She threw her arms around his neck—that was unexpected—and did much better with a long, hard kiss, one she put a little punch into.
Enough of a punch to rock him back on his heels, to have his hands gripping her hips before he could stop them. Then she pulled back, grinned at him. “There now. I’ve got to get back to work—and stop to buy subs for the crew on the way. But I’ll be in touch.” He held on just another moment. “You are hot.” She laughed, kissed him again—light and friendly this time. “Told ya.” She pivoted to her truck, hopped in, then leaned out the window. “I’m still not paying you a million dollars.” With that, she started the truck, pulled out. She circled back toward town, and when she was well out of sight, pulled the truck over. “Holy crap.” Inhaling, exhaling slowly, she rubbed her hand over her jumping heart. “Holy double crap.” As if getting the job—the whole thing—wasn’t thrilling enough? She’d whacked herself silly with an impulsive kiss on the side of the road. Anyone would need a minute to settle down. Keep it light, she told herself. Keep it light, or try to. Who knew better the consequences of impulsive mistakes? “Okay then, all good.” She breathed out one more time, then ordered up her phone, the number for her stone company. Asked for her rep. “Hi, Kevin, Darby McCray, High Country Landscaping. You can put that order through. How about we go over it, make sure we’ve got it right?” By the time she parked at Emily’s, she had her first deliveries confirmed. She hauled out the bag of subs and chips, stood studying the now completed shrubbery. Perfect. The foundation plantings, also perfect. And with the new stonework, the fresh paint, the clematis climbing up the new lamppost, the house had some serious curb appeal. She had some great planters in mind for that fabulous wraparound porch. And since Emily actually cooked, there’d be a couple of tomato plants, plenty of herbs. She walked around the back to where Roy and Hallie tested another section of irrigation. She beamed at both of them. “We’re going to need a bigger crew.” * * * The following week, Graham Bigelow walked out of prison after eighteen years. His hair, shorn short, was steel gray with hints of white at the temples. Deep lines carved into his prison pale face, around his mouth, his eyes, in his cheeks, his forehead. He wore khakis and a pale blue golf shirt over a body, a bit thicker in the middle than it had been, but one he’d kept fit in the prison gym. Eliza waited for him outside the gate. She wore a sundress in emerald green. Her hair, freshly colored and styled, swept dark around a face she’d spent a full hour perfecting. Legs shaking, she walked to him, wrapped her arms around him, felt his wrap around her. She fought back tears as she lifted her face, and for the first time is nearly two decades, felt his mouth on hers. He turned her to the car, the black Mercedes he’d approved her to purchase. Though his hands balled into fists for an instant—he had no license to drive—he opened the driver’s door for her, walked around to take the passenger seat. His eyes held hard on the prison gate, the prison walls, the prison guards, all that had kept him locked away and humiliated. Still shaking, Eliza drove away. “Graham. Oh, Graham.” “Just drive, Eliza. I need to get away from here.” “Everything’s ready for you, my darling. Your new clothes, your favorite foods. I sold the house like you said, rented the one you wanted in another neighborhood. The lawyer said we have to stay in North Carolina, but we can apply to move from Raleigh. I thought Charlotte. We can start fresh there.” The cars whizzed by, too fast. Too many. Too much sound, too much open, too much sky. “Don’t worry.” She laid a hand over his. “Don’t worry, Graham. You’re free now. We’re free, and we’re together. We’ll be home soon.” Finally, she pulled into the drive of a two-story brick home—smaller, much smaller than the one he’d left so long ago. But the old neighborhood with its cracked sidewalks meant room between houses, trees and fences forming borders and separation. She drove into the one-car garage. And he felt a terrible relief at the sound of the garage door closing. Inside again, away from too much open, noise, prying eyes. Inside with no bars, no locks. They had sex first, fast and hard. Driving himself into her, feeling the bite of her nails, the rush of her breath, he began to feel like a man again. They showered together. She heated up the meal she’d hired a caterer to cook so it would be perfect, and set the table with candles, poured champagne. They ate and drank together, went back to bed together, more gently this time. They slept together and woke together, snuggled in bed with coffee together. Began a new life together. It took him nearly forty-eight hours to strike her.