All They Need

chapter FOUR



“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME you saw Summerlea?” Flynn asked as he reversed out of the driveway.

Mel glanced at the man sitting beside her. “I guess about ten years. I attended the last open garden weekend they held.”

“Really? So did I.” He shot her a speculative look and she knew he was wondering if they’d crossed paths all those years ago.

She was almost certain they hadn’t. Even though she hadn’t known a Randall from a rhododendron then, she would have noticed him if she’d seen him. He was a strikingly handsome man, and she’d been twenty-one and constantly on the lookout for anyone of the opposite sex who was taller than her. He would have stood out as prime flirting material to her younger self.

“All the tea tree benches are gone,” he said as he turned out of her street. “The roses are a thorny mess. And the herb garden is a flat-out disaster.”

“I loved that herb garden,” Mel said, remembering its pleasing mix of orderly English box hedge, sandstone paving and flourishing herb varieties. Edna Walling was famous for designing garden “rooms,” and in Mel’s opinion the herbal one had been among the most beautiful of the “rooms” at Summerlea.

“I’m telling you all this so you can be prepared,” he said. “The old girl ain’t what she used to be.”



“I’ll brace myself.”

A silver car was parked beside the open main gate when they arrived. A portly, middle-aged man emerged from the driver’s side and waved them onto the grounds. The gravel driveway was rutted and choked with weeds, and the car dipped from side to side as Flynn drove slowly past the house to where a dilapidated double garage stood.

“Okay. Let’s go see what I’ve gotten myself into,” Flynn said.

Mel unfolded herself from the low bucket seat and followed him as he walked down the driveway. The real estate agent was huffing and puffing his way toward them, his face already flushed with exertion. “Spencer.”

“Flynn. Good to see you again.” The other man’s grin was broad as he greeted Flynn. As well it might be—Flynn had guaranteed this man a very healthy payday by buying a property that had to be well into the millions.

“This is Mel, a friend,” Flynn said easily.

“As you can see, Flynn dragged me away from the garden,” she said when the other man glanced at her muddy clothes.

“More power to you. Draw the line at wielding the lawn mower myself, and even then I usually pay one of the local kids to do it.” The agent switched his focus to Flynn. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but we’ve had a bit of an emergency come up and I need to cover another agent’s open home. If it suits you, I thought I could leave you with the keys so you could look around at your leisure, then drop the keys at the office either today or tomorrow.”

“Sure. No problem,” Flynn said.



“Terrific, much appreciated. I hate having to bail on you like this but there’s no one else available to fill in.”

Mel drifted away as Flynn and the agent talked business for a few minutes. She was studying the bare branches of what she suspected was a flame azalea when Flynn joined her.

“The keys to the castle,” he said, holding out his hand to reveal a chunky collection of keys, many of them old-fashioned skeleton keys.

“I hope he told you which one opens the front door.”

There were at least twenty keys on the ring. Flynn looked alarmed for a minute before singling out a key that had been marked with an asterisk.

“What are the odds?”

“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” she asked, doing her best Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Well, are you?”

He grinned. “Let’s see.”

There was a new energy in him as he led the way toward the house. She studied him surreptitiously. She’d always thought of him as the epitome of sophistication—unfailingly well dressed, never at a loss. Yet right now he looked like a little boy on a visit to Disneyland.

He glanced her way and caught her looking. She racked her brain for something to say so he wouldn’t think she’d been ogling him.

“I’ve never been inside Summerlea before, even though I think I’ve probably attended four or five open gardens over the years.”

“You weren’t missing much. I think Brian and Grace saved all their passion for the garden. Not that the place doesn’t have good bones. They’re just really well hidden.”

They’d arrived at the foot of a set of six wide, brick steps. Mel tilted her head and shaded her eyes against the morning sun to examine the facade of the house. Built from the same mellow red brick as the steps, the house boasted a deep porch, with twin stained-glass doors for a suitably grand entrance. Matching bay windows lit the rooms on either side of the entrance, and wood fretwork decorated the eaves.

Flynn started up the steps. She followed him across the chipped and broken terra-cotta tiled porch. He glanced at her as he slid the key into the lock, eyebrows raised with comic trepidation.

