Slow Moon Rising (5 page)

Over the quiet music of the radio humming through the shop, I heard Mom say, “What's Lisa doing here?”

My stomach dropped along with the cluster of baby's breath I held in my hand. Something was wrong. As though walking through seaweed, I made it to the front, watched the front door open, heard the chime of the bell. Lisa appeared with a halo of light behind her. She wore dark sunglasses, pulled them from her face, and said only one word. My name.

I fainted, sure by her expression that Garrett had been in a car accident . . . indeed, that he was dead.

“And was he?” Ross now asked from beside me in the gazebo, where I'd told him one of my darkest secrets.

“No,” I said. “He wasn't. When Lisa and Mom revived me and I'd sipped on some hot lemon water, Lisa told me the truth. She'd called Garrett's office and relayed exactly what she'd said she would. They told her there had been an unexpected death . . . in his
wife's
family.”

“His wife's?”

I looked at Ross, managed to bring my eyes to his. “I had
no
idea. None. There was no bachelor apartment. No life without a dog or a yard or even a goldfish.”

“What was there?” Ross's hand tightened on mine as his other arm wrapped around my lower arm.

“Three kids, a mortgage on a house—a beautiful house, I know, because I made Lisa take me there just so I could see—and a golden retriever.”

“You saw all this?”

Tears I didn't want to shed forced their way to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I used my free hand to swipe at them. “I'm sorry,” I whispered.

I didn't see it coming, the compassion in Ross Claybourne. I didn't expect it, really. Yes, I knew he was a gentle man, but I had not thought the tenderness would be directed at me. One second I was wiping away tears, and in the next I was wrapped in his thick arms.

And I allowed it. Of course, I allowed it. It felt wonderful to be held by a man, something I'd not experienced since that doomed relationship years earlier. When we finally broke apart, I laughed nervously. “How silly of me,” I said.

“How very Gene Tierney of you,” he replied.

“I'm sorry?”

“In the movie
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
, Gene Tierney plays—”

“Mrs. Muir,” I said in unison with him. “I remember that movie.”

“It's a classic. And, if you remember, Mrs. Muir falls in love with a man—another writer—who she believes loves her too.”

“Only to find out he is married with children.”

“It's a touching scene.”

I looked out over the green. Afternoon was making way for evening. Visitors were few; most had gone home for the day. I sighed. “If I remember correctly,” I said with a lilt, “Mrs. Muir died at the end.”

Ross laughed. “Yes, but she was
old
.”

We smiled at each other in silence. It seemed to me that Ross grew uneasy, as if something was on his mind but he couldn't quite bring himself to say it. Finally, he patted my knee and said, “I'd best get you back to the church so you can get home and I can return to the inn.”

As was my Sunday habit, I'd left my cell phone in the cup holder of my car. A quick check showed I'd missed two calls from Jon and five from Lisa.

Mercy.

I drove home, the same house I'd lived in since birth. Shortly after they married, my mother and father purchased the quaint Cape Cod cottage situated on a quiet street just outside of town. Mom filled the yards with flower beds, herb and vegetable gardens. Dad worked little by little to add on to the house. A deck with French doors leading to the family room. An extra bath. A detached garage and, just before he left to start another family, a bonus room over the garage. When Jon and I were in our teens, we both used it to entertain our friends.

I parked in the garage, hurried across the stone walkway toward the deck, and then unlocked the French doors to step inside. I dropped my purse and me into the nearest chair, flipped open my cell phone, and called Jon. His main concern was that I had been kidnapped by this stranger and sold into slavery. I assured him I was fine, that he'd been on the police force about a day too long if he really suspected that, and that I would talk to him later. I then called Lisa, who was nearly breathless with worry.

“Why are you worried?” I asked. I stretched my long legs, pointed my toes, and kicked off the sensible shoes I was glad to have worn that day.

“Dr. Claybourne got here just a few minutes ago. He only gave me the briefest of smiles, then headed straight for his room.”

“The cad,” I teased.

“What happened?”

I had to admit, I was a little perplexed myself. “I think we had a fun day,” I told her. “We walked through the green, we went to lunch at the Rexall, walked to the bay and got ice cream.”

“What else? Anything else?”

I shook my head. “Lisa, you sound like we're in junior high.”

She huffed. “I just want to know why he came back so . . . so somber.”

“I don't have any idea. We walked a lot . . . maybe he's just tired.”

I waited through a long pause before she said, “There's something you are not telling me. I can feel it.”

Yes, there was. I could feel it too. Something had sparked between Ross and me that afternoon. I'd felt chemistry, though I didn't want to admit that just yet. Most of all to Lisa and after only seven months into his being a widower.

Still, I also felt as though I'd been dismissed at the end of our day. Like when we were kids and Dad came to see Jon and me for day visits.
Okay, here I am. There you are. Here's what we'll do. Now, I'll go home and pat myself on the back because I've done my duty as your father.

How could I explain to Lisa that one minute he'd embraced me, the next we'd laughed over an old movie, and the next he'd patted my knee and sent me on my way?

