home now, not here."
She walked to the door beside him, careful to keep her
distance. No point in any more dreaming about Street Wellman. He
was obviously spoken for.
Street stopped in the doorway, turning to take her hand in
his. "My card's on the kitchen table, Rachel. If you need
anything tonight, anything at all, just call."
Withdrawing her hand, Rachel did her best to smile, telling
herself that his interest was just neighbourly concern, nothing
more. Still, she couldn't help wondering if Sandy knew the
powerful effect her man could have on other women. "I'm sure I'll
be fine. But thank you for everything, Street. And please, tell
Sandy that not everyone in Riverdale is a R.A.T."
***
She looked so small and alone. Street waved as he turned down
the driveway and imagined he could feel Rachel's twinge of pain as
she gingerly raised her arm to wave back. She was very lucky she
hadn't been seriously injured tumbling down that steep slope. It
could have been worse. Much worse.
He paused at the end of the lane to read the hand-painted
wooden sign that swung lazily in the evening breeze. The
Willows, it said, Rachel and Peter Porter. "The
competition is a ghost," he groaned, gripping the steering wheel a
little too tightly, remembering how it had felt to hold Rachel safe
in his arms. Her tiny hands and delicate features had captivated
him. And her trembling response to his touch had fired his own
excitement, making it nearly impossible, but absolutely necessary, to
leave her.
Gunning the engine, Street wheeled the Porsche out onto the
highway. He smiled to imagine Sandy's reaction to the news that
he'd finally found someone who really interested him. Not just
another golddigger, or social climber. Sandy would like Rachel
Jennings-Porter. He was certain of it. ©1997
***
*About the authors: ROCK SOLID is a first collaboration by
Cheryl Cooke Harrington and Anne Norman, who say they've been "friends
forever"...or at least for a very long time. Watch for their second
novel, FAST FOCUS, coming soon from Avalon Books. Write to Cheryl & Anne, they'd love to
hear from you. Or pay them a visit at the website of Cheryl Cooke Harrington.
You can order ROCK SOLID from Amazon
Books.
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