“Dum, dum, dummmm.” He turned the lock. The door opened with a mechanical snick.

“Phew,” he said, but she knew he’d never been seriously worried.

Another thing she’d never expected of Flynn Randall—he was playful.

He stood to one side and gestured for her to precede him into the house.

She stepped into the front hall, breathing in the smell of damp and dust. She paused to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. After a few seconds the world assumed shape and form again and she took in the wood-paneled walls, scuffed and discolored wooden floors and the high ceiling with its ornate, elaborate cornice and moldings and original light fittings.

“The living room’s through here,” Flynn said, directing her to the right.

She entered a large, light room. To her right was a large bay window, its curve fitted with a seat, to her left a rather grand marble fireplace. The carpet was a faded Axminster floral. Darker patches near the walls and in the center of the room indicated where furniture had once sat. The far wall was punctuated by a series of French doors that looked out over the garden—not original, Mel suspected, but they offered a great outlook over the house’s best feature.

“So. Am I nuts or what?” Flynn asked, and she realized he’d been watching her as she inspected the room.

“It needs a lot of work.”

She glanced around the room again. The chimney breast was streaked with smoke stains, a sure sign that the chimney was either blocked or poorly constructed. There were two large, dark marks on the ceiling, which almost certainly meant a leak, and even from across the room she could see the rot in the French door frames.

“But you were right, it has great bones. This could be a very special house—once you’ve poured the equivalent of the GDP into it.”

He laughed, then glanced around, his expression wryly self-aware. “Don’t I know it.”

He crossed the room to inspect the fireplace, crouching to peer under the mantel. His jeans stretched tightly across his thighs, revealing powerful muscles. Mel caught herself looking and glanced away, frowning.

“I might go check out the garden,” she said.

“Sure. Take your time. I want to take some notes, start to get my head around the size of the renovation.”

She crossed to the French doors and tried the handle. It gave beneath her fingers and she stepped out onto a paved patio area. Her shoulders dropped a notch the moment she felt fresh air on her face and she headed for the garden proper, feeling like a dog that had been let off its leash.

Her memories of the garden had blurred over the years, like slightly out-of-focus family snapshots, and she discovered it again as she walked. The herb garden, with its box-hedge border grown wild and woolly, and its pavers obscured by weeds; the lily pond, complete with bridge, and the water beneath a tangle of weeds. The rose garden, with its arbors and unkempt rows of roses.

She found the orchard where she’d remembered it, in the far southeast corner of the property. The trees had all grown enormously, and Mel guessed they hadn’t been pruned in years. Long grass grew between them, and there was evidence of some sort of fungus on the peach trees. Sadness swept over her as she remembered how beautiful this place had once been, how much pride Brian and Grace had taken in maintaining a certain standard. It must have burned to let things slip this much as their aging bodies failed them. And now they’d had to give up their precious garden altogether.

She’d been exploring the orchard, making mental notes for her own more humble project for nearly twenty minutes, before it occurred to her that Flynn might be waiting for her at the house.

She started navigating her way through the garden, her stride long and urgent. Panic fluttered in her chest. He’d be angry with her for keeping him waiting and wasting his time. He’d be wondering why he’d bothered asking her to come, regretting his impulsive invitation. She’d be lucky if he hadn’t simply driven off and left her to find her own way home.

She was aiming for the side patio entrance when she spotted Flynn leaning against the low stone wall near the rose garden. He lifted a hand in greeting and she altered her trajectory and joined him at the wall.

“I’m so sorry. I lost track of time,” she said. “I was trying to work out what sort of fruit trees you’ve got down there and I guess I just got carried away—”

“Relax. I only got here myself. I’ve been exploring the outbuildings.”



He said it easily, with a shrug of his shoulder, and it took a moment for it to sink in that he meant it.

He isn’t Owen. You don’t have to answer to anyone anymore.

Sudden, hot tears pushed at the back of her eyes. She recognized the reaction for what it was—a hangover from her marriage, a mental shortcut her mind had slipped into out of habit—but the last thing she wanted to do was bawl like a baby in front of Flynn.

She ducked her head, letting her hair fall over her face, and did her damnedest to stop the tears from falling.

