"That pretty much covers it," Stella said and toasted Jolene with her mimosa.
"Good. Just about ready here. Why don't you go on and call the boys?"
* * *
With the information from Jolene entered into her mental files, Stella formulated a plan. Bright and
early Monday morning, armed with her map and a set of MapQuest directions, she set out for the
job site Logan had scheduled.
Or, she corrected, the job Roz thought he had earmarked for that morning.
She was going to be insanely pleasant, cooperative, and flexible. Until he saw things her way.
She cruised the neighborhood that skirted the city proper. Charming old houses, closer to each other
than to the road. Lovely sloping lawns. Gorgeous old trees. Oak and maple that would leaf and shade, dogwood and Bradford pear that would celebrate spring with blooms. Of course, it wouldn't be the
south without plenty of magnolias along with enormous azaleas and rhododendrons.
She tried to picture herself there, with her boys, living in one of those gracious homes, with her lovely yard to tend. Yes, she could see that, could see them happy in such a place, cozy with the neighbors, organizing dinner parties, play dates, cookouts.
Out of her price range, though. Even with the money she'd saved, the capital from the sale of the house
in Michigan, she doubted she could afford real estate here. Besides, it would mean changing schools
again for the boys, and she would have to spend time commuting to work.
Still, it made a sweet, if brief, fantasy.
She spotted Logan's truck and a second pickup outside a two-story brick house.
She could see immediately it wasn't as well kept as most of its neighbors. The front lawn was patchy.
The foundation plantings desperately needed shaping, and what had been flower beds looked either overgrown or stone dead.
She heard the buzz of chain saws and country music playing too loud as she walked around the side
of the house. Ivy was growing madly here, crawling its way up the brick. Should be stripped off, she thought. That maple needs to come down, before it falls down, and that fence line's covered with brambles, overrun with honeysuckle.
In the back, she spotted Logan, harnessed halfway up a dead oak. Wielding the chain saw, he speared through branches. It was cool, but the sun and the labor had a dew of sweat on his face, and a line of
it darkening the back of his shirt.
Okay, so he was sexy. Any well-built man doing manual labor looked sexy. Add some sort of dangerous tool to the mix, and the image went straight to the lust bars and played a primal tune.
But sexy, she reminded herself, wasn't the point.
His work and their working dynamics were the point. She stood well out of the way while he worked,
and scanned the rest of the backyard.
The space might have been lovely once, but now it was neglected, weedy, overgrown with trash trees
and dying shrubs. A sagging garden shed tilted in the far corner of a fence smothered in vines.
Nearly a quarter of an acre, she estimated as she watched a huge black man drag lopped branches
toward a short, skinny white man working a splitter. Nearby a burly-looking mulcher waited its turn to chew up the rest.
The beauty here wasn't lost, Stella decided. It was just buried.
It needed vision to bring it to life again.
Since the black man caught her eye, Stella wandered over to the ground crew.
"Help you, Miss?"
She extended her hand and a smile. "I'm Stella Rothchild, Ms. Harper's manager."
" 'Meetcha. I'm Sam, this here is Dick."
The little guy had the fresh, freckled face of a twelve-year-old, with a scraggly goatee that looked as if
it might have grown there by mistake. "Heard about you." He sent an eyebrow-wiggling grin toward
her coworker.
"Really?" She kept her tone friendly, though her teeth came together tight in the smile. "I thought it
would be helpful if I dropped by a couple of the jobs, looked at the work." She scanned the yard again, deliberately keeping her gaze below Logan's perch in the tree. "You've certainly got yours cut out for
you with this."
"Got a mess of clearing to do," Sam agreed. Covered with work gloves, his enormous hands settled on
his hips. "Seen worse, though."
"Is there a projection on man-hours?"
"Projection." Dick sniggered and elbowed Sam.
From his great height, Sam sent down a pitying look.
"You want to know about the plans and, uh, projections," he said, "you need to talk to the boss. He's