Sleeping with Anemone (37 page)

“We’ll hold a press conference immediately after the meeting. And if that doesn’t get Uniworld’s attention, the threat of having a teachers’ union after them should.”

Who knew my mom was so wily?

“The local newspaper promised to print a series of articles about the dangers of bovine hormones,” Dad said. “They’re already calling your mom the Cow Whisperer.”

Dear God.

“Maureen, you are brilliant,” Mrs. Salvare said.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Knight,” Marco said, and lifted his glass to her. We toasted her and drank the wine.

“Now,” Mrs. Salvare said, “how about a toast to our young couple, eh? Such a bright future before them. Am I right, Marco?”

I glanced nervously at Marco. Here it came.

Suddenly, a door opened somewhere and we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Marco said in relief, “Rafe is here.”

“Then we’ll wait,” Mrs. Salvare said, glancing at my parents with a shrug. “The bambinos, they give us gray hair, eh?”

“Hear, hear,” Mom said.

I could’ve said the same about parents.

Rafe strode into the kitchen wearing his parka, his cheeks red from the cold. He was out of breath and a bit giddy. “Sorry I’m late. I brought someone for you to meet.” He waved the unseen person toward him.

A young woman came around the corner, smiling shyly. I guessed her age at maybe twenty years old. She had neon orange-red hair that touched her shoulders on the sides, then angled up sharply to the nape of her neck in back. “Hi,” she said, giving us a little wave.

I smiled at her.

“Raphael, are you going to introduce your guest?” Mrs. Salvare said, rising from her chair.

“Sure,” he said, helping her remove her long, black coat. “Everyone, this is Cinnamon.”

Everyone stared. Everyone couldn’t speak because everyone couldn’t stop gaping at Cinnamon’s chest, which was mostly bared to everyone’s gaze. In fact, her wraparound dress was pulled so tight and cut so low, it was clear she had nothing on underneath.

Everyone was appalled.

“Okay,” Rafe said to Cinnamon, and began pointing. “That’s my brother Marco, his girlfriend, Abby, my mom, and Abby’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Knight.”

Mrs. Salvare pulled herself together to say kindly, “Cinnamon, you’ll join us, won’t you? We have delicious lasagna and crusty bread and—are you old enough to drink wine?”

Cinnamon giggled. “Why not?”

Marco pulled up an extra chair and Cinnamon settled into it. Everyone tried not to watch as she bent to lay her purse on the floor.

Setting an extra plate on the table, Mrs. Salvare said to Rafe, “Tell me how you met your, er, Cinnamon.”

“We work together,” Cinnamon volunteered.

Uh-oh. Time for the big reveal.

“Would this be at your bar, Marco?” his mom asked.

“Oh, no,” Cinnamon said happily. “At Hooters. I’m a waitress there.”

I could tell by Rafe’s expression that he hadn’t clued Cinnamon in on the need for secrecy. My dad put his hand to his mouth and coughed. I knew he was hiding a smile. My mom smoothed her napkin on her lap. Marco rolled the wineglass in his hand.

“Hooters bar,” Mrs. Salvare said, trying to hold her smile in place, “is where you work now, Raphael?”

Cinnamon rubbed Rafe’s shoulder. “He’s the cutest, smartest guy there.”

Rafe gazed at her like a besotted puppy. Marco studied the wine in his glass. Everyone else watched Francesca’s face.

“Well, then,” Marco’s mom said, raising her glass once again. “To new . . . jobs . . . and new relationships.” She smiled at me. “To our happy couple, who I hope will share their plans now.”

I squeezed Marco’s hand again and he squeezed back. My stomach knotted. Now or never, Abby!

Rafe jumped to his feet. “Okay. Why not?” He smiled at Cinnamon, then glanced around at the rest of us. “We’re engaged!”

Everyone was too stunned to react. Except me. After all, I
had
told him to surprise his family. I raised my glass and said a hearty “Congratulations.”

“Can you believe Rafe is engaged?” I said to Marco, as he walked me out to my car later that evening. “Cinnamon can’t be twenty-one yet, if that’s her real name.”

I couldn’t help chortling a little. “I thought your mother was going to faint when Cinnamon took off her coat. But I give your mom a lot of credit. She was very gracious, even after Rafe dropped the bomb.”

“Wait until Mama has Rafe alone, Abby. Then there’ll be fireworks.”

“Seriously, who could blame her for being upset? Rafe dated that girl exactly once. He met her only a week ago. And you call me impetuous?”

“I don’t know what Rafe is thinking. He can’t support himself, let alone a wife.”

“At least his announcement took the heat off us.”

“It did that.”

“So we’re off the hook?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” I took a deep breath. “Then I have to confess something.”

Marco cast me a dubious glance. “Okay.”

“I was keeping a list of your good and bad qualities.”

“You were?” His dark eyes searched mine. “Why?”

“I know it sounds silly, but I thought it would make the decision to get engaged easier. You know, like weighing the pluses and minuses of a situation? Anyway, what I realized is that listing things like confidence and reliability is all well and good, but what truly matters is that we love and trust each other, enjoy being together, and agree on the important things in life. We do agree on the important things in life, right?”

Marco pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. “I think we do.”

