May Day Magic (5 page)
This emotion inside scared, and exhilarated, her.
Allen disappeared toward the kitchen with the donuts.
The flowers in the basket dipped softly in the breeze. She raised a hand and caressed the fuchsia-tipped tulip. She inhaled the marvelous scent of the white hyacinths. And she smiled at the pansies, purple, yellow, and white. Removing the small white wicker basket from the doorknob, she carried her treasure into the house.
“How do you know they’re from him, Meggie? Grandma could have—”
“Not Grandma, Mom. Not this year.” Meggie eyed her mother. “Are you so clueless? He stops by school for your planter and fills it with your favorite flowers. He takes out practically every flower in the refrigerator to show Allen. He gets up Sunday morning and delivers this to you exactly while you’re gone. Do you think he usually does that stuff for all the customers?” Meggie shook her head, her eyebrows knit together. “Don’t you get it?
He
gave
you
that May basket.”
Diane frowned, a murky thought coming into her mind.
Meggie watched her. “Come on, Mom. Don’t blow this. You like him. I know you do.”
Diane started, a helpless smile opening on her face. “What about that woman on Friday,” she mumbled.
“Oh, geez,” Meggie responded. “I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s not Marc’s type.”
“What?” Diane exclaimed. Was there no end to all the male-female knowledge her daughter had picked up? “Not
Marc’s
type?”
“Well, he’s not Mr. Stafford to you.”
“He is to you,” Diane retorted.
Her daughter raised one shoulder. “Okay, but it’s still true. She’s not
Mr. Stafford’s
type. I think you should go find him.”
“Drive after him?” Diane’s chest heaved. “I’d feel silly.”
“Walk then.”
Diane stared at her daughter. “You mean sprint if you two saw him on Cedar Street. He’ll be basically home.”
Meggie rolled her eyes and gave a huge sigh. “You’re not usually this dense, Mom. It’s almost eight-thirty. So it’s taken him close to an hour for him to walk, what, a mile? I doubt he would really take that long. He looks pretty fit to me.”
Diane’s cheeks colored. Clearly, this day marked the end of regarding her daughter as a little girl.
Meggie blazed on.
As if talking man sense into her mother was commonplace, Diane noted.
“If he had taken the foot path through the woods, he’d
be
home. But he didn’t. However, if you take the foot path…” She leaned closer. “Now,” she said with emphasis, “you’ll catch up to him. He’s not walking very fast.”
An incoming text signal sounded from Meggie’s pocket.
Diane’s daughter slid her phone out of her jean pocket. With one glance at the bright screen, her face took on a glow of its own, one that made her pixie-faced daughter look very much a woman.
Meggie raised her head and met her mother’s gaze. “Drew.” She looked away for a second, shook her hair back, and grinned, a young girl again.
“Are you going to answer him?”
“Mother, may I?”
Meggie’s gray eyes, so like Diane’s own, grew large in a teasing expression. Diane grinned back. The game had been Meggie’s favorite, but a very long time ago.
“Of course I’m answering him.”
Meggie’s tone said Diane was once again operating with the brain power of an ant, or maybe not even. She’d deal with that later. Right now, she fought to pull in a full breath.
“But you should go. I’m pretty sure if you invited Mr. Stafford over for donuts, he’d come. His son’s away this weekend, or did you miss that, too?”
“No,” Diane pronounced, cocking her head. Warmth settled in her chest at her daughter’s easy inclusion of Marc. “I didn’t miss that.” She lifted the basket from the knob and stepped inside to place it on the entry-way table. Glancing in the silver-framed mirror, she ran a hand through her hair. “I look okay?” She rifled through her purse, found her lipstick, and applied it fresh.
“Fine,” Meggie answered.
Diane inhaled and stood up straight, gleeful anticipation filling her. “Okay. I’ll be back.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or, maybe,
we’ll
be back.”
Meggie nodded, a self-satisfied set to her mouth. “I’ll make coffee.” Her daughter walked toward the kitchen, texting as she disappeared.
Chapter Seven
Marc kicked at a stone on the road. He wondered if his entire plan had been flawed. The May basket was a good idea, he was pretty sure of that. But he probably should have just driven over with his truck, left the flowers, driven home, and let events play out.
But he’d become impatient. Diane had been a friendly face since his wife had distanced herself from him and their son. But only since his son’s mother’s relocation, had he acknowledged deeper inclinations. When Diane showed up Friday, in her sneakers and jeans, heading out with fresh flowers and home-made bread, he wanted nothing more than for him, and Ian, to be a part of that life, a part of her optimistic, imperfect life.