“So have you successfully ripped off all the best design elements from my orchard?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice sounded a little thick and she cleared her throat. She used the excuse of pushing her hair behind her ear to wipe a tear from her cheek. Then she took a deep breath, blinked a few more times and forced herself to make eye contact with him.

Like a normal person.

“You said outbuildings, plural. So there’s more than the garage?”

His gaze swept over her face. She tensed, but when he spoke his tone was even and utterly casual.

“Yep. There’s a little dark building I suspect was once a dairy. And way over in the north corner there’s a rusting monster of a shed, filled with enough old garden tools to start my own kibbutz.”

“Really? I wonder if Brian and Grace realize they left them behind?”

“I’m going to talk to Spencer about it later, but I suspect they figured they wouldn’t be needing them in a retirement village.”

“No, I guess not.”



Since he didn’t seem inclined to leave yet, she leaned against the wall beside him and tried to regain her equilibrium. She stared at the toes of her work boots, angry with herself and a little scared. She’d thought she was over the worst of her divorce. She’d survived the dark early days, held her head high through the ugliness of the settlement, and now she had her own place, her own life, her friends and family around her.

So why was she slipping into old behaviors? Why, out of nowhere, had she suddenly lapsed into Old Mel?

Old Mel, who had run herself ragged trying to be good. Old Mel, who had developed the act of effacement into an art form.

“I know it’s a jungle at the moment, but it’s still bloody beautiful.”

Mel glanced at the man sitting next to her, pulled out of her introspection. He was gazing over the land, the edges of his mouth curled in an almost smile. She turned to consider the view, taking in the sweeping lawn and the nearby stand of silver birches, the overgrown garden beds with their flowing, natural lines, and the distant winter skeletons of a stand of oak trees. It was a jungle—overgrown and unruly, unbalanced and messy. But it was also calm and green and real.

The churning in her stomach slowed. She took a deep breath, let it out again.

“It’s not bad,” she said, her tone deliberately low-key.

Flynn gave her a dry sideways look. Despite everything, she found herself smiling a little.

“It’s a shame about those benches,” he said, his eyes on the view once more.

“There’s a guy at the farmers’ market in the village sometimes. I don’t know his name, but he works with local timber and driftwood.”

“When’s the next market?”

“It’s the first Sunday of every month, so you just missed it.”

“Huh.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Then Flynn gave a sigh and pushed himself to his feet.

“I guess I’d better hand the keys back,” he said with obvious reluctance.

“Don’t worry, it’s only ten days or so till settlement.”

“That’s ten whole sleeps. Pure torture.”

Mel’s laughter burst out of her, as unexpected as his comment. He was like a kid with a new toy.

Or someone fulfilling a lifetime dream.

She studied his profile, intrigued by the idea. “You’ve always wanted this place, haven’t you?”

“I believe the correct word is covet. And yes, I have. I have coveted the hell out of this place ever since I was old enough to understand who Edna Walling was and how freaking amazing this design is.”

“Well, congratulations. That’s very cool. It’s not every day a man gets his lifelong dream.”

By unspoken accord, they turned and started walking toward the house.

“True. So why do I have this cynical voice in my head saying ‘Be careful what you wish for’?”

“Don’t listen to that voice. Stick a sock in its mouth. There’s nothing wrong with this place that you can’t fix.”

He was silent for a long moment, then he gave her a warm look. “Thanks for coming with me today, Mel. I appreciate it.”

There was a shadow in his eyes as they found hers. For the briefest of moments he looked almost sad. Lonely, even. Then he was busy pulling his car keys from his pocket and checking his phone for messages, and the moment had passed.

Mel scoffed at herself. The man walking beside her had everything. He was handsome, wealthy, successful, respected, sought after. No way was he lonely. As if.



FLYNN KEPT UP A steady stream of conversation as he locked Summerlea and led Mel to his car. He talked about some of his plans for the house, the state of the lawns, the contents of the toolshed he’d discovered. As they drove to her place, he talked about the weather, the local village, her business. He tap-danced his ass off, keeping things light and breezy.

Anything to keep her smiling and laughing and engaged.

She’d been close to tears earlier. She’d looked so wounded, so abject as she’d apologized for keeping him waiting. For long seconds he’d been sure she was going to lose it, and he’d been on the verge of offering her a shoulder or a handkerchief or a word of comfort. Then she’d pulled herself together and it was as though the moment had never happened.

