Searching For- Stepmom S Gardener Surprise In-a... Page

Leo, home from his graduate program in library science, told himself his fascination was purely observational. He was cataloging her, like a rare botanical specimen. The way she knelt to inspect a wilting hydrangea. The way she cursed under her breath, in Portuguese, when a sprinkler head broke. The way she never noticed him watching.

He never did finish The Idiot . But he learned that sometimes the thing you’re searching for isn’t a person at all—it’s the permission to stop hiding in the shade and dig up your own buried truths.

“You dug a grave,” Leo whispered, his romantic fantasies evaporating.

“Where is she now?” Mara asked.

He arrived at the clearing to find no romantic picnic, no stolen kiss under moonlight. Instead, Mara stood in the center, holding a single shovel and a headlamp. Beside her was a hole—three feet deep, five feet wide.

And that, he decided, was worth more than a thousand stolen kisses under the wisteria.

A soft rustle. A click. The warm glow of a lantern. Searching for- Stepmom s Gardener Surprise in-A...

The surprise wasn’t what he expected.

His stepmother, Celeste, was a formidable woman who collected antique porcelain and second husbands. She’d married Leo’s father for his money, and Leo was certain she tolerated him only as a footnote in the will. If Celeste caught him so much as looking at her gardener, she’d have Mara transferred to the Arizona property within the week.

“You’ve been up there for six hundred and forty-seven days,” she called out, not looking up from her pruning shears. “Give or take a weekend.” Leo, home from his graduate program in library

That was the first crack.

“I know.” Celeste’s eyes glistened. “She came looking for you. I told her you’d moved abroad. I was… jealous. She had a daughter. I had empty rooms and a husband who didn’t love me.” She looked at Leo. “No offense to your father.”

Leo stayed there until dawn, sitting on the edge of the hole, watching the foxgloves sway. When the sun finally rose, he went inside, packed his car, and drove to Bakersfield. The way she cursed under her breath, in

Celeste handed her a slip of paper from her robe pocket. An address. A phone number. “Bakersfield. She runs a nursery. She’s been waiting for you to find those letters for five years.”

He came down the porch steps, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped moth. Her name was Mara. He’d known that from the staff directory. But hearing her say it— “I’m Mara, and you’re the stepson who never talks” —felt different. Intimate. Dangerous.