April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the house. Another point in its favor, in Laura’s estimation at least, was that it opened out onto the side gallery through a pair of French windows. From there, access could be had by brick steps into the garden.
    There was no sign as yet of the men’s return. As the fire died away, it was no warmer in the room than it was outside. Laura pulled on her gloves and, stepping to the French windows, unlocked them and slipped outside. Crossing the gallery, she moved down the steps and took the brick path, its herringbone pattern nearly obscured by grass runners and the accumulated mud of years.
    As the sun rose higher, the air had begun to lose some of its chill. The fitful wind had swung around to come from the south, muting its bite. This was the southern exposure of the house, a more open area free of the overhanging branches of trees, though by no means free of shrubbery. Nearer the house there were spreading azaleas higher than her head, their tight rust-green buds nestling among the winter-scorched leaves. Farther along, there were sweet olives, towering, leather-leaved trees whose tiny ivory blossoms released a delicious fragrance upon the air. Beyond was a woody tangle of winter honeysuckle just beginning to unfurl small, nondescript, fleshy-white flowers. One had to bend close to catch the elusive scent, though before long it would be wafting on the air. The flowering quince was budding, showing signs of rose-red, and in the border of bulbs that fronted the shrubs, daffodils, narcissus, and jonquils were sending up fresh green sheaths already swelling at the rips with bloom that would burst forth in less than a month.
    A turn in the path brought her to the section of camellias. The frost this morning and cold temperatures during the night before had put brown edges on the tender softness of the great cup-size blossoms in white, pink, and red, though there were still buds to open.
    A few steps farther along, the path diverged. Here there was a sundial in bronze on a marble pedestal; “I count only the cloudless hours” ran the inscription in raised lettering around the rim. This was the entrance to the rose garden. Around its edges, on gray and decaying trellises, were the great, thorny old-fashioned climbing roses and rugosa shrub roses, a wild growth of leafless vines hung with bright-orange rose hips. Centered among them, in beds bisected by brick paths, were the hybrid perpetuals, moss roses, damascenas, centifolias, tea roses, albas, spinosissimas, eglantines, bourbons, and gallicas. Some had been planted by the original owners, some had been put into the ground by the people who had owned Crapemyrtle in later years; all were in need of care, of pruning, spraying, mulching, and the replenishing of the depleted soil. For now, they were dormant, though here and there leaf buds were beginning to fatten. But in a few short weeks, as the days grew warmer, they would stir into life, and their perfume would blanket the entire grounds.
    It was quiet in the garden except for the calls of birds. A jay swooped in a blue streak from the magnolia beyond the edge of the garden, landing on one end of a sagging trellis. There were robins on the lawn, brown thrashers among the tangled rose vines, mockingbirds in the double row of crape myrtles, leafless shrubs that gave the house its name, lining either side of the walk leading back toward the front of the house, and the vivid red flash of cardinals everywhere. The peace was so thick it was nearly tangible, a soft and comforting thing.
    How long would it last? Soon there would be the roar of machinery, the whine of power saws and drills, and the thudding of hammers. People would be coming and going; the components of the house would be torn apart, cleaned, polished, scraped, rubbed, and sandblasted, and over all would hang the odor of fresh paint. When it was over, what then? Loud music, strident voices, bright lights, squeals, orders, arguments — all the raucous, daily