Inversion was restorative. She always felt it, but never more so than after a restless night. The force of gravity pulling her body in a different direction gave the flow of her blood a refreshing jolt. It made her body tingle, her skin breathe, her breasts rise. Like cool water slapped on cheeks burning with fever, it woke her up.
Viewed upside down, the garden was a revised world of color and shape. There were no ghosts here. Everything was geometric and solid— not the least of which being the man who suddenly, silently, appeared before her. He had come in from the back gate while she was lost in deep breathing and concentration, but he was as real as the junipers and yews that formed a backdrop for his upside-down form.
At least, she thought he was real.
Then she changed her mind. Tuesday wasn’t his day. She simply wanted him there— wanted him to see how athletic she was, how attractive she was in her workout yellows. She wanted to tease him, wanted to feel power in the teasing to counter the lack of power she felt when it came to her parents. She wanted him there for the male-female thing. His presence added pleasure to the garden, an Adam to her Eve.
Imagining Jordan wasn’t so much the power of suggestion as the power of wishful thinking. The gardener was a cool guy to conjure up— and intriguing upside down. He was solid as brass this way, what with the weight of his body resting on shoulders that were amply broad to support it. They were handsome shoulders, she decided. Not bulked up. Just leanly muscled. She could see this, because in her mind he wore a tank top. It was black, stuck loosely into low-slung jeans that were in turn stuck into half-laced work boots. She knew that the jeans and boots were for protection as he gardened, but she guessed they would make him warm. The flush on his cheeks suggested that. But then there were those brown eyes, steady as the chestnut behind her. And that dark brown bed-head hair. Viewing it upside down, she fancied he was planted right here in her father’s garden, rooted to the spot by that hair. But then, she guessed that he would be firmly rooted no matter where he stood— he was that hardy a guy.
The image moved. It was a subtle move, the shift of weight to one hip, but it was real enough to jar her.
She swayed and began to totter.
He started forward, extending an arm.
“No no no,” she cautioned quickly. Without the weight of gravity, her voice was higher than normal. “Don’t touch.” She steadied herself. “I’m fine.” She concentrated, took a leveling breath, refocused.
He was still there.
“This isn’t Wednesday,” she said in that higher than normal voice. She didn’t usually sway, didn’t usually totter. Her yoga instructor was amazed at how long she could stand on her head. As shows went, this was definitely not her best.
“The impatiens need water,” he said.
It was a reasonable enough explanation, though it raised another question. “My father had every modern convenience in the house. Why not an automatic sprinkling system out here?”
“No need. He had me.”
“Having you stop by to water flowers is neither time-nor cost-effective.”
Jordan lifted one of those broad shoulders in what Casey’s mind correctly translated into a shrug. “Doesn’t bother me.”
“You like watering.”
“I like watering.”
“But to come all this way…”
“The shop’s not far.”
“Ah.” She had been thinking about his home. She couldn’t imagine he lived here on the hill. Even the smallest apartments here were way too expensive. “How long have you been doing his garden for him?”
“Seven years.”
“And before you?”
“No one. The place was nothing but overgrown grass and weeds.”
“And wonderfully aged hemlocks, maples, birches, and oaks,” she reminded him sweetly.
He was quiet for a minute, before granting, “Yes. There were those.”
“What about those shrubs one tier down— the ones with the buds about to burst? They look pretty old.”
“The big ones are rhododendron, the little ones azalea, and no, we brought them in.”
“Who did the landscape design?” She was holding herself well now, even starting to get used to her voice.
“Me.”
“Through Daisy’s Mum?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a degree in landscape design?”
“No. I just know plants.”
“Did he?”
“Who?”
“My father. We established that he loved them. Did he know them?”
“He knew what he liked.”
“And you took it from there.”
There was a pause, then a curious, “Does that bother you?”
It was the type of question that Brianna would have asked her, the kind that might have brought an approving nod from Connie, because it was definitely the right question. And the answer? Yes, it bothered Casey. Call it envy or jealousy. Call it resentment. It seemed to her that her father’s employees had his confidence and respect, even his affection, while his daughter went without.
