May Day Magic (3 page)

“I’m going to see Shaq,” Allen called out, slamming the car door.

“Figures,” Meggie responded as Allen bounded off across the pavement ahead of her. “One giant pig to another.”

Approaching a stack of shopping baskets, Allen feinted to the left, pretending to bounce a basketball, then arced his imaginary shot into the top basket. “Two points!” he cheered, and skipped off down the path to the animal barn.

“I want to go see the baby rabbits, Mom.” Thirteen-year-old Meggie turned sedately down the barn path after her traipsing nine-year-old brother.

“Bring Allen and meet me inside in a few minutes,” Diane called. She turned into the doorway of the greenhouse nearby, looking for the scented geraniums she loved. At home were one cinnamon-scented and one strawberry-scented geranium, both from Stafford’s. Maybe she’d buy another one for a May basket for Meggie.

As she stepped into the hothouse, the warm fecund air enfolded her. She stood still, every cell reveling in an atmosphere that sang—
Spring
!

Winter had been long. Grandma Joyce fell just after Christmas, and then had not recovered as expected. When the doctors finally diagnosed a hairline fracture, they’d suggested hip surgery, which had gone well. Yet her mother remained depressed in a way Diane had never seen.

As April sunbeams filtered through the greenhouse windows, happier memories flooded through Diane. Skipping around the yard with her mother to discover the first crocus, conferring together on where to plant pansies, and observing May Day—one of their favorite traditions.

Diane moseyed along the greenhouse aisle, checking out the different plants on both sides, until, deep in the greenhouse, she discovered the scented geraniums.

She rubbed a finger across the leaf of one next to the aisle, and a lemony scent filled the air. “Aaahh.” Her breath came out as a happy hum. Leaning forward, she rubbed the leaf again, closing her eyes to inhale the evocative citrusy scent.

Chapter Four

Hearing the soft suggestive sigh, Marc started. He hadn’t seen anyone in the greenhouse. He straightened over the pots of basil he’d been examining.

The Friday rush could be a skirmish, depending upon the season and what fresh produce people were stampeding after. The staff understood his disappearance from two o’clock to three o’clock every Friday was no accident. The scents and quiet in the herb greenhouse were particularly calming, and his department and floor managers could handle business in his absence. They’d been with him for years. He liked to think they were family at Stafford’s, a family who’d kept him going when his own home life unraveled.

Turning toward the sound, he took a few quiet steps on the packed dirt, and looked through the taller plants lining the middle bench.

In the sunlight coming through the glass, Diane Avery curved over a plant. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes curling against cheeks sporting a faint blush, her features in blissful repose.

His pulse quickened. He stared, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to pull away his gaze.

A contented smile curved her lips.

Marc’s body tightened, and he dragged away his gaze to stare down at the ground. But his will power lasted all of about three seconds before he raised his head and, spellbound again, looked back through the leaves. The moments passed, Marc hardly breathing, time suspended.

When Diane started to raise her head, before she could open her eyes, he melted back toward the far corner of the greenhouse. He stood still, listening to figure out if she was coming around the aisle or still near the geraniums. Hearing nothing—he pictured her blissfully inhaling another geranium scent—he slipped out through the back door.

Letting out a relieved exhale, before he could get his focus back on what he was doing, the toe of his boot clipped a stack of plastic pots lined up against the outside wall. The plastic clattered against the greenhouse wall, and Marc swore under his breath.

****

Diane jumped, startled by the commotion, and peered around her. No one else had been in the greenhouse. She stood listening a moment longer, but the humid earthy air was still again. Just her and the quiet, comforting peace of the plants.

Goodness, she’d been in the greenhouse for some time. She walked back along the growing tables and down the walkway in to the large barn-styled building where Stafford’s showcased the produce and gourmet food selections. Scanning the bakery area, one of Allen’s regular stops, she didn’t see his blue fleece or Meggie’s white hooded sweatshirt. Then she looked across the large produce section, and spotted her children.

In front of the floral cooler, they bent over a bucket of flowers, in serious discussion.

Diane’s stomach somersaulted. The man helping them was Marc. She arrived behind them just in time to hear Allen pronounce, with the aplomb of a state fair judge, “The flowers on the bottom of the stem look old.”

