Read Online B008KQO31S EBOK by Deborah Cooke, Claire Cross - Free Book Online

the universe and everything, even when the cab driver took the corner on two wheels.
    He was obviously anxious to be rid of a cheap tipper like me.
    * * *
    So, the yard was abandoned.
    It wasn’t really surprising at that hour of the morning, but I was disappointed that Nick wasn’t there waiting for me. He’d come, though. He was the kind of guy who kept his promises.
    At least he used to be.
    Doubt wiggled its toes.
    Let’s take a moment to set the scene. The head office of Coxwell & Pope is not the most glam place in the world. There’s a gravel lot in front of the relentlessly functional square building of taupe brick, which dates from the late fifties. It’s a building that says “no frills” in its every line.
    It had been built by a paving company to house the owner/manager/salesman and his secretary, as well as all their files. That company’s backhoes and pavers had once parked in rows along the side of the highway. I remember seeing them as a kid on our trips to the city. The big yellow monsters with their jagged teeth had been a landmark of being “almost there”, or in the other direction, of “nowhere near home”. In those days, this had been a no-man’s-land of cheap real estate.
    No-man’s-land had moved much closer to Maine since then. Now the lot was smaller, the land on either side having been sold off when the paving company moved on. Far from being beyond the reach of civilization, we were nestled in the midst of a gasoline alley that stretched from Boston almost all the way to Rosemount.
    The small fenced back lot was perfect for our baby backhoe and minimal inventory of interlock and interesting rocks. Mostly we used it as a staging area, buying what we needed shortly before installing it rather than keeping inventory. Our business was very susceptible to personal taste, which meant that any inventory would have had to be enormous to be useful.
    I preferred letting the big interlock companies and tree farms keep the inventory—and pay for it—until I knew I needed it.
    Our office rubbed shoulders with a fried chicken place and an obscenely expensive nursery. Both Elaine and I had sworn off chicken shortly after we took the office three years before—the smell of the fat all day and most of the night is enough to put anyone off deep-frying for good—and often joked about poaching customers from among the nursery’s well-heeled clientele.
    What was good about our location was its visibility. We had a beautifully big sign, with flowing green text that proclaimed Coxwell & Pope to be purveyors of exquisite garden design and landscaping. When we noticed all the Land Rover Ladies taking a good look at the sign from next door, obviously not wanting to risk their fancy shoes on the gravel, we had added our phone number to the sign. It was cheaper than paving the lot and we have had a few calls from Back Bay.
    Including Mrs. Eugenia Hathaway, my personal favorite and patron saint of the Land Rover Ladies. Except she has a Jag, in a lovely hue of emerald.
    Mrs. H., though, was our ticket to profitability and possibly to a whole lot more.
    The back gate was still locked up, the Bronco Beast—also embellished with logo—sat cold and hulking beside the office door. It looks completely decrepit, but it’s not as old as you might think. I guess hard living had aged it beyond its years. All the office lights were out and the sky was pale pearly grey. Determined to see the bright side, I resolved that I could get some work done on those sketches while I waited for Nick.
    The fat for the chicken was already heated up—I could smell it and my stomach was not impressed. Fried chicken for breakfast was not an appealing concept any day of the week. I was thinking that the yogurt might have been a good choice after all as I did the key shuffle.
    Which was why Nick nearly gave me a heart attack when he stepped out of the shadows.
    I did squeal his name.
    He looked as though he might have laughed at me