“This one’s different hot. Britt’s like head cheerleader hot. The new girl’s like kick-your-ass-if-it-needs-it hot. Like Black Widow, man—her hair’s even sort of red. She’s ‘I can do what needs doing.’ That’s hot.”

“Huh. It is, now that you mention it.”

“I’m totally devoted to Cassie, right? My chick’s the coolest chick in the universe of chicks. But if I wasn’t, I would offer my ass up for kicking with the new girl.

“So, how about I set you up with some data, some communication, and some security?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

He hung with Micah awhile, answered questions about his needs, shot the bull, watched his old friend work his magic. Then he got his laptop and drafted a formal employee contract, with a full job description.

He fiddled with it awhile, let it sit while he took delivery on more furniture, some office supplies.

Went back to it, read it over, then emailed it to his new administrative assistant.

Now, if he could cop himself a summer intern, he’d be in business.

* * *

In business herself, Darby stuck her fists on her hips to check the positioning of the chairs—sanded, painted, dry—just placed back on the porch.

She’d sent Roy to the next bungalow on the list to start the grunt work of removing gravel while she finished the final touches here.

The only uniform element with the first was the lamppost. It gave the cabins symmetry, recognizability to her mind. And she hoped when she finished all of them, Emily would consider names instead of numbers, have signs added to the posts.

But the rest? Unique to the space, flowing, but unique.

Now she only had to finish the pots, sweep up, check all the lighting one more time, and voilà.

She turned at the sound of a car, waited when it pulled into the drive. A woman got out. Young, Darby noted, early twenties. A tough build in jeans, a soft cloud of hair around a face the color of good cappuccino.

“Miss McCray?”

“Darby McCray. Can I help you?”

“I’m hoping. I’m Hallie Younger. I heard you might be hiring.”

“I might be. You’re looking for work?”

“I might be.” Hallie offered a smile. “I’m interested in this kind of work. I’ve got a résumé. There’s not much to it that applies, but I added in how I gardened with my grandmother every spring and summer since I could walk, and helped my daddy build some fencing. I can do some stonework, too. I built a walk for my parents a couple summers ago. I’m not afraid of physical work.”

“You couldn’t be in this line. Are you working now?”

“I’m working at the Lakeview Hotel, in the office. I went to school for business, but, well, I just hate it. Not the people,” she added quickly. “It’s a good place to work, and a fair place, but I don’t like being cooped up inside all day, every day. I gave it a year because I promised my daddy I would.”

“So, you keep your word.”

Hallie lifted her shoulders. The hair above them flowed in a cloud of curls. “Your word’s no good if you don’t. I saw what you did at the other bungalow, and now this one. It’s what I want to do, too. I think I’d be good at it.”

“Why don’t you give me your résumé?”

“I appreciate you giving me consideration.” She took it out of her bag.

“Before I do, why don’t we have a trial. Tell me what you think, and why.” Darby gestured to the bungalow.

“I’m going to say it looks beautiful. And I think you chose that turquoise blue for the porch chairs because you wanted them to pop along with that bright pink on the azaleas.”

When Darby gestured to keep going, Hallie took a breath, dived in.

“I think you wanted a happy kind of look, and went softer with that weeper, the white dogwood. You’re using native plantings, and they won’t need a lot of fuss. You wanted them to look like they just grew up here on their own. I sure do like the slate and the moss. I used chamomile at our house.”

“That’s a good choice, too. Here, take my gloves, I’ve still got the pots and planters to do. You do the two for the porch.”

“I’ll be glad to. Which plants do you want me to use?”

“You choose. I’ll read over your résumé.”

Hallie bit her lip. “I reckon that’s a kind of test.”

“See what works for you, then we’ll see.”

While Hallie worked, Darby sat in one of the turquoise chairs, read the résumé. Business courses, solid grades, part-time office work during the school year and summers. She added pictures of the walkway—nice job—the fencing, some gardens.

She walked inside, called a couple of the references.

When Darby came back, Hallie sat back on her heels with a look on her face Darby recognized. The sheer pleasure of planting.

“They look good. A really nice mix of textures, colors, heights. Good thing, too, as the cabin’s booked starting tomorrow. Why don’t you help me do the patio planters, then we can clean up and be done.”

“I’d be glad to.”

“Great.” Darby held out a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

“I—I got the job?”

“You got the job. We can talk the details while we plant.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zane managed to push Darby’s settlement up a full week, but her time still overlapped. To make room for incoming guests, she moved from her bungalow to another until the deal could be sealed.

With Hallie giving her two days a week until her two-week notice ran its course, and Gabe pitching in on weekends and after school—after baseball games or practice—they finished three more bungalows before she had her house keys in her hand.

With Walker Lakeside Bungalows fully booked, she switched her crew—she had a crew!—to reception, where she wanted to go a little bigger, a little bolder. It required her new Bobcat mini excavator, a lot of heavy lifting, loads of dirt, but she created what she considered an excellent rock garden.

“That looks a picture, boss,” Hallie told her.

“And more of one after a few weeks. We should finish this tomorrow. Best plan is to shift to Bungalow Eight—no booking until next weekend. We can get the stonework done, so no stonecutter noise to disturb any guests. We’ll wait on the painting, but should be able to get some shrubs in before it’s occupied. Then we start on Emily’s place, but go back and forth as other bungalows open, even if it’s just a couple days.”

“The woman works us to death.” Roy shoveled dirt around the roots of a redbud. Wish I didn’t like her so much.”

“Maybe you wish you weren’t so good at the work,” Darby tossed back.

“I am pretty damn good at it. Always liked flowers and such well enough, but now I dream about ’em. And what happened just last Sunday? My own mama asked why I didn’t plant her something pretty. Can’t get away from it.”

However he complained, Darby saw on his face that pleasure of planting time after time.

Hours later, after shoveling sand, laying stone, digging holes, she drove up her steep lane, parked her truck in front of her little house.

What she saw when she got out, stood, circled was potential. Land to clear, dirt to move, spaces to build, more to plant. A view of mountains going quiet with twilight, a stretch of woods swimming in shadows. And if she walked to where that land dropped off, hints of the lake below.

She imagined it, photographs in her mind, the retaining walls she’d build, the equipment sheds and greenhouse, the paved driveway, the color she’d add with shrubs, a cutting garden, a shade garden.

She had all the time in the world to plan, to make it happen.

Because she stood on her own land in front of her own house.

She danced her way back to the truck for the supplies she’d picked up.

Two trips later, she wandered the main floor. She could make the living room cozy—when she got some actual furniture. And the little powder room under the stairs could, with some work, transform from bare utilitarian to cute.

The kitchen … well, she’d never been much of a cook, so the ancient appliances would do. And she could paint the cabinets something cheerful or funky, find herself a fun table—or build one—a couple of chairs.

Stingy counter space, she admitted, and the dull yellow countertops needed serious help. Plus, the wallpaper—an explosion of yellow and orange daisies—had to go first chance.

But the windows throughout the house opened to the light, the views, and with no close-by neighbors, she intended to leave them undressed.

And she loved that the kitchen door led out to a good stretch of flat. She’d lay a pretty patio, plant a little kitchen garden. You didn’t have to be a good cook to enjoy a little kitchen garden. Since she got plenty of sun, maybe a cute solar water feature.

Her house, she thought, and gave herself a hug. She could do anything she wanted with it.

She went upstairs. Two small bedrooms, one bath. She’d taken the front-facing bedroom, delegated the second for her office.

The office already held her computer and station, a desk chair, two visitor-hopefully-client chairs, and a money tree in a pot boldly striped in reds and blues.