May Day Magic
Praise for Beverly Breton and…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
May Day Magic
by
Beverly Breton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
May Day Magic
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Beverly Breton-Carroll
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Arial Burnz
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-658-1
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Beverly Breton and…
UNDER A HALLOWEEN MOON
:
"Perfect to lift your spirits and make readers happy..."
~The Romance Studio
"This was a short sweet holiday story...a reassuring acknowledgement that magic can be found in the simplest of things."
~Night Owl Romance
SPECS APPEAL:
"This is my first story by Ms. Breton, but it won't be my last..if you want a little romance that will have you begging or more...then you need to read
SPECS APPEAL
."
~Long and Short Reviews
"There is nothing like a sweet, funny romance to put a smile on your face, and
SPECS APPEAL
fits the bill. It is a warm and fuzzy kind of story...I hope to read more by her in the very near future."
~Bookwenches
STARS IN HER EYES:
"
STARS IN HER EYES
is a sweet story about beginnings and fate taking over when we need that extra push in the right direction."
~You Gotta Read Reviews
"
STARS IN HER EYES
is the perfect thing for people on the go who need a little romance break."
~The Romance Studio
"
STARS IN HER EYES
is wonderful!"
~Ashlyn Chase, author
Dedication
To flowers and flower lovers everywhere.
Is there a more wondrous way to say
I Love You
?
Chapter One
Diane Avery placed the palm of her hand against the restless eight-year-old boy’s forehead. Much cooler than when the new French teacher had left her son in the health office. April in Massachusetts meant roller coaster temperatures and bouts of flu for all the school nurses to manage. Diane reached for the book of fractured fairy tales the boy had been reading before he fell asleep. She placed the book back into the basket by the cot.
Sun streamed in the large-paned windows of the old Emerson Middle School building, leaving bright rectangles on the scuffed wooden floor. Yet the room felt chilly. Diane picked up the fleece blanket at the end of the cot to cover the boy, but stopped when he thrashed his head from side to side and mumbled something that sounded like a plea.
Watching him, she decided to stay near for a few minutes. Sitting at the end of the cot, she pushed back to lean against the wall. She folded her legs and spread the mint-green fleece over herself, the soothing aroma of her lavender-scented detergent drifting up into her senses.
Her own lids closed. Long ago, she’d learned to nurture herself. When she divorced five years ago at age thirty-one, she legalized a single-mother lifestyle that was years old, for she’d married a man too focused on his professional life to have time for family.
She had wanted more. A partner. A lover. A friend.
The cot jolted against the wall. Diane’s head bobbed, and a noise of surprise sounded in her throat as her eyes flew open. The boy had flung his arm over his head, but he was still deep in dreamland.
Curling her fingers into the soft blanket, she closed her eyes again. She could take care of herself, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t long for someone else to take care of her. Someone to tuck a cover around her, and join her under the covers. Someone to be her refuge.
Someone like Marc Stafford.
A long sigh escaped her. Marc was in the building this afternoon, giving a presentation to eight-graders considering a vocational technical high school. Every cell in her body was awake to his proximity in the guidance area down the hall.
Like most area residents, she stopped often at Stafford Farms, a popular organic farm, gourmet grocery, and nursery center located on a curving road near the Minuteman Trail connecting to Boston. Marc, who’d been two years ahead of her in school, was not a tall man, maybe five feet ten inches, but fit and vital in the way of a man who worked with the land. Despite his kinetic energy, he had a way of stopping and considering her words before answering that had drawn her from the first time they talked at a PTA meeting.
Marc had also been married until two years ago when his wife took off with a documentary crew, answering a wanderlust people avowed she always harbored. During the divorce, Marc turned inward but now with the ex remarried and living in another state, and Marc’s son choosing to live with his father, a change had come over Marc. Like sap rising in the maple trees, he returned to life.
And Diane somersaulted into the throes of a wicked crush that rivaled those suffered by her middle schoolers. Now when she ran into Marc at Stafford Farms, confronted with his lean athletic frame, youthfully mussed dark hair, and considerate manner, she experienced breathing so irregular, she wanted to grab her purchase and flee.
Picturing him just down the hall again, she felt a lively energy bounce to life inside of her, generated by one fit, brown-eyed proprietor.
Footsteps sounded on her office floor.
Marc?
Her lids snapped up, and her gaze riveted on the doorway.
The tall, spare Emerson Middle School principal approached Diane, a forbidding set to her mouth.
Diane scrambled away from the wall to sit upright, grimacing at the twinge in her back. “Sorry, I—” She spun sideways to check her patient.
He snored evenly, drool sliding out the corner of his mouth.
“I, ah—-” She stopped again, not sure what she would explain.
The principal examined the sleeping boy through narrowed eyes. “An elementary student? Isn’t this the middle school health office?”
“Leila got called at lunch. He wasn’t feeling well.” Diane paused. “She was distraught about missing this class, so I told her I’d watch him until she was done.”