Except it had.

There had been that other moment when they were transplanting the orange tree, too. He’d made that crack about Hamish Greggs being an ungrateful ass and she’d stared at him as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. As though no one had ever said anything even remotely supportive to her about that night.

It was beginning to dawn on him that perhaps Owen Hunter was a bigger dick than Flynn had ever believed. He’d never had much time for the guy—it seemed to him that Owen was always on the make, always desperate to flash his wealth around and assert his social superiority—but he’d never considered Hunter truly malicious. Until now.

Flynn had always been pleased to see Mel when he ran into her over the years, even though they’d never really had a chance to get beneath each other’s social veneers—a brief conversation at so-and-so’s charity fundraiser or what’s-his-name’s cocktail party was hardly conducive to forming a deep understanding of another human being. But he’d liked the sense of Mel that he’d garnered from those superficial meetings.

He didn’t like the thought that Owen had put that wounded look in her eyes. Didn’t like to think about what a man might do or say to a woman to make her so tentative and wary.

Mel unclipped her seat belt the moment he pulled to a stop in her guest parking area.

“Thanks for letting me poach some ideas. I promise not to rip them off too slavishly.” The nervousness was back. She was practically humming with it.

“Thanks for keeping me company.”

She gave him that uncertain smile again, then reached for the door handle. “Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

She slipped from the car and shut the door firmly behind herself before he could think of an excuse to keep her talking. By the time he climbed out she was halfway to the house, her stride brisk.

He stared at her rapidly retreating back, wondering. Then he grabbed his gear and made his way through the garden to Tea Cutter Cottage.

He might like Mel, but she was none of his business. His dance card was full to overflowing with his father’s illness and Randall Developments. And now, of course, he could add the beautiful, impractical, expensive white elephant that was Summerlea to the list.

As what had happened with Hayley had so brutally illustrated, he was not in a position to be interested in a woman.

He let himself into the cottage. He dropped his bag in the bedroom, then walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Five minutes later, he opened the rear door and sat on the steps that looked out over the garden. The temperature had dropped a little, but he simply turned up the collar on his coat and curled his hands around his coffee cup.

For the first time in a long time, he had nowhere to be, and no one relying on him for anything.

He stayed on the step for a long time.



TWO WEEKS LATER, Mel exited the local bakery and collided with a wall of hard, male chest.

“I’m so sorry—” She looked up into Flynn’s blue eyes and forgot the rest of her apology. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi. How are you doing, neighbor?”

She glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Hayley, but he appeared to be alone. Again.

“I’m good, thanks.” She straightened her sweater, wondering why she always seemed to be at her worst when she ran into him. Last time she’d been covered in mud, this time she was covered in paint splatter. Then a thought occurred. “You’re here to pick up your keys, aren’t you? Summerlea is yours.”

He held up a chunky key ring and gave it a triumphant shake to confirm her guess.



“Congratulations. That’s great. Are you staying the weekend?”

“I am. Although it’s going to be interesting.”

He lifted the shopping bag he was holding and she saw he’d bought what looked to be a month’s supply of candles in all shapes and sizes. It took her a moment to join the dots together.

“You don’t have power?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Some idiot forgot to have the utilities connected. So I’m camping out, old-school style.”

She frowned. “You know the temperature is going to drop into the low single figures overnight, right?”

“Brian and Grace didn’t quite get around to installing central heating, so I’m not missing out on anything there. But there’s a woodpile the size of a small country behind the garage so I figure I’ll be right.”

All very well for him to say, but he had no idea how cold it got here on the peninsula sometimes. Without all the concrete of a city to hold the heat of the day, the nights could be bitterly cold. Recently, Mel had had to resort to using two quilts on the bed as well as her electric blanket to keep the chill out.

“Come and stay in one of my cottages,” she said impulsively. “I’ve only got two bookings this weekend, and you can have your choice of Tea Cutter or Windrush. It’ll be my housewarming present to you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m actually kind of looking forward to camping out. I’m about to go buy some cheese and wine, and I’m going to hunker down in front of one of the fireplaces and pretend I’m living in another century.”

