Page 1 of Love and Landscape (Rockland Falls 3)

Chapter One

Jensen

I yawn for the fourth time in under five minutes.

Last night was rough. Ashley called three times with some sort of issue regarding our four-year-old son, Max. First, he wouldn’t eat his dinner. An hour later, he didn’t want to take a bath. Then finally, he refused to go to sleep. It was all bullshit.

By the time the third call came through just after nine, I was already shoving my tired feet into my worn work boots and was grabbing my keys. The drive to my ex-wife’s house was short, considering I intentionally rented a house in the same neighborhood once I realized our marriage wasn’t going to be saved. I wanted to be close to Max. I wanted as much time with him as possible. I wanted to give him a slice of normalcy, no matter what that ended up being.

Unfortunately, it ended up being two parents who still argue and fight (albeit outside of his earshot) over stupid shit we have no business fighting over. Divorce is hard, that’s for damn sure. It’s not how I saw my life going; definitely not what I pictured would happen before I even hit my thirties.

Now, here I am: thirty years old, co-parenting with a woman who teeters the line between hating me and wanting me back (not happening, by the way), and working myself into an early grave.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Well, maybe less of the guilt trips from the ex, but everything else is on point and keeping my ass extremely busy.

Case in point: I’m driving to meet an attorney on behalf of a new client. A new client who just so happens to have purchased the biggest house in Rockland Falls. A house that has a lot of history. My history.

But I’m not getting into that now. I have too much shit to do on this gorgeous, sunny August afternoon than to take a painfully uncomfortable trip down memory lane. Right now, I have to get myself in business mode and present new landscape design plans to a man from New York. It’s the first time I’m laying eyes on the entire property in more than a decade, but I know it like the back of my hand. I know it hasn’t been touched since the previous owners moved out, leaving their million-dollar mansion for a new place in the Hamptons, leaving everything behind without batting an eye. That means I’ll be dealing with out of control weeds and shrubbery, and probably a little damage to the foundation. No, I’m not talking the house foundation, but the ground. The dirt. The ornate stonework. The sprinkler system. It’ll be a mess, but I’m up to the job.

When I approach the large gate, I find it already open. I turn my big truck onto the concrete drive and slowly make my way up to the house. Overgrown isn’t exactly the word I’d use right now. The place looks like absolute shit. The shrubs hang over the drive and the grass is completely overtaken by weeds, and that’s just the initial assessment from the gate. As I continue up the path, the house finally comes into view.

The Elliott mansion, or House on the Coast, as it was called when featured in Unique Homes magazine.

The older home stands before me, looking a little worse for wear. The drapes are all pulled shut, giving the house a dark, empty feel. The paint is chipping on the ground-to-roof pillars. The large fountain on the front lawn is full of leaves and a tree branch. There’s an odd smell that tells me something has crawled off somewhere to die, possibly a raccoon or an opossum. The property looks like a war zone and has definitely seen better days.

I park my truck next to a fancy Mercedes with New York plates. A man wearing a suit more expensive than my truck payment steps out of the house and greets me in front of our vehicles. “Mr. Grayson, so wonderful to finally meet you,” he says, extending his hand and offering a firm handshake.

“Likewise, Mr. Paige. And please, call me Jensen.”

“David,” he instructs, offering me a friendly smile. “As you can see, the property is requiring a little work. The owner has instructed me to hire a local landscaper to do whatever necessary to get the property back in tip-top shape. Most of the shrubbery needs to go, if not all of it. That’s your call,” he says, walking toward the fountain. “The owner would like to try to salvage the fountain, if possible, but wants to add more flower gardens, primarily here in the front,” he adds, waving his hand to the grassy area around the ornate fountain, “and along the deck area in back.”

I jot down notes in my book, keep pace with the attorney as we tour the front of the property. Eventually, we head toward the back and my heart starts to pound in my chest. Memories flash through my mind in a rapid-fire sequence. Much of my youth was spent here, right alongside the first girl I loved.

Pushing those thoughts away, I scan the expansive property. The pool is still there, empty except for leaves, sand, and what looks like rodent hotels made from sticks and mud. That’ll be a bitch to clean. The hand-stamped, hand-laid pavers wrap around the in-ground pool, leading to the area once covered with deck chairs. Those chairs are still there, but are dirty and broken, most likely from the decade’s worth of weather and sun.

“The owner wants to keep the pool, and gave specific instructions about the pool house,” David says, pulling my attention away from the current state of the pool area and glancing toward the small structure just off to the side.

My heart gallops in my chest as I look at the building I had been avoiding to glance at thus far. The memories come fast and hard. Shared kisses, stolen nights, and an awkward first time all entombed within those four walls. It holds my past, and being here again is like a dagger to the heart. It’s a reminder of plans made and then thrown out the window. It’s a shrine to the girl who stole my heart and then trampled it into the sand beneath our feet. Being here is much more painful than I had anticipated, like being surrounded by ghosts.

I don’t speak as he goes through the instructions, detailing what the new owner would like done to the backyard. It’ll be a massive job, a huge undertaking, and that’s without the fountain, pool, and pool house work.

But I’m going to do it.

I’m taking this job in hopes of eradicating those ghosts, those memories. It’s time to move on. I thought I had once, but that wasn’t what I did. I put a Band-Aid over gaping wounds in hopes of fixing the problem. It didn’t. The only thing that helped with the healing was Max. Even when everything with Ashley went to shit, he was the balm that helped heal my aching heart. Those scars are still very much a part of me, but having my son has given me something else to focus on.

Something greater to live for.

At the end of the meeting, I shake David’s hand, promising to get him my designs by the end of the week. Since I’m the only landscape architect they’ve inquired about, the job is already mine. I can start as soon as the designs are complete, and then I can move on with my life and my business. Upward and onward, as my mom would say. It’s time to leave the past where it belongs.

In the past.

And as soon as I complete this job, I’ll be able to do just that.

* * *

Come Thursday, I pull my truck up to the home I helped purchase a few years back. The small three-bedroom ranch sits on a corner lot and features a large backyard, perfect for our young son. At the time, I thought this house was what we needed to fix our problems. Turns out, purchasing a house only comes with a whole slew of new problems. Bills to pay, upkeep to maintain, and space to fill with things. Ashley was all about the last one, going shopping as often as possible to fill our new home with crap. Often, she’d use Max as her excuse to spend every last penny we had in the checking account, but the truth is, she is materialistic as hell. Keeping up with the Joneses is one of Ashley’s favorite pastimes.

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