Evelyn Hanson nodded, her expression blank.
“She doesn’t know anyone—” Diane started.
The principal held up a hand. “I’m not concerned about that.” She folded her arms and regarded Diane.
Diane ran one hand through her straight chin-length hair. School nurses might not wear uniforms and starched caps anymore, but she still looked professional enough. She’d pressed her oxford shirt and paired it with a pair of fitted black slacks. She had on mascara and blush. Then she remembered, inspired by the season’s warming temperatures, she’d let her daughter polish her toenails. The “Call Me Candy” pink looked so, well, sexy, she slipped on strappy sandals that morning instead of her regular clogs. Was that what had caught Evelyn’s attention?
With a casual move, she shifted the folds of the fleece to cover her toes.
“How is your mother doing with the new hip?” Evelyn interrogated.
“Hard to say.” Diane shook her head. “The medication manages the pain. But the surgery was two weeks ago, and she still isn’t up much, even with her cane.” She shifted, bracing her back with a hand. “And she’s not driving.”
“Loss of mobility is very difficult.”
Diane pressed her lips together, studying a scratch on the floor. “I’m more worried about her loss of interest in everything. Friends. Knitting. Her TV shows.”
“You’ve been at her apartment nonstop.”
“She’s my mother. I’m a nurse.” Diane gave the principal a crooked smile and shrugged. “That’s what we do.”
“Right.” Evelyn stared at Diane.
Diane steeled herself against a gaze the students knew too well.
“Make some changes in your own life to adjust to this milestone.”
“Milestone?” Diane furrowed her brow.
“Your pillar of stability has become a depressed dependent.”
Why had Diane respected Evelyn’s frankness?
Evelyn raised an index finger. ”You could start by not helping everyone who asks. Leila could have taken him home. We’d have managed.”
The principal walked over to Diane’s planter to groom the brown leaves and dead flowers from the dying begonias.
Diane grimaced and stood, draping the throw over Leila’s son.
Evelyn dropped the dead plant material into a nearby wastebasket. It hit the bottom with a dull thud. “If you need anything, Diane, I’m here.”
Sudden moisture in her eyes, Diane blinked. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
Evelyn gave Diane a long look, and left the office.
Plucking a tissue from the box, Diane mopped the spittle draining down the side of her young patient’s chin.
“Hey, Diane.”
She stilled for a moment, the husky male voice obliterating every other awareness. Wet tissue in hand, she turned.
Her dark-haired daydream stood leaning against the door jamb of her office. A frisson of response at seeing him live in the flesh leaped through her. “Hey, Marc,” she said in a stage whisper. Raising a hand, she stepped toward her desk. “Come on in.”
Walking toward her, Marc beamed a smile that spread over her like the new floodlights on the football field. Her pulse kicked up.
His gaze centered on the sleeping boy, and he stopped.
“It’s okay.” She gestured him in again and, incapable of concealing her pleasure, shot him a wide smile.
He stepped closer.
She caught his irresistible scent—fresh, outdoorsy, a hint of lime. She took another breath, keeping her chest still so he couldn’t tell. If only she had a student file or something to occupy her hands. Was something developing between them? Or was this organic awareness of Marc’s every move simply a reaction to his jaunty new outlook on life? She wished she knew if she had a valid reason to become all thumbs and blushes.
She leaned against her desk, crossing one pink-polished foot over the other in a pose she hoped looked nonchalant. “How did your program go?” At least, her voice didn’t betray her, sounding level and nurse-competent. After years of doing the presentation, no doubt Marc had it down. His support of the community was a trait she loved about him.
Loved
about him? She swallowed a gulp. OMG! Once again, impersonating a girl in middle school! She blinked, steeling herself not to react to the fracas in her brain.
He returned her gaze with an easy, white-toothed smile. “Fine.” He clapped his hands together. “Great bunch this year. Makes my job a lot easier.”
Diane stared for a moment, her head a jumble of incongruent thoughts. Then her addled brain cleared. Of course, by job, he meant his presentation, not running Stafford Farms, and, a bunch of
students—
not bananas. She bobbed her head for him to continue.
“How about you?” He dipped his chin toward her. “How are you doing?”
Was there a note beyond casual consideration in his voice? She glanced away, giddiness in her throat.
Until she remembered Evelyn took one look at her today, and saw burnt toast. She tipped her head in what she hoped was a perky manner, ignoring the answering pinch in her back. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”
“Looks like you need some new flowers for your office.” He faced the planter on the wide windowsill.
Mortified that this man oversaw an entire nursery, and she couldn’t even manage one pot of begonias, she strode over to the planter for no reason other than guilt. Glancing down, one hand bracing her spine, she noted that, thanks to Evelyn, the plants now looked merely sickly, not sickly
and
neglected. “I do. In fact,” she ad libbed, “I’m taking the planter home today so I can replant it.”
