Slow Moon Rising (4 page)

“I took a little ballet. Years of it, actually, though I can't say I showed any real talent. Your Ami must be very gifted.”

“I have to admit, she is. I'm very proud of her.”

“Being so young . . . it must have been difficult losing her mother. I was thirty-six when Mom died, and it nearly killed me.”

Pain creased Ross's brow and shot into his eyes. “Ami . . .” He sighed.

I dabbed at the corners of my mouth with the pathetic napkin. “What is it?” I asked, my voice so soft, I wasn't sure he heard.

His eyes met mine. “With Ami . . . there's something . . . I haven't even shared with the family. Not yet.”

“Something . . . serious?” My heart felt heavy for this young woman I knew only by the love and hurt in her father's eyes.

Ross looked away from me, from the booth, beyond the tables filled with diners and the fountain and the high countertop. He looked past the storefront window to the sidewalk where people were passing in Sunday afternoon clusters.

To a place where life appeared idyllic but seldom was.

Ross shook his head, unwilling to go on. “It's okay.” He forced a smile, looked at me and then down at his half-eaten burger. “You were right about these burgers. This has been a tasty meal.” His grin grew genuine. “And the company, delightful.”

I wondered if I blushed; it felt as though I should have. “Thank you. I feel the same way.”

“I say we finish our meal, walk down to the bay—if you have nothing else planned for the afternoon—and enjoy an ice cream cone after we've walked off a few of these calories.” He appeared surprised by his own suggestion. “Is there a place for ice cream near the bay?”

“I can think of little else I'd like to do. I know the perfect spot.”

We finished our meal with little conversation, now both eager to get to the bay. Ross paid for our meals and left a nice tip for our server before escorting me toward the door, his hand resting along the small of my back. I nearly shivered under his touch, which was odd for me. We strolled under the awnings of the storefronts. I pointed to various buildings,
giving him the name of the establishment, its history, and telling him the story each held for me.

When the Calla Lily was viewable from across the street, I pointed to it with pride. He commented on the window dressing, the green and white striped awning, the painted bench sitting beneath the wide single-paned window. I told him that the stained-glass calla lily embedded in the front door was what led me to call the store by its new name and that, before my ownership, it had been called Kelly's Floral Shop.

“What made you change the name?” he asked.

I couldn't answer at first. Then, “It was what she wanted.” My voice barely reached above a whisper. “She wanted me to make it my own.” I shrugged. Forced a smile. “So I did.”

I told him more about Mom, about what a delight she was to all who knew her, strong in character, gentle in spirit. I told him that my parents had divorced when I was ten and Jon was four, and how this one little shop, added to Dad's child support, kept us fed, sheltered, and happy.

“Is your father still alive?”

I nodded. “He is.”

“Live here?”

I shook my head. “No. He lives in upstate New York.”

“Did he remarry?”

I nodded again. “Yes, he did. I have three half siblings. A brother and two sisters.”

“Are you close? To your siblings, I mean?”

“No.”

The bay was in plain view; bright sunshine glittered along the tiny peaks of blue-gray water. The smell of the sea had already reached us, the salt, the sun, the marine life. Boats with
brightly colored sails glided between the shoreline and the green of the barrier islands. Wildflowers grew multihued and resplendent where the Ladies of Seaside Pointe had scattered seed. They gave a colorful offering against the sea-washed, sun-bleached buildings where boats docked, or were rented, where lobster and clams could be purchased fresh and eaten outside on one of the metal picnic tables. Along the line where fences and railings kept folks from walking straight into the water, a tiny shack opened its sliding windows to locals and tourists, offering hand-dipped ice cream in a variety of delicious flavors.

I pointed to it, grateful for the diversion. “There's the Ice Cream Shack.”

Ross smiled. “The name is fitting. What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“Here's a hint: I'm a fairly simple girl.”

“Then I guess vanilla.”

“I said simple, not plain.”

