Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

his profile, waiting to see if he might say anything else, but he remained quietly working in the soil. Where his mother oozed immediate welcome, Max made her feel…well, she wasn’t quite sure, but at any rate, she’d have to hold her conversations for the ladies of the house, because Mr. Maxwell Weston didn’t seem to be the chatty sort.

And why did she care, anyway? She would be gone in a little over a week. But something about him piqued her curiosity, and she couldn’t explain it. Was it the “caregiver”part of her, seeking to touch a wounded life? Or the realization that she and Max were both a little more on the “old soul” side of their midtwenties than most of their peers?

Clara sighed and laced her hands behind her back, taking a few steps toward a wall of vining yellow roses. Hints of their sweetness greeted her greedy nose and she drew the fragrance deep into her lungs. What an amazing discovery in December! “I didn’t realize how many flowers still bloomed in winter.” She reached out and smoothed her fingers over one of the petals. “It’s all so beautiful.”

“Aye, with the proper care the flowers should stay magnificent for a while yet.”

“It certainly looks as though you give this place the proper care.”

He paused in his digging. “It’s a way to pass the time, I suppose.”

“What a wonderful activity for passing the time.” She sighed and glanced around the rainbowlike pallet of color. “Like creating a story through flowers.”

He still knelt by his plants, but had stopped digging. In fact, he seemed to be studying her from his periphery. Perhaps he didn’t want company. The air suddenly grew a few degrees cooler and she slipped back another step. Maybe his reticence to talk had been a clue all along.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your work.” Of course he wanted to work alone. Didn’t most gardeners? She took another step away from him. Well, she didn’t really know any gardeners, but it seemed like a solitary job. “I’ll just leave—”

“This here is heather.” He gestured toward a large stone pot filled with thin stalks of pink and purple blooms. “It’s often thought of as a flower of good luck or protection.”

She blinked at his sudden comment and looked around, allowing his words to sink into comprehension. An ornate stone planter filled with heather stood on either side of each entryway into the garden. Air burst from her in a laugh. “For wishing luck and protection as you go and as you come.”

His gaze flickered to hers, a smile wavering over his lips. “That’s the idea.”

“It’s a good idea.”

His attention held hers, as if weighing her sincerity, and then he pointed to a bush with small flowering white-and-purplish blooms beside the heather. “These are daphnes. Temperamental, but worth their unpredictable natures in the long run.”

She stepped closer, breathing in the strong perfume. “Are they the ones with the lovely smell?”

He nodded. “Though there are a few others with complementary scents to that one.”

“And what are daphnes thought to mean?”

He hesitated, reaching to rub a petal between his gloved fingers. “Authentic beauty or love.” His gaze flipped back to hers. “An acceptance as one is.”

“Truly?” Clara stared down at the modest, unobtrusive blossom. How peculiar that such a simple flowering bush meant something so beautiful. She reached to breathe in the scent again. “These may be my favorites then.”

She stepped back, a sudden lightness in her chest. How long had it been since she’d just…breathed in the flowers? She stifled the desire to twirl like a little girl, though her plaid skirt would have provided a definite princess swirl. As she turned, the large tree in the center of the garden regained her attention, its massive branches draping blossoms over the garden like a pale pink umbrella.

“Oh, that is remarkable.” Among the other pale colors scattered throughout the rock-framed space, the tree added the final touch of magic.

When Max didn’t reply, she looked over at him leaning against the planter. He was staring at her with a strange, bemused curiosity, his expression almost a smile. And, for some reason, with the same urgency she felt to discover the end of a beloved book, she really wanted to know what his laugh sounded like.

Heat branched up her neck into her cheeks and she looked back at the tree, welcoming the cool December air against her skin. “Is that a cherry tree?”

“It is.”

“I didn’t know they bloomed in winter.”

Her stomach tensed in awareness of his stare, but she refused to look his way. She barely knew him and yet, something prodded her to age the newness of their relationship into something more comfortable.

“Does it have a meaning too?”

He didn’t answer right away, but then his deep voice warmed the distance like the purr of a waking Keurig. “Cherry blossoms give the sense of living in the moment. Not wasting the time given us.”

Live all the days of your life, as her mother said. “My mother often says that people tend to struggle between living too much in the past or living too much for the future, so they miss out on today.”

“Hmm…” He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow. “Words to ponder, for certain.”

“But not so easy to live by.” She ran her palm over the damp blooms of heather. “I’m afraid I spend way too much time in the future with all the what-ifs.”

His gaze skimmed down her Victorian-style overcoat, and he raised a brow.

“Just because I dress in vintage doesn’t mean I don’t have very real future issues to keep my mind busy.”

“A balance then?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d say he dipped his head back toward the planter to hide his smile.

Who was this? He gave off the distinct aura of someone who hovered in the past much more than the future. His eyes had held a haunted look when she’d first met him. Did it have to do with his scars?

Clara approached the