“Allen!” Her voice sounded too loud.

Her children started over the delphiniums, and then turned to look at her.

Marc considered the delphiniums another moment then raised his gaze, an indefinable emotion in his eyes.

“What?” Allen asked, raising his shoulders. “We’re choosing flowers. Isn’t that what we came here for?”

Diane groaned internally. Marc had raised a child, too, but Ian was a senior in high school. Did he remember how “natural” kids could be?

“Honey.” Diane softened her tone. “How about if we make selections without complaining about the flowers we don’t choose?”

“Yeah,” Meggie agreed, nodding as she stared at her brother. “This is Mr. Stafford’s place, you know.”

Diane put an arm around Allen’s shoulders, not wanting him to be embarrassed by his sister’s remark, even if her point had been spot on. She flashed Marc an apologetic look.

Marc observed her for a long moment then returned his attention to the delphinium. “The bottom blooms on delphiniums tend to look a little withered. That’s how they grow. This
is
an important purchase.” He weighted each word. “A May basket for grandmother. You want to be happy with your choice.”

Allen shot his sister a satisfied smile.

Diane dissolved into mush. “That’s true,” she concurred, her voice soft.

A slow crooked smile lit Marc’s face.

How could one man look so good in a green Stafford-logo tee-shirt, blue jeans, and worn leather work boots? Diane stood entranced.

“Let’s look at those.” Allen pointed to another bucket in the cooler, one full of lemon-colored snapdragons.

Marc lifted out the bucket Allen indicated. His strong hands coaxed and teased one of the fullest stalks up and away from the entanglement of the others. He hadn’t broken even one of the small hanging blossoms.

She blinked her attention away from Marc’s able fingers, and back to the errand. Could those snapdragons really be four feet tall? Forget the dainty doilies she’d purchased, she and Meggie would need a tablecloth to create Grandma Joyce’s May basket if they let Allen choose the flowers. She hated to dampen her son’s enthusiasm now that he was on board, but they needed smaller flowers.

Why didn’t Meggie jump in to set her little brother straight again? She turned to her daughter.

Maybe because Meggie was no longer paying attention to flowers. Her hands stuffed deep into her sweatshirt pocket, her long straight hair falling forward over her pretty, almost-elfin face, Diane’s daughter appeared to be memorizing the messages on the Mylar balloons displayed on a stand nearby. Her daughter glanced toward the bakery counter. Diane followed her look.

Three seventh grade boys from her middle school jostled each other in front of the bakery case, goofing around, laughing in a rambunctious manner. Cuffing his friend’s head, the middle boy turned around and looked across the store toward Meggie.

Diane’s attention intensified. Drew Garretson? Blinking, she stared back at Meggie, who was now texting. Diane huffed out a long breath. She wasn’t sure she was ready for real girl-boy stuff involving her daughter.

Allen pointed to a giant sunflower. “Those look cool.” Yup, perfect for a prop in a production of
Gulliver’s Travels
, Diane thought, as a fatigued heaviness settled behind her eyes. She must not have explained the project well or Allen had not been giving her his full attention—or both. She took a deep breath and prepared to redirect him.

Marc watched her for a moment. “Sunflowers are cool, aren’t they, Allen?” He acknowledged with a nod. “But they’re on the large side and heavy, too, see?” He handed one to Diane’s son. “I’ve heard of May baskets, but never actually seen one. What exactly does a May basket look like?”

Diane jumped at the opening. “They are traditionally made to hang on a door knob. We make ours out of doilies rolled into a cone with a ribbon tied on for a handle. They are usually on the smaller side…”

Marc raised an eyebrow. “Door knob?”

“You leave it as a surprise in the morning,” Allen chimed in, hefting the large sunflower. “Wow. Heavy.”

Marc bent down, his darker head next to Allen’s lighter one. He showed him how seeds made up the sunflower’s giant center.

“Awesome!” Allen’s voice echoed his amazement.

Marc stood and handed the sturdy flower to Allen. “Why don’t you take that home and dry it. You can feed the birds with the seeds.”

“Really? Thanks.” He looked over at his mother. “Can I?”

Diane nodded. “Thank you, Marc.” She met his dark gaze.

The temperature of the surrounding air rose.