Ross roared with laughter, then took my hand in his to guide me across the wide street separating us from the bay. I prayed he'd not let it go when we reached our destination, and he didn't.

“Strawberry,” I said as we ambled down a wide ramp heavy with pedestrian traffic.

“What?”

“Strawberry ice cream. That's my favorite flavor.”

His hand squeezed mine. “My next guess was chocolate.”

“What about you?” We walked past the Cook's Nook, a rambling, oddly shaped shack that served a variety of fresh seafood. Take it home or eat it there. The advertising
sign—shaped like a ship's helm—creaked in the breeze off the water. Beneath it, a variety of red and black containers were stacked haphazardly along the outer walls. Some so high they'd nearly toppled over.

“Mine? Well . . . I should make you guess, I think.”

We stopped walking. Still holding hands, I turned to look at him and stared deeply into his eyes, trying to read his mind. Beneath us, the boardwalk creaked under the weight of those walking past. Overhead, the gulls cawed. In the water, the waves lapped against the shore, sails billowed and flapped, and boaters called to each other. But I kept my focus intent. “Moose Tracks,” I finally said.

He blinked. “How'd you do that?”

“What?” I smiled broadly. “I was right?”

“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” We resumed our walk. “That's amazing; it's like you've known me for years.”

I was beginning to feel the same way.

“Do you think this little ice cream shack of yours has Moose Tracks ice cream?”

“Of course,” I said. “You're in Maine, remember?”

As the day slipped away and we made our way back toward the green, Ross told me about his vacation home, a place he and Joan had purchased in the early years of their marriage. “When we were down at the bay, I couldn't help but think about it.”

“Where is it?”

“A little place called Cedar Key, Florida.” He winked at me. “You'd like it. You'd fit right in there, I'd say.”

“Why's that?”

He pointed to the gazebo, again empty. A gift from God, twice in one day. “Care to sit again?” he asked me.

I was thrilled to. The most disappointing thing about the afternoon was that it was swiftly coming to an end. “That would be nice.”

“Cedar Key is an island off the west coast of Florida. It's . . . it's like time forgot to call it and say, ‘March on.' And you can't get there on your way to anywhere else. It's like it's . . . the end of the world. It's a place where I can sit at the edge of the water and forget everything I left behind in Orlando. I can get up early in the morning and watch the sunrise. I can walk to the west side of the island, which is really just across the street from the house, in the evenings and watch the sunset. And everything in between is pure relaxation.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It is. It's rustic and simple and . . .” He shook his head as though trying to find the right word. “Glorious.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “You should come down sometime. Visit.”

I wanted to smile but forced myself to remain calm. “I'll have to look into taking a vacation down there. I've never been to Florida.”

“Never been to . . . are you serious?”

“Nope. Like I said earlier, Mom's job kept us fed and sheltered and happy, but we never got to go on vacations. Not even to the number one vacation destination in the world.” I spoke as though I were a voice-over in a commercial. “Mom used to say we lived in a vacation village, be happy with that. So Jon and I made our own adventures every summer. It was the best we could ask for. Plus she did manage to pay for my dance and Jon's tennis.”

“You're close, you and your brother.”

“Very.”

“What about summers with your dad?”

“Once or twice we went. Maybe three times. But, we were both so uncomfortable with the others.”

“Your stepmother and half siblings?”

I didn't answer; it was all too painful. Memories of sleeping on half-pumped air mattresses while the others slept on comfy beds . . . of having to ask every time I wanted to open the refrigerator for a drink of water while the rest pulled out bottles of cola without so much as a request. Wishing I could have just ten minutes alone with my father instead of watching him play “dad” with the three who got to spend every day of the year with him. Even when I'd asked, “Dad, can you and Jon and me go somewhere for lunch, just the three of us?” Dad admonished me, reminding me we were part of a larger family now.

We were, but we weren't.

“I'm grateful my girls are close,” Ross now said from beside me.

“That is a blessing.”

“Especially when Joan got sick. She needed them, they needed each other.”