But she couldn’t blame the gardener. He was obviously good at what he did. “You’ve produced an incredible garden,” she said. “But you never did tell me if he did any of the gardening himself.”
“Your father? He pitched in from time to time.”
“So he… just… liked doing it, too?”
“No. It was his way of thanking me for helping him out with other things.”
“What things?”
“Things. Moving stuff. Carrying stuff up the stairs.”
“What kind of stuff did you carry?”
“Files. Whenever he closed a case, he put the file in a special drawer. When the drawer got filled, he moved the contents upstairs.”
“To the spare bedrooms? Those boxes can’t all be filled with files.”
“There are books.”
“More books? Omigod.”
“And letters. Professional correspondence.”
“Anything personal?”
“Those’d be in boxes with m-e printed on top.”
Connie’s me-files. If there was more of the journal to be read, it would be there. Casey’s thoughts flew up to those carton-filled bedrooms so quickly that she swayed again.
Again, the gardener reached out.
“Don’t touch,” she cautioned as she had before. She pulled her mind back down. “I’m fine.”
She had barely steadied herself when he asked, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“With what?”
“Touching. Your father did. He didn’t like to be touched. If there was the brush of an arm or a hand, it was accidental. He kept a physical distance from anyone who was near.”
Casey had always sensed that, but she had always seen Connie in professional situations where physical distance was appropriate. Working in and around the house was different. She might have asked Jordan more about it, if she hadn’t been bothered by his first question. Her own image was at issue here. She felt compelled to set him straight. “No. I don’t have a problem with touching.”
“Then with the hired hand? That was the third time you’ve told me not to touch.”
The third time. Ah, yes. Once in the office the evening before, twice now.
“No,” she replied patiently. “I have a thing about being self-reliant. I wasn’t about to fall off that chair, and I’m not about to fall now.” As if to prove her point, she slowly bent her knees. Hands flanking her shoulders, she carefully curled her body forward, lowering her legs until her feet touched the ground. Refusing to be rushed despite the view of her backside that he surely had, she slowly raised her head and reacclimated herself to being upright. When she felt confident she wouldn’t topple, she took a final breath, rose to standing, and turned.
The gardener was tall, far more so than five-foot-four Casey. She compensated by tipping up her chin and looking him in the eye. “Some men think women are fragile. I’m not.”
He seemed mildly amused.
No, she realized. He seemed mildly
aroused
. Those dark eyes held a definite flicker of appreciation.
Incited by it— and, truth be told, by a sudden, fanciful recollection of D. H. Lawrence’s passionate Lady Chatterley and her virile groundskeeper— Casey walked right up close to him. “As for touching,” she said, sliding an arm around his waist, “I like it a lot.” Holding his gaze, daring him to be the one to step away, she pressed a palm up his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm, over his wrist. Her fingers sifted through his, caught up by them for a brief moment. “I
love
touching,” she said softly. “I’ve never had a problem with it, and as for your being a hired hand, I grew up eating dinner with hired hands. I shared an apartment with one in college and lost my virginity to another.” She shouldn’t have said that, because the moment was suddenly hot— that flicker in his eyes had grown into something beyond the clasp of his hand, something that licked at the touchpoints of their bodies— and mention of sex didn’t help. Rushing to tamp down the heat on her end without moving away, because not only was he lovely to touch but he smelled like pure man, she said, “No, no problem with hired hands. Yes, a problem with ghosts. What do you know about Angus?”
Jordan was silent as he looked down at her. His eyes were an even richer, deeper brown, his cheeks more ruddy. Casey felt the movement of his chest, barely an inch from hers and less steady than before. It was a heady sensation.
Then she realized that the chest movement was suppressed laughter.
Pulling her hand free of his, she stepped quickly back. With some indignation, she asked, “Is Angus a joke?”
“No,” he said, though the corner of his mouth did twitch. “He’s a cat.”
“A
cat
.”
“Haven’t you met him?”
Eyes in the dark, a soft padding across the floor in the night, a sound that could as well have been purring as the flutter of a ghost’s breath. And Meg’s murmurs. Of course. Casey should have guessed.
Feeling the fool, she frowned. “No, I have not met him. No one told me about a cat.”