Marc pivoted toward the flower refrigerator, and opened the door to the cooler.

“Allen, let’s look at some smaller flowers for that May basket you’re planning.” He pulled out a short bucket of daffodils, and another full of small white, purple and yellow iris.

Tension eased out of Diane’s shoulders.

“The iris, definitely,” Meggie chimed in. Joining Allen and Marc at the buckets, she pointed out the blooms she wanted. “Those two white and three of the purple.”

Diane checked the bakery counter. With the boys gone, she had her daughter back, for the moment.

Allen agreed to the irises.

“When do you deliver this May basket?” Marc asked.

“Before sun-up on May first. That’s the tradition,” Meggie answered. “But Grandma’s not up very early these days.”

A sense of sadness washed over Diane before she shook it off. “If we get there around eight o’clock, we’ll still surprise her.”

Meggie made two more selections to complete the spring bouquet while Allen drifted off to look at pictures on the community board near the cashier area.

With a few deft movements, Marc arranged the flowers in a beguiling bouquet.

“That’s good,” Meggie stated with a nod.

“What do you think, Mom?” Marc cocked his head, looked at the arrangement he held at arm’s length, and then back at her. “Look all right to you?”

The satisfaction in his voice was infectious. She broke into an open smile. “Perfect. Thank you for your help.”

Marc handed the bouquet to Meggie, indicating the nearby floral counter. “One of the florists can wrap them for you.” He faced Diane, hand on one hip, his eyebrows drawn together. “You’re not here to pick up your planter, too, are you?” he asked in a low tone.

His masculine stance drew her like catnip to a farm cat. Caught out, Diane glanced away, then met his gaze and nodded.

“Diane, you’re telling me that your back is totally fine now?”

“No, but close. Meggie and I can get the planter out of the car together, and then back in on Monday.”

“You shouldn’t be carrying it anywhere.”

“I won’t,” Diane assured him. “I’ll get the hand cart to bring it into school.”

Marc’s frown increased.

“I’ll ask maintenance to get the hand cart and bring it in.” His concern made her melt inside.

“Better,” Marc agreed. “Okay. Let’s go.” He curved a hand around her elbow, propelling her to walk beside him. “I would like for you to see it. Pull your car up front and I’ll put your planter in your car as long as you guarantee you will not carry it anywhere.” He cast her a serious glance.

“Promise.” Dianne held up her hands. “I need a slip to pay the cashier?”

Marc gave a shake of his head. “No. My gift—to the school.”

“I can’t have you do that, too. Let me pay for the plants.”

“I’ve got it.”

She stood, taking him in, the way his body filled the simple t-shirt and blue jeans, the playfulness in his gaze. “Marc.”

He gave her a roguish grin. “You’ll have trouble convincing the cashier to just take some of your money.”

“Okay.” Diane nodded, and gave him a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

He kept his attention locked on her.

A thrill raced over her skin.

Chapter Five

“Hey, Mom!” Allen called out.

Diane started, and turned her head toward her son.

“Look.” Allen pointed to a newspaper clipping. “Remember Mr. Stafford’s son? All the baskets he made at the basketball game?” His head tipped back, Allen read more of the story. “Wow. Colleges want him.” With an expression of utter fascination, Allen turned to Marc. “Where is he going to play?”

Marc shrugged, pride lighting in his eyes. “He hasn’t decided yet. In fact, he’s going on a college visit this weekend.”

“Maybe he’ll go somewhere close,” Allen responded with a pantomime dribble and a few feints. “I’d go see him.”

Marc walked closer and stared at the clipping. “Hmm,” he agreed, nodding. “So would I.” A pensiveness flickered across his features. He turned to Diane and gave her a small nod. “I’ll get your planter and meet you out front.”

Diane picked up a loaf of Tuscan bread in the bakery department, and then she and Meggie and Allen joined one of the lengthening cashier lines.

When they walked out the wide entranceway, she spotted Marc standing in the afternoon sun. Next to him—rather closely next to him, Diane noted—was a slender woman in a dark jacket, very fitted tan riding pants, and high black boots. Gleaming black hair cascaded down her back. She stood with her fingers curving over Marc’s forearm, gold bracelets glittering in the sunlight. Face raised to him, she spoke intimately in his ear.