“Seriously, Lisa. You're imagining things. It was a fun day. I'm tired, though, so I'm going to say good night and go take a long soak.”

“Wait—”

“Good night, Lisa.”

I ended the call and did exactly what I'd told Lisa I'd do. I took a bath.

Ross Claybourne walked through the doors of the Calla Lily at ten after ten the next morning. He looked remarkably handsome dressed in dark blue shorts, a polo shirt, and a pair of dark blue denim boat shoes. He smoothed his hair as he walked in the door while I fought the urge to smile from the sheer joy of seeing him.

I had only unlocked the front door a few minutes earlier and was standing behind the counter, looking over orders for the upcoming week. Cheryl had not made it in yet; Monday was her late day.

“Hi,” I said. “Welcome to the Calla Lily.” As if he were just any customer.

He looked around, admiring silk arrangements, bunches of long-stemmed summer flowers in large cut-glass vases, until his eyes came to rest on the section of stuffed bears and helium balloons. “Nice,” he said, stepping closer to the old counter.

I noticed how much more tanned he was than the day before. “Your face,” I said. “You got some sun yesterday.”

Pink splashed across the brown. “I do that,” he said. “Tan easily.”

We stood awkwardly looking at each other for a moment. “Can I help you with . . . anything?” I asked.

“I need to send some flowers,” he answered, shoulders broadening.

“Oh,” I said, sliding an order pad toward me. “Well then, sir. Let me get your information. Name?” I asked as though I didn't know.

“Dr. Ross Claybourne.” I heard the lilt in his voice. “C-l-a-y-b-o-u-r-n-e.”

I looked up. “Oh.”

“One of the many variances in spelling. I bet you were thinking more along the lines of how Liz spells it.”

I had been. I liked her clothing line, so why not? “Maybe so,” I answered. “Address?”

“Sixty-twelve Black Bear Court. Windermere, Florida. Do you need the zip?”

“Please.”

He provided it.

“And what would you like to order?”

“Well . . . I really don't know. It's to say ‘thank you.' What would you suggest?”

I looked past him to take in my own inventory. “Do you want live or silk?”

“Live.”

“We have some lovely summer arrangements.”

He turned. His eyes swept the front of the store. “I see that you do.” He pointed to a bunch I'd arranged earlier and placed in one of the cut-glass vases with blue floral pebbles and water after I'd come in. “These are nice.”

“Those are among my favorites,” I said. And they really were.

He peered over his shoulder. “Oh. Well, then, by all means.” He turned fully, reached for one of the cards in a counter display, and said, “Can I sign the card while you bring them to the counter? Get them ready to go?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I stepped from behind the counter, walked to the arrangement, clasped it firmly in my hands, and said, “Will you be going back to the inn any time soon? I have a new arrangement for Lisa. I should have brought it to the church yesterday . . .”

“I . . . um . . . I'm not sure. Depends.”

I gave a light shrug. “Oh. Okay,” I said, wondering how a man I'd felt so comfortable with just one day earlier now put me ill at ease.

I returned to the counter with the flowers, placed them between my new customer and myself, and said, “I'll just need an address to send them to and a method of payment.”

Ross slipped the card into the tiny envelope, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a thick leather wallet. “I'll pay with cash.”

“This arrangement is $59.95 plus tax.”

I watched as he slid the arrangement over to the right before pulling a one hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “This should cover it.”

I blinked at the crisp bill. “Yes, I believe it should.” I picked up my pen and said, “The address you'd like these sent to?”

“Eight-fifty-five Sunset.”

My head jerked up. “Eight—”

Ross was now holding the front of the envelope toward me. In clear print it read:
To the most beautiful woman in Seaside Pointe
. “Ross . . .”

“I was rude at the end of our time together yesterday.”

“No. You weren't. Really.”

“Yes. Yes, I was. I just want you to know that . . . it felt . . . wrong somehow.”

My chest hurt. For him, mostly. And for myself. Was the “wrong” having been with me for the afternoon? For holding me when I cried? For laughing at my jokes? “How?”

He didn't answer; he shook his head and said, “Can I take you to lunch?”

“Lunch? It's not even ten-thirty.”

“Out for a cup of coffee then? Or . . .” The twinkle returned to the blue in his eyes. “An ice cream?”

I pondered for the briefest moment the work I had ahead. Cheryl would not arrive until noon. Still, I was the owner. If I couldn't walk out on this store of my accord, then who could? “I'd like that,” I said. “But only if you promise to talk to me, to tell me the truth about . . . yesterday. Why you ended our day so abruptly. Because, honestly, Ross, I thought we were having fun. I mean, except for that little moment when I blubbered all over your shoulder.”

He held his right hand up, extending three fingers toward God. “Scout's honor. I'll talk.”

“All right then. Just let me lock up.”

We took a long walk, past storefronts and along the bay. We decided against the ice cream, opting for cappuccinos at Mother's Café. Ross was so tickled by the name; he told me as we sipped the froth from our drinks that, in the true South, this coffee bar would have been named Mama's Café.