“I do, too. I mean, we both believe in justice, honesty, and solid values. We both have strong morals and close family ties. We’re hard workers, know how to save money—”

“And want to have a family of our own,” Marco supplied.

“Not a big family, though.”

“Two?”

“Two. Someday.”

“In the not-too-distant future.”

“We’ll need to discuss that further . . . along with the long hours you put in on your various jobs. But that’s what’s great about our relationship. We can discuss these things.”

Marco eyed me warily. “Are you going to start another list?”

“Maybe I should.”

“You actually wrote down my pluses and minuses?”

I shrugged. “Like I said, I thought it would help me decide.”

“Did it?”

“Well, yes.”

“And?”

“And what was my decision?”

“Yep.”

“My decision was yes.”

“So that’s your answer, then?”

“To what?”

We were standing alongside my yellow Corvette in the cold, in the dark, in the snow. Marco reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet box.

“To this.” He opened the box, displaying a diamond ring inside.

I stopped breathing.

He took the ring out of the box. “Will you marry me, Abby?”

Oh, the thoughts that raced through my mind as I stared at the sparkling token of commitment: children, my family, Marco’s family, our careers, money, wedding plans, change!

My eyes filled with tears as my gaze shifted from the glittering diamond to the face of the man I loved. Was there even a doubt?

I nodded, smiling through my tears. “Yes, Salvare. I will.”

 

 

M
y destination that morning was Bloomers, my cozy flower shop located across the street from New Chapel, Indiana’s, stately limestone courthouse. I was taking a circuitous route to get there, however, because, strangely enough, the public lot where I usually parked was full. So I’d left my refurbished and much-beloved 1960 yellow Corvette under a shady maple tree across from the YMCA and started off for a leisurely stroll around the square, soaking in the sunshine of the brilliant early-spring day.

I love my small town. In New Chapel, unlike big cities, you won’t experience heavy traffic snarls, clouds of toxic exhaust fumes, or frustrated drivers honking horns at every tiny irritation. What’s more, you can park in a public lot for about two dollars a day or, as in my case today, along any side street for free. Try to do that in downtown Chicago.

I sniffed the air to catch a whiff of the crocuses blooming in the old cement planters that rimmed the courthouse lawn. They’d be followed by daffodils and tulips, and then by Knock Out roses, all of which would suffer benign neglect by the parks department employees until the winter snows blanketed them once again.

Up ahead I saw Jingles, the ancient window washer, wielding his squeegee with extreme precision against a boutique’s display glass. “How’s it going, Jingles?” I called.

“It’s a different kind of morning, Miss Abby,” he said solemnly, then pulled the wet squeegee from the top of the pane to the bottom and dried it with his yellow rag.

Jingles wasn’t normally given to deep thought, and for him, that comment qualified as one. “It’ll be fine, Jingles,” I called. “We’ve got solid citizens in New Chapel. They’re not going to go crazy because a local boy who took first place on a reality show is coming back to town.”

Jingles just kept wiping the glass. On the other side of the window, the shop’s owner was setting out an array of tropic-bright purses and stylish spring jackets. She waved and smiled.

Another benefit of small-town life was the friendliness of the townsfolk. Also, the easy pace. You could amble down any sidewalk and not be bothered by rushing commuters, jostling crowds, jackhammer drilling, or vendors shouting—

“Hey! Look out!”

A man in a cherry picker gestured frantically toward an old wooden sign dangling by one nail over the gift shop’s doorway. With a gasp, I jumped back seconds before the sign broke from its tether and crashed onto the sidewalk in front of me, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

The shop owner, Mr. Hanley, who was about one hundred forty years old, called from the recessed doorway, “Sorry, Abby. Gotta get my new signage up today, you know.”

His
signage
? He pointed to a shiny new sign leaning against the side of the store. Instead of HANLEY’S GIFTS, it now said YE OLDE GIFT SHOPPE
.

“No harm done, Mr. Hanley.” I shook detritus from my hair, brushed off my navy peacoat, took a deep breath, and continued up Lincoln Avenue toward Franklin Street.

At that moment, a white pickup truck sporting the town logo pulled up alongside me with a shriek of dry brakes and a backfire of thick gray smoke. A man in tan overalls jumped out to place orange cones around a cracked square of the cement sidewalk. Another man followed with a jackhammer, which he immediately fired up.

Plugging my ears with my fingertips and trying not to inhale the fumes, I scurried toward the corner. As I waited for the light to change, I was joined by at least ten people, with a dozen more on the sidewalk across the street. On the green light, we surged forward en masse and narrowly missed being run down by a white stretch limousine. The driver laid on his horn, glaring at us as he sped past. Two black limousines followed. They honked, too, just for the practice, I suspected.

Behind them came a line of vans with satellite dishes on top and markings on the side for the four national television stations, ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox, and our local cable channel, WNCN. They were followed by several more vehicles with men hanging out the windows armed with huge cameras with telescopic lenses. Three police cars trailed the parade, their sirens and lights fully engaged as they approached the courthouse, as though to impress upon the citizens the importance of the limousines’ occupants.

“That was him in the white car!” someone behind me screamed, and at once I was swept along in a tide of people in their stampede to follow the convoy, now creating a snarl of horn-honking traffic on the far side of the square. I managed to break free at the curb and make a frantic dash to safer shores.