“If it’s a problem, I’ll take him.”
She wasn’t having any part of that. “If he comes with the house, he’s mine.”
“Angus and I get along great.”
“He and I may, too.” There could be one problem. “Is he always in the master bedroom?”
Jordan’s mouth lost its humor. “During the day, yes. He may wander around at night, but since Connie died, he doesn’t go far. He’s waiting for his friend to return.”
Casey felt a pang. “That’s the saddest thing.” She started toward the house, then stopped and looked back at Jordan. “Will he resent me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he scratch and snarl?”
“Never has.”
She raised her brows, pressed her lips together, stepped back, gave the gardener a might-as-well-check-it-out look, and set off. Cutting back through the office, she went up one flight, then a second. Her pace flagged when she reached the bedroom landing. Turning toward Connie’s room, she approached with caution. Not a ghost, but a cat; not a ghost, but a cat— she kept telling herself that, but still her heart rapped against her ribs. When she was a good three feet away, she sat down on the carpet and folded her legs.
She knew cats. Her mother had always kept them in the barn. Two were there at the time of the accident. Casey would have taken them to live with her if one of Caroline’s weavers hadn’t begged to do it. The woman had a big house, a big heart, and a big void in her life, having lost her husband of thirty years out of the blue the year before. How could Casey say no? Her own house was small, her heart was preoccupied with Caroline, and she was already used to ignoring the little void inside— which wasn’t to say that she hadn’t thought of kidnapping those cats. She might have liked the company at night. More, though, she might have liked to tell Caroline that she was caring for the cats herself. Caroline would have approved.
“Angus,” she called softly and scooted a little closer. “Are you there, Angus?” She waited, listened, heard absolutely nothing. It occurred to her that the cat was probably sound asleep somewhere deep in the room, and that her time— of which there wasn’t a great deal left before she had to shower and dress— was better spent exploring Connie’s me-cartons. But the journal was a story, perhaps real, perhaps not, but not immediate in any event. The cat, however, was alive. It was here, waiting for Connie, as it had been doing for nearly four weeks. Casey needed to let it know that she could take care of it, too.
“An-gus,” she coaxed, inching closer. Connie’s cat, now hers? Sight unseen, she felt possessive of it. “Come say hello, pretty kitty,” she sang, because she hadn’t ever met a cat that wasn’t pretty, hadn’t ever met one that didn’t like being praised.
Scooting up another little bit brought her within arm’s reach of the door. Leaning forward, she peered through the few inches of opening. When she imagined she saw eyes, she drew back.
Not a ghost, Casey. A cat,
she reminded herself. Reaching forward, she opened the door a bit.
The eyes were there, definitely not imagined. They sat two feet into the room and glowed out at her from a shadowed patch. With daylight filtering in behind, the animal was silhouetted. Casey saw the outline of ears angling up from the corners of its head, but little else.
Waiting for his friend to return
. Her heart melted. She might resent Connie Unger for many things, not the least of them making her feel unwanted, unloved, and unfit for the job of being his daughter. But she didn’t resent his leaving her a cat. A cat was as close as she could get to having a living, breathing part of him. A cat was more important than a townhouse. She could do a cat. She could do it very well.
She extended a hand toward the eyes. “Oh, Angus, I am so sorry. I’m not Connie, but I do love cats. I’d be
very
happy to take care of you.” She slid forward another little bit, which brought her as close to the threshold as she dared go. She kept her hand out, inviting the cat to sniff it. “Come say hello, big guy,” she coaxed gently.
“How do you know he’s big?” asked Jordan as he came up the stairs.
“Big eyes, big ears, big cat,” Casey said and tacked on a prudent, “Yes?” After all, Jordan knew the cat. Jordan also knew the garden. He
also
knew the house. Casey might have fixated on the unfairness of a stranger knowing everything she didn’t, if she hadn’t been thinking of something she did know. She knew that despite his outward scruffiness, this man smelled of soap, that when she had run her hand over his chest she had felt soft hair under his shirt, that even this early in the day his body was warm. These things were embedded in her brain and, with his approach, became wedged in her throat.