The Doctor's Perfect Match. Irene Hannon

thing. With lighthouses—and life.” Marci took a sip of her coffee as she gazed at the sea, separated from Henry’s backyard by only a white picket fence and a stretch of beach.

      “I expect that’s true, most of the time. I know my Marjorie felt that way about her garden. She had the patience of Job with all these plants.” Henry gestured toward the curving, overgrown flower beds that hugged much of the picket fence and porch, leaving only a small bit of lush green grass in the center and back of the yard.

      “She tucked them into the ground, nurtured them, gave them time to flourish. Started most everything from seeds and cuttings. I often told her it would be a whole lot faster to buy established plants, but she claimed things grew better if they had a stable home from the beginning.”

      A sudden film of moisture clouded her vision, and Marci blinked to clear it away. “Your wife was a wise woman.” Sensing Henry’s scrutiny, she shifted in her seat. She’d already learned that the older man was an astute observer; she didn’t want him delving into her life. “Did she spend a lot of time in her garden?”

      “Practically lived out here in the summer. Not that you’d know it now.” He inspected the weed-choked beds and sighed. “I tried to keep up with things for the first few years after she died, not that I was ever much of a gardener. But arthritis finally did me in. Bending isn’t as easy as it used to be. Makes me sad, how much it’s deteriorated.”

      “How long has your wife been gone?”

      “An eternity.” He drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Feels that long, anyway, after more than half a century of marriage. But to be exact, ten years and two months.”

      It was nice to know some relationships lasted, Marci reflected with a pang as she studied the garden in which Marjorie Calhoun had invested so much labor and love. Despite the neglect, hints of its former beauty remained. Here and there, hardy flowers poked through the rampant weeds. Although out-of-control ivy was attempting to choke a circle of hydrangeas in one corner, the bushes were sporting buds. And a climbing rose in desperate need of pruning competed for fence space with a tangle of morning-glory vines behind an oversized birdbath.

      “What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.

      “Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”

      Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.

      But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.

      Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

      As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”

      Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”

      He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

      Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”

      “But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”

      She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”

      “You might not think it’s so much fun after you start getting blisters on your hands.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Besides, gardening is hard work. It takes a lot of strength. Lifting, digging, pulling. You’re just a little thing.”

      A wry smile lifted her lips. “Henry, I’ve spent half my life juggling heavy trays of dishes and glasses. I’ve moved tables, hauled and stacked chairs, and run up and down stairs balancing plates of food. At Ronnie’s Diner, I’m known as the Bionic Blonde. Trust me, being a waitress is a tough job. I’m a whole lot stronger than I look.”

      “Well, I sure would like to see this place the way it used to be. And I know Marjorie would be pleased.”

      “Then it’s decided. Heather and J.C. said I could use their car every afternoon, so I can bike to a beach and play in the sand in the morning, then head out here and play in the dirt after lunch. Are you game to show me the ropes?”

      A slow grin creased his face, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand beside her. “Let’s do it.”

      Christopher wheeled his bike behind his cottage, glanced toward Henry’s backyard—and came to an abrupt halt. He had only a partial view of the woman on her hands and knees between two hydrangea bushes, but he’d recognize that blond hair anywhere.

      What in the world was Marci Clay doing in Henry’s garden?

      As she began to tug on something out of his line of sight, Henry’s voice rang across the yards. “Hey, Christopher! Look what we’re doing!”

      Marci lost her grip and fell back with a plop. A second later she twisted toward him with a startled expression.

      “Hi, Henry. Hello, Marci.”

      Scrambling to her feet, she wiped her hands on her jeans.

      “We’re cleaning out the garden,” Henry told him, brandishing a shovel as he gestured toward a large pile of wilting weeds and ivy.

      Setting his mail on the railing around his tiny back porch, Christopher strolled over to the picket fence that separated the yards and surveyed Henry’s garden. In the far corner, plants had emerged from the cacophony of weeds. He’d never been much of a gardener, but his mother had enjoyed the hobby and he’d learned a few things from her. Enough to recognize the peony buds and coral bells. The other plants Marci had unearthed were a mystery to him.

      “Looks like you’ve made a good start.” He turned his attention to Marci, who’d kept her distance. Her jeans were grimy, her fingernails caked with mud. Sweat had wiped her face clean of makeup. One of her cheeks sported a long streak of dirt.

      She looked adorable.

      Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, Christopher summoned up what he hoped passed for a casual smile. “I see Henry put you to work.”

      “I volunteered.”

      “She’s a hard worker, too.” Henry rested the shovel against the fence. “Why are you home so early?”

      Christopher checked his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”

      “Six-thirty!” Shock rippled across Marci’s face. “Henry, I’ve got to go. I told Edith and Chester I’d have dinner with them tonight. At seven.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans again and dashed for the porch. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

      “Are you still sure about doing this, Marci?”

      “Yes.” She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. “I never leave a job unfinished.”