The Big Bang (12 page)

“You will.”

“And will I be pregnant, soon?”

“That is definitely one of the paths that lies directly before you.”

***

The psychic otherworld of low lighting, velvet draperies, and a future foretold in wet leaves faded into the mundane reality of strip malls and box stores as Hope headed home with milk. Still, the paltry $25 she’d paid for what anyone in their right mind would say was a brilliantly orchestrated parlor game, was more satisfying, more healing to her aching psyche, than any hour she’d spent with a therapist, or listening to Frank’s soothing but ultimately unsatisfying message.

A new life is ready to come through very soon.

She set her grocery bags on the counter next to her flashing phone. Three days had passed since she’d answered a call from anyone but Jim. Even then, she had to summon all her strength to mask her devastation. She grabbed the milk jug and a block of cheddar from the bag and started for the refrigerator. On the way back to get the orange juice and a few containers of yogurt, she jiggled the mouse beside the computer on the built-in kitchen desk.

She hadn’t checked e-mail at all.

After rooting through and deleting the junk, she opened her Yahoo fertility and interior decorator chat groups, glanced at the conversation thread topics, and printed out an e-mail for filing away from someone who wanted to be added to her holiday décor list. Despite the warmth of traipsing around the kitchen putting away groceries, a chill rushed through her when she spotted the last remaining message. An Evite:

EVERYONE NEEDS A HOUSEHOLD HELPER!

GET YOURS WHEN YOU COME!

THURSDAY, APRIL 26th

10 AM

DON’T MISS THIS ONE!!!!!!

BIG REGRETS ONLY!

[email protected]

Much as she dreaded oohing and aahing over stuff she didn’t need or want at a multilevel, home-shopping party,
big regrets
, particularly in light of Renata’s mention of a
party,
seemed too ominous a warning to ignore.

So did the red message alert blinking on the phone.

She pressed the button.

Hope, Frank Griffin here…

“I
really needed another pair of eyes on this.” Frank unrolled the landscape design blueprints on the table beside the diorama. He paused to look earnestly into the ocean blue of Hope’s eyes. “Yours.”

Hope’s smile was as genuine as he’d ever seen it.

“I’m glad you called,” she said.

Glad hardly covered his feelings. After the near-miss with her at the rec center, he’d kept an eye on her house for nearly three days, waiting for Hope to go on a run, take out the trash—anything that would give him a chance to start up the conversation that would culminate in her agreement to oversee the playground planting.

“After I got your message, I ran by the sites and looked around.” Hope glanced at the outstretched plans. “I’m eager to see the plans.”

The Lord, in his grace and wisdom, finally led him to a window just as Hope’s garage door rolled open. The minute she drove away, he went to the phone and left a more-humble-than-in-person,
favor to ask
message.

She called back by early afternoon, not only positive, but also eager to meet with him.

“Hope.” His shoulder brushed hers as he joined her in looking at the already near-perfect design. “I appreciate your professionalism in light of what I realize are objections to the project.”

She looked away. “I never really had a problem with the proposal per se.”

Laney and Sarah’s comment about the effect of fertility drugs on the psyche helped him swallow the acid burbling in the back of his throat. “But you did sign Will’s petition?”

Her cheeks colored. “He sort of caught me at a bad time.”

“I see,” he said, hoping for something more along the lines of,
I couldn’t face looking at the playground with my empty womb,
or
Will wouldn’t leave until I signed,
or even a far-fetched,
the fertility drugs made me do it.
“Well, I’m glad you’re on board, now,” he said, to break a looming awkward silence. “As I’ve said, I know you’ll enjoy
all
the benefits of a playground across the street soon.”

“Thanks.” Her face, beautiful to begin with, glowed with what seemed to be a new confidence. “I’m in a much better place about everything related to that now.”

“Good,” he said, and sensing the lack of need for an additional platitude or word of advice by the way she dug into the plans, said nothing more.

“Have plant materials been ordered?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“So there’s flexibility on substitutions?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Why?”

“The half-court plan looks great,” she said. “But I’m afraid the flowers slated to go alongside could get trampled.”

“I see what you mean.” Much as he would have preferred a more personal interchange, what more could he hope for than Hope, standing beside him, visualizing the soon-to-be flowers on his playgrounds. “Good call.”

And smelling of lilac.

“I’m thinking a hearty grass or a pea gravel would wear better,” she said.

He glanced at the area in question. With Hope on board, couldn’t the
sorry
he thought he wanted be considered an unnecessary technicality? Furthermore, if she did a good job, who was to say where their partnership might lead, particularly once the church began to take shape?

He pointed to a corner of the diorama. “How about moving the pea gravel slated to go behind the retaining wall and swap it with flowers—at least for the northerly playground.”

“Hmm.” Hope scrunched her nose as she examined the diorama.

“If you want to take the plans home and look them over before—”

“Definitely,” she said. “But…”

“But what?”

Hope narrowed her eyes. “Does that leg of the play structure look a little bit crooked to you?”

T
im Trautman spotted a silver Volvo at the intersection of Melody Highlands Road and Songbird Canyon Court. What were the chances the driver, blond, with the same car and coming out of Hope Jordan’s street, wasn’t her?

He slowed to allow the car, to make a right turn ahead of him.

Definitely her.

The groceries and dry cleaning he’d picked up for Theresa would keep. Considering he’d brought home lunch every day since the doctor put her on semi-bed rest last week, so would her sandwich.

Maintaining a safe distance, he followed Hope’s Volvo past the treble clef pillars at the development entrance and out onto Parker Road. He tailed her for a few miles, trailing to the right and a car back, until she merged into the left lane and turned into Home Depot.

He high-fived the dashboard. There was always something he wanted or needed at the hardware store.