He almost made it sound attractive, but she knew better. She gave him a dry look.



“I’ll leave the key to Tea Cutter under the front door mat if you change your mind in the middle of the night.”

He laughed. “Ye of little faith.”

“What can I say? I’m a pragmatist. A pragmatist who likes to be warm.”

A woman with a stroller was approaching and Mel touched Flynn’s forearm to alert him to the fact. Together they moved out of the woman’s path so they could continue their conversation.

“How’s the orange tree?” Flynn asked.

“I was a little worried after the first week but I found new growth on a couple of the branch tips yesterday. I figure that’s a good sign.” She looked to him for confirmation, since he clearly knew far more about these things than she did.

“It is. You might want to give it a gentle feed with something organic, too. Help it establish a new root system.”

“Thanks. I will.”

She suddenly became aware of how close they were. Somehow, in moving aside for the stroller, they’d also moved together, and she could see the small crease marks at the corners of his eyes and the smile lines around his mouth. If she inhaled deeply, there was a very real chance her breasts would brush his arm.

Quickly she took a step backward, something close to panic tightening her belly.

“You probably have tons to do. And I need to get back to my painting,” she said.

“What are you painting?”

“The bathroom.” She took another step backward. “Good luck with your campout. The key will be under the mat if you need it.”

“It’s generous of you, but I won’t.”



He was watching her with the same very focused intensity that she’d noticed at Summerlea two weeks ago. She made a big deal out of shuffling her bags around before offering him a small farewell wave.

“See you around.”

She turned and walked away. It wasn’t until she passed the butcher’s shop that she remembered her car was parked in the opposite direction. She glanced over her shoulder, but Flynn was still in front of the bakery, his phone in his hand. Feeling like a teenager, she took the long way around, past the supermarket and through the parking lot until she’d done a loop and could approach her car from behind.

You’re an idiot.

It was true, for more reasons than she cared to count, not least of which was the fact that her heart was pounding out a fast, heated beat beneath her breastbone.

She threw her bags into the back of her car and climbed in. It was tempting to lie to herself and put her body’s reaction down to the fact that she’d taken a completely unnecessary walk around the block, but Mel knew better. Standing so close to Flynn for those few seconds, she’d suddenly remembered that he was a man and she a woman and that it had been a long time since she’d felt the warm press of another body against her own.

On one hand, she understood why it had happened. He was handsome, after all, and he’d been nice to her. A woman would have to be dead from the neck down not to respond to his strong, very male body and natural charm.

The thing was, Mel had thought she was dead from the neck down. But apparently she wasn’t. For the past year, she’d been in survival mode. She’d done what needed to be done to keep her head above water and no more. There had been a certain comfort in her batten-down-the-hatches mentality—she hadn’t asked too much from the world, hadn’t risked herself, hadn’t expected too much from herself.

But now the nonessential parts of her life appeared to be coming back online. The parts that got lonely and horny and enjoyed flirting and laughing with a man. How…strange. She’d honestly thought she would never be interested in a man again. Naive, perhaps. Or maybe it had simply been a way to get through those hard first months. Whatever the reason, the notion that she might be ready to reenter the world of male-female relations made her feel more than a little anxious and panicky.

Because even if her body was ready, her mind wasn’t. Not even close. It would be a long, long time before she was ready to trust a man again.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down. She was freaking out over nothing, over nobody.

After all, on the most basic of levels, even if she had felt the stir of desire as she stood next to Flynn and registered his body heat and looked at his mouth and inhaled his scent, it wasn’t as though anything would come of it. The man was in a relationship with someone else, a beautiful, sophisticated woman from his own world. The chances of anything happening between her and Flynn were nonexistent.

Her thoughts slowed as her anxiety receded and common sense returned. A long time ago, before Owen, before she’d been stripped of her confidence and sense of herself, she’d enjoyed sex. Not indiscriminately, but it had been a normal, healthy part of her life. It wasn’t exactly a miracle that her sexual self was rising from the ashes of her marriage in the same way that so many other aspects of her self had. Her sense of humor. Her pride. Her determination. It was a good sign. A sign that she was healing.

Feeling more rational, she started her car and headed for the certainty of home.