“How long was she sick?”

Ross stared off again. Swallowed. “Long, long time . . .” His voice trailed. “Too long.” The words sounded as though they'd been forced past a knot in his throat.

I looked down, noticed his hands resting on the tops of his thighs. I laid my hand over one of his and squeezed. “I'm so sorry,” I whispered.

He turned his hand over, and our palms fell flat against
each other. This time, the shudder nearly undid me. What was it about this man?

I smiled inside, thinking of Lisa then. She'd say, “There's that father complex again, Anise.” But she knew me well. I did not fall in love—or anything remotely close to it—easily. I'd only allowed myself to be swept away—ridiculously away—by one man.

It had only been five years before. I'd met Garrett O'Dell when he'd stopped by the floral shop to purchase a plant for a funeral he'd come into town for. There had been instant chemistry between the older man and me, something I'd never really felt with anyone before. Not that I'd dated much over the years; Seaside Pointe was much too small a community for my interest in older men to be met without scandal.

Garrett worked for an office supply company, which kept him on the road a good deal of the time. As he once said, “About half the month I'm in my car.” He lived in Portland, he said, in a small apartment perfect for a bachelor who's just not home enough to even hang a picture on a wall. He enjoyed his job but missed having things like a yard to mow and then relax in, a dog to love and be loved by. Those kinds of things. “Heck,” he said, “I can't even have a goldfish.”

I asked him, on one of our many dinner dates, how it was that a man as fabulously good-looking as he managed to remain unmarried for so many years. He shrugged like a schoolboy and said he'd just not met the right woman . . . until now.

Garrett was ten years my senior; I was thirty-three, he was forty-three. Our birth dates were only days apart. We often laughed about how easy it would be, in the years to come, to
celebrate our special day. We'd take lavish vacations, Garrett told me. We'd go to Hawaii . . . to Europe . . . to Greece.

I mentioned that I'd always wanted to go on a Holy Land tour. He quickly remarked, “Consider it booked.”

Our relationship lasted a little over a year. Twice a month he came into town, we'd dine, walk the bay on warm evenings, sit before a fireplace in the lobby of the Harbour Inn where he always stayed when the weather turned cold. He'd often surprise me with jewelry—bracelets, necklaces, brooches—and body lotions, one of my indulgences.

Then, one Thursday when Garrett was expected into town, he didn't show. By Friday morning, my mood had reached near-panic. I called Lisa, who reported she'd not heard anything from him either. We both agreed the whole situation was puzzling.

And frightening.

I had called Garrett's cell phone several times by then; it went to voice mail each time without so much as a ring. Later that afternoon, Lisa called with an idea.

“He puts his stays on his business credit card. I looked it up, and he works for the Cumberland Office Supply Company.”

“Cumberland?” He'd always told me he worked for Portland Paper & Office Supply. “I thought he lived in Portland,” I said, not wishing to reveal the rest.

“Well, maybe there's an office in Portland.” She paused. “Besides, they're not so far apart that he couldn't live in Portland and work in Cumberland.”

“So, what do you think I should do?”

“Call the office. See if something came up. Maybe he's even in his office. How many times has he left out of Seaside
Pointe early to make it back to the office before closing so he could file reports?”

“That's true.” I chewed my lower lip. “Lisa, do you really think I should? I don't want him to think—”

“After a year, Anise? Seriously? I'd think you have every right. But . . . if you'd like, I can make the call. After all, he missed his reservation without cancellation. I can say I'm concerned, and that will make perfect sense.”

It was a good plan and I told her so.

For the next half hour, I stayed busy in the back of the shop while Mom went over a few details up front. I forced myself not to imagine the worst. Like, he was in the hospital, deathly ill from food poisoning he'd gotten at some diner somewhere. Or, he'd been in a car accident. And he was in a coma, unable to tell anyone to call me.

Or worse, he'd decided we were not right for each other but didn't have whatever it took to come tell me . . . or even to call . . .