cancer had left behind.
Realization hit home. Spring had arrived, finally. May loomed just around the corner. That meant Mother’s Day.
Of course. He hadn’t thought of that. Was it a deliberate mistake, like so many others of late? Or was he simply bogged down with work and the task of raising three motherless kids?
“Oh, Daddy.” Emma’s gray eyes rounded as she grasped his hand. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your life?”
The crush of pinks wasn’t beautiful. Not to him. Not when every ribbon, every banner, every rose-toned bloom and 5K run reminded him of what he’d lost two years before. His wife. His helpmate, appointed by God.
He’d believed that then.
He believed it now. So pardon him while he internally recoiled at memories of the killer disease that robbed Jenny of her life and him of the wife he’d had for too short a time.
“I...um...”
She looked up at him. Met his gaze. Her little hand clasped his in solidarity beyond childlike understanding. “I miss her every time I see pink flowers.”
The bile rose further. Or maybe it was just a lump in his throat, inspired by Emma’s unshed tears. But she recovered faster than he did, and tugged him forward. “We need to see what they have, find Miss Fitzgerald, then do a sketch.”
“A sketch?” The look she angled his way said he hadn’t been listening. Guilty as charged. “What sketch?”
“Of the yard, Dad.” She pressed her lips together, and pulled him to the right. “Let’s start over here.”
More pink. Great.
A teenager paused in front of them and offered a tray of sugar cookies. Cookies done in the shape of a breast cancer ribbon. Pale pink frosting outlined the loop and a dusting of rose and white sprinkles sparkled in the late morning sun. Emma accepted one with a bright smile.
Alex would rather choke down potting soil than eat one of those cookies. He shook his head, hoping his expression didn’t reflect the darkness in his heart.
Who in their right mind expected this many shades of pink? Not him. And he didn’t like it at all.
“What are these, Dad?” Emma lingered, her notebook in hand. She took out his digital camera and snapped a pic of the pink flowering bush. “I like them. A lot.”
Of course she would. They were pink and Emma was a girl. One plus one equaled... “The ticket says it’s a Sugar Plum hydrangea.”
“So pretty.” Emma copied the name into her notebook and studied the card. “Some sun, light shade, keep moist. Which side of our house is best for that?”
They’d bought a historic village home over the winter, a house far removed from the modern center split he and Jenny shared for twelve short years of marriage on the east side of Rochester.
He’d needed different, a new setting. He actively sought change in every way he could—house, job and location.
He did manage to keep the same three children, mostly because they were too noisy to bring much on the black market. Or maybe because he could keep them safer here in this sweet, pastoral town.
Down here, in the rolling hills of Allegany and Cattaraugus Counties, he could leave the drug-riddled city streets behind him. A new start, personally and professionally. Safer for his heart, better for his soul. He’d had enough of gang warfare, racketeering and neglected children to last a lifetime. He’d faced every kind of evil known to man, and he’d won the day sometimes.
But not always.
Jenny’s death meant it was time to leave. Seek anew. Begin again.
He’d gotten the two older kids settled into Jamison Elementary School, Emma in fourth grade and Becky in second. Little Joshua went to a preschool facility. The day school was pricey but the hours worked well with Alex’s demanding schedule. Saving Jenny’s life insurance money for Josh’s college education would be redundant if the kid flunked kindergarten.
Jenny had possessed a knack for teaching little ones, as if life’s lessons were intrinsic to her personality. His knack was for solving crime. Directing a troop of officers. And playing with kids. They’d made a great team.
And then she died.
His heart seized again, the garden store celebration a kick in the head to a widower barely getting by.
“You look lost.”
Alex turned and faced a pair of the prettiest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Dark. Bright. Engaging. Filled with humor. “Do we?”
She nodded and bent to Emma’s level, the mid-spring sun sparkling soft rays of light from her dark, wavy hair. “Well. He does.” She jerked a thumb his way, and the way she did it, as if she and Em were simpatico and in league against him, made him smile.
“He is,” Emma agreed. “Actually, we both are, Miss...?”
“Lisa.” The woman stuck out a hand to Emma, shook hers, then stood again. “Lisa Fitzgerald. And you are?”
“Alex.” He accepted the handshake and the smile, and for just a moment felt like he’d been transported into a world of warmth again. Kindness. Gentleness. And it felt good. “Alex Steele. And my daughter, Emma.”
Recognition deepened Lisa’s smile. “From the 4-H club. I got an email saying you’d be contacting me.” She encompassed both of them with her question and expression. “So what have we got going, Alex and Emma? This can seem a little overwhelming when you first arrive.”
And then some, thought Alex, but not the way she meant. The vast variety of plants and gardening products covered acres of land. Two sprawling red barns stood along the far side, and a newer building, a retail-store Morton building, linked to the nearest barn. Distant greenhouses stretched north and south in tidy rows of plastic-wrapped metal tubing while closer hothouses lined the brick walk. They were filled with wide rows of potted flowers under blooming hanging baskets done in various shades of pink and rose.
Right now he hated pink with an intensity that rivaled his aversion for cooked spinach, and he’d never hated anything as much as cooked spinach.
“I’m doing a kind of massive project,” Emma explained. “And my leader said I should come here and see you first. To see if you could be my adviser.”
Lisa didn’t look surprised. “That’s because my mother was a 4-H leader and worked on all kinds of projects, from raising calves to starting seedlings. I’ve taken on a tiny bit of what she used to do. And I do believe Mrs. Reddenbach’s email used the words ‘precociously bright.’” She bent low. “I’m not all that good with cows, so please tell me you’re here about gardening tips. As long as it’s about plants and dirt, I’m your go-to person.” Her wistful face implored the girl to avoid all questions relating to farm animals.
Emma nodded, delighted. “Just gardens. At our house. If you can help us.”
“Phew!” Lisa swept a hand across her smooth brow.
Alex relaxed a little more. Maybe this woman could guide them through the intricacies of planning and implementing a garden. It had seemed easy enough when Emma approached him after her first 4-H meeting, but then he realized a garden, in overachiever Emma’s mind, meant the entire circumference of their home and would take months to complete.
Oops.
But it was the first thing she’d shown strong interest in since Jenny’s death, and he couldn’t deny her a chance to heal. To move on. To embrace life.
You could try taking your own advice. Start living in the here and now.
He ignored the internal ruminations. With three kids and a full-time job, an eight-room house and a yard in dire need of attention, he had enough on his plate. He’d save the psychobabble for some day when he