With Ian away looking at colleges, he was at especially loose ends. He didn’t want to just keep seeing Diane here and there around town only when they crossed paths. So he’d walked, delivered the basket, and now dawdled, and meandered to the point of ridiculousness, hoping he could see her this morning.
How much more time could he waste? He checked his watch. Diane had driven by over ten minutes ago. He hadn’t known whether to wave, or look away and pretend he hadn’t seen her. Frozen in indecision, he hadn’t done anything.
He was about to pick up his pace and just get himself home when rapid steps sounded behind him. He tensed.
****
Diane kept her gaze on Marc. In jeans and a navy sweater, he was moving slowly for a man who normally jettisoned around as if hooked to his own private energy generator. “Hey, Marc,” she called.
He turned and lifted a hand in greeting.
Her heart thumped harder.
Their gazes met, his crinkling at the corners of his eyes in the way she found so attractive. A smile opened on his handsome face.
Her breath coming in short puffs, Diane tripped forward, the rising emotions inside her suddenly defined. Happiness. Happiness that Marc Stafford not only wanted to give her a May basket surprise, but that maybe he also wanted to join them for Sunday morning donuts, all of them, her and her children.
And desire. Desire rose, too. An organic yearning for this man that stood facing her under a graceful canopy of branches sprouting new green leaves.
When she reached where he stood, she stopped, a breeze dancing around them.
“The flowers,” Diane breathed in a deep gulp of air. “My kids saw you. Meggie said…”
Marc nodded. Raising his eyebrows, he waited for her to continue.
“I love them. They are so beautiful.” Diane looked down, gathering her thoughts and emotions, then back up into his face. “I love that you brought me a May basket.”
“I don’t know too much about the tradition,” He cocked his head. “I hope I got it right.”
How to tell him how much the basket had meant, that he’d gotten it just perfect. “It is the best surprise I’ve gotten in a very long time.”
Would he think she meant just the flowers? He had to know she meant him bringing the basket made it the best surprise. All of a sudden, she realized she had a tradition to uphold; that would let him know. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His skin felt ever so slightly stubbly-rough under her lips.
The jolt of being that close to him nearly destroyed her equilibrium. Her arms flew up in an effort to keep her balance.
Marc caught her hands, his gaze locked on hers, and guided her hands to his waist.
“A kiss—” her voice emerged as a throaty whisper, “—is the price of getting caught.”
Unhurried, he put his arms around her, and pulled her toward him.
So long since she’d kissed a man. So long since she’d wanted to. But she wanted to kiss this man, again.
Then Marc’s mouth melded with hers, and a taste she could swear was honey filled her senses. No longer off-balance, but rather incredibly centered in the arms of this man, Diane let herself go to his touch.
Her mouth fell open just a bit, his lips covering hers. Heady vibrations spiraled through her at the sensation of his body against hers. His hand on her back, he cradled her to him.
Under the sweetness of their connection, she could feel the banked tension in Marc’s muscular form, and her own body’s answering surge.
With a loud exhale, he pulled away, his gaze seeking hers with an intensity that sent shockwaves to her toes, making her feel like a school girl again, only better, because she wasn’t. She took a deep breath herself, gave him a knowing smile, and dropped her head against his chest.
Diane could feel his heart beating. Birds chirped from the trees around them.
Raising her head, she found his gaze. “Would you like to come over for coffee and donuts, Marc?”
He didn’t answer, his eyes deep with undecipherable emotion.
She stepped back. “Meggie’s making coffee and Allen knows better than to finish all the donuts before I get back,” she babbled on.
Reaching for her hands with his two callused ones, he smiled. “I would like that.”
Ah. Her chest released, her heart expanding. She smiled back.
“I would like very much to have donuts with you and Meggie and Allen,” he said, his smile widening.
Keeping hold of her hand, he swung her around and they began to walk back along the quiet street under the spreading branches. A robin hopped on the grass along side. Diane matched her pace to his, then she raised her face to the warm spring sun, breathing in air rich with magic and promise.
A word about the author...
Beverly has taught writing in many venues, published in a variety of newspapers and magazines, and authored two books on teaching kids sports. After years of turning simple events into oral narratives for unsuspecting family members, Beverly now happily channels her imagination into romantic short stories for The Wild Rose Press. She blogs about writing and life at www.everyotherminute.com, shares news and insights about her own writing at www.beverlybreton.com, and posts about her new grant-supported writing program for women at www.sparcforwomen.org.
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