He pulled into the turn lane for the second entrance and swung into the lot. She parked. He grabbed a space two rows away, facing Hope’s car, but partially blocked from view by a PT Cruiser. With an unobstructed view of Hope’s perfect heart of an ass, he dialed home and left a
last minute deal
message.

She got out of her car, walked across the lot, passed the main entrance, and headed for the greenhouse on the side of the building. The second she disappeared through the sliding doors, he popped a mint, hopped out of his Acura, and dragged a flat cart across the lot.

The doors slid open and he stepped into the humid loamy garden department.

Before he’d cleared the registers, or began to navigate the maze of potting soil and fertilizer, he spotted her. Like a jeans-clad Aphrodite, she stood against a backdrop of terra-cotta planters, patio furniture, and cascading backyard fountains amid a rainbow of multicolored blooms.

He rolled his cart next to a table of flowering cacti.

“We meet again,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face, more specifically her lips. Full and gloss-shiny, they could only look more sensual if they were, say, wrapped around his cock.

“Tim.” Her smile ranged somewhere between perfunctory and neighborly, but she remembered his name. “With a new house, I guess I should expect to run into you here.”

“And the grocery store, the drug store, the cleaners,” he said, in case she were inclined to have a chance encounter elsewhere. “Theresa needs to take it easy for the next little while, so I’ve stepped in as the family gofer.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

With the word
sweet
, any sour thoughts he may have harbored about his upcoming months of post-, and now prebirth, indentured servitude vanished in the floral mist. The dutiful father routine, played right, could possibly kill two birdies, Theresa and Hope, with one stone. “We’re all pitching in, but really, Theresa’s doing the hard part of this deal.”

Hope’s smile warmed.

Score.

“And running to the hardware store isn’t exactly a hardship for me.”

She eyed a table of fledgling bushes with a reverence that gave him the seeds of a possibly perfect idea. “Did I hear something about you doing landscaping?”

“Mostly I do interiors.” She ran her fingers along the branches of a potted fir. “But Frank Griffin asked me to consult on the final landscaping for the new playgrounds.”

The man was clearly no dummy, hiring her instead of some leathery, grizzled landscaper.

“Perfect.” He turned to examine a table covered in flats of purple blooms. “Because I came in thinking I might surprise Theresa by planting the flower beds.”

“I’m sure she’ll love that.”

He shoots. He scores again.

“Problem is, I don’t know the first thing about what to get.” He did his best befuddled look at the never-ending racks of flowers. “I’ve heard something about not planting before Memorial Day but…”

“Depends on what you’re looking for. The hearty annuals should be okay, and the common varieties are on the covenant-approved list. It’s the perennials where things get sticky.”

The word
sticky
hung in the loamy air between them.

“Annuals, perennials—I wouldn’t know the difference.” He smiled. “I just need the flowers to be pink.”

“All pink?”

“We’re having girls, so I thought that might be a fun touch for Theresa.”

Her eyes, blue and glassy, misted over.

Hat trick.

“I noticed some healthy looking lobelia on the way in,” she said wistfully. “Pansies are always nice. And petunias…”

“Petunias,” he said. “I know she likes petunias.”

“Right behind us.” Hope turned toward a tiered rack overflowing with flowers.

He smiled as he grabbed a few grow packs filled with pink and white striped blooms. “What’s your favorite flower?”

“I love lilies, but I wouldn’t recommend them if you’re not much of a gardener.” She handed him two flats filled with some sort of scarlet blooms. Her flushed cheeks matched the flowers in her hand. “When are you planning to plant?”

“As soon as possible.”

“You’ll need to.” She stuck a finger into an eight-pack of pink and white flowers. “The soil and roots are dry.”

Resisting a comment as to how dry his root really was, he said, “Theresa’s going out tomorrow morning for a couple hours, so I was thinking I’d sneak home and get it done.”

Hope glanced into his cart, which was quickly filling with a variety of pink blooms. “Where are you going to keep them in the meantime?”

“I thought I might stow them along the north side of the house.”

“Can’t she see them from the family room window?”

“If she looks.”

“If she does, the surprise will be ruined.”

“True,” he said. “I guess I could keep them in my car.”

“They’ll never make it.”

“Or—”

“Or, you’re welcome to hide your flowers in my yard.”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “That would be amazing.”

W
ill gave Laney Estridge an air kiss to avoid a crimson smudge of her party hostess war paint and stepped into her front hall. The short leather skirt, stilettos, and tight top she wore, a far cry from her usual business casual sweater set and pearl ensemble, boded an interesting morning, whatever Mother’s Helpers turned out to be.

“We’ll get started, soon.” Laney flashed a flirty smile, handed him a pink-stemmed champagne flute, and disappeared behind the French doors into the vestigial living room cum staging area for ever-sharp knives, allergenic vacuum cleaners, or whatever it was she was trying to hawk.

He never expected to stomach, much less appreciate, multilevel marketing in the context of a social get-together, but there was no denying the convenience in picking up reasonably priced jewelry, clothing, and culinary gadgets at a neighbor’s house instead of having to brave the mall.

Will took a sip of a mimosa, savored the warm kick in his throat, and sniffed the air for a hint of Pampered Chef or something with taste testing. In his hurry to get everyone off and the house straightened, he’d forgotten to grab breakfast. Other than the cinnamon and vanilla from pillar candles, there was no distinctive aroma intermingling with the perfumed air.

Probably a home décor deal.

If so, he’d stick around for whatever Costco munchies were to be had, pick up a few aromatherapy candles or whatever, and say his good-byes. With any luck, he’d have time to squeeze in a quick workout before he was due in the twins’ class to help make stone soup.