Toss the Bouquet (4 page)

If she didn't feel it, he must have been imagining things.

That went way beyond imagination. Admit it, she's . . . intriguing.
He shushed the internal voice as the door swung shut behind her. He turned to walk the mile and a quarter back to his place, glad he hadn't brought the car. Walking might clear his brain. Smack some sense into him.

His cell phone interrupted the moment. He grabbed it up, scanned the number, and accepted the call. “Reed, what's up in New York?”

“Two openings custom-made for you at One Financial Center,” his law school buddy reported. “And like we expected, they're looking at the Philadelphia and Boston offices to fill them.”

“My name's in,” Greg assured him. “I forwarded my updated résumé last week.” He'd applied to the New York office of his law firm when he was fresh out of law school, months before he passed the bar, but he'd been assigned to Philadelphia. In hindsight, it had worked out. He'd had the last seven years near his mother. If he'd been in the New York office, he wouldn't have seen her nearly as much.

As much?
the voice in his head scoffed.
You might have seen her more. You might have prioritized hopping a train or grabbing a flight home. Instead, you lived six blocks away and barely saw your mother once a month.
An ache the size of the Walt Whitman Bridge yawned open inside him.

His mother had labored so hard, so long, and he'd never appreciated how crazy her life must have been until he spent
today watching a much younger woman run around, dealing with people, pomp, and personalities.

All those years, often working seven days a week during the busy season, running the show, booking brides, selling, cleaning, ironing, mending. She'd done it for him, so he could be strong and successful. Never once did she make him feel guilty about it.

He felt guilty now. The thought of what she gave up, what she was willing to do—

Why would God take her at this stage? What point was there in putting a faith-filled woman through her paces, then letting her die before she ever had a chance to enjoy life? Was that how it worked? Because if it was, if there was some Supreme Being calling the shots, Greg was pretty sure he didn't call the game fairly.

“I'll be on the lookout for more info from this end,” Reed told him. “I'd love to have you here. There's nothing like weekend nightlife in the Big Apple. Pretty wild, my friend.”

“Keep me posted, Reed.” Greg hung up the phone. Clubs. Professional sports. Upscale apartments and rooftop gardens. The chronic bustle that was Manhattan. What could be better? What more could he possibly want?

He was almost home now. He passed the Old City Mission and the quaint brick church around the corner. The sign outside gave times for services, and every Sunday morning the bells chimed a welcome, the steeple stretching up between old oaks.

And every weekend he waited them out, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

A strong wind broadsided him from the Delaware River.

His mother was gone. The days were short and dark at both ends. The coastal wind was brutal, and either snow or icy rain had pelted the city since the loneliness of the just-past holiday season. He ached for something new and different. Something vital and vibrant.

New York City was all that and more, but the thought of selling Elena's Bridal—if he could find a buyer—galled him. Could he do it?

Hey. Life goes on. Change happens. The team knows this. They'll be okay with whatever you decide.

He grimaced as he shut the brightly painted historic door behind him.

They'd
pretend
to be okay because they loved him. He'd been surrounded by pseudo-mothers from the time he was a little boy. Kathy, Jean, and Maisy had shared in his joys and sorrows, his successes and failures. And to pull the rug out from under Donna and those twins . . .

Where else would she find a job that understood the importance of raising her babies and earning a living?

Not. Your. Problem,
the niggling voice inside reminded him.

Not so. It
was
his problem, and he knew it. His mother had raised him to be considerate, to put others first. But when he looked in the mirror, the image he saw was his father, Carlos Elizondo. Hard-hearted, heavy-handed, and crazy competitive, his father's legacy seemed to take hold more fiercely every day.

But in his mother's life, in her work? Kindness mattered. And he could do no less.

By the time he climbed into bed and closed his eyes, he was able to switch off some of his wandering thoughts, but
two images remained. The sight of Tara Simonetti doing a slow, full-circle spin in his mother's store as if she'd just grabbed the gold ring on the carousel . . .

And the sweet rush of awareness that woke him out of a months-long funk when his hand gripped hers.

He fell asleep remembering the warmth of her hand and the true sympathy in her eyes, and for the first time since last summer, he slept soundly.

She hadn't wanted to let go last night.

The grip of Greg's fingers, the touch of his hand, the strength in his gaze, had made her long to linger. She wanted to step forward. Meet his smile. Grip his hand a little tighter, longer.

So, of course, she stepped back.

Tara frowned into the mirror, remembering Greg's face, his profile, his shoulders, his . . .

Everything.

The shirt and tie. The casual sport coat that said custom designers and good taste mixed well. The black trench so typical of professional men in big cities, uniform to the max.

She saw beyond the tough negotiator and read the sorrow in his eyes. His lingering sadness melted her.

But she'd been raised in the fallout of a ladder-climbing lawyer. Her family had suffered for nearly two decades because of one man's greed. The moral of that story was that
she would always tread carefully, even though she longed to stare into Greg Elizondo's big brown eyes for oh, say, forever?

She couldn't risk it.

She'd be kind, friendly, and compassionate because the guy had been through a grievous loss, but that's where she'd draw the line. Greg's professional record and competitive nature put him in the “Danger Zone” category. She glanced at the clock and hurried out the door to catch the midmorning service in the two-towered church around the corner.

With God comes joy.

Bells chimed happiness around the City of Brotherly Love every Sunday morning, their call a reminder of what built this great nation: the longing for religious freedom.

She slipped into the church, loving the brass-trimmed old lighting, the ornate wooden panels, and the carved balustrade wrapping the choir loft.

A blue-robed woman waved from above. Her friend Truly Dixon.

Tara waved back as the gospel group began a harmonized hum before breaking into the opening song of praise.

Tara left the church an hour later feeling energized, ready to walk the one-point-five miles to the bridal store.

Ice-cold, wind-driven rain changed her mind. She waited in the covered entry of the church for a bus, dashed across the road when she saw it approaching, and took a full-on splash from a careless driver heading in the opposite direction.

A few minutes later Tara arrived at the store—nearly an hour before she was scheduled to meet Greg. She sighed,
scanning her options. The full-frontal drenching had put a damper on her church-inspired hope.

A nearby coffee shop smelled marvelous and looked warm.

She succumbed to the temptation, grabbed a plain coffee, and doctored it up with mocha powder, cream, and a dash of vanilla. It wasn't fancy, but it was tasty and cheap, and these days, that was her rule of thumb.

The church bells woke Greg, as they always did on Sunday morning. Bright, vibrant, ringing in the new day with a gusto that should be reserved for classic movies.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.

One of Maria Elena's favorite verses nudged him. She'd have been there this morning, singing. Praising. Praying.

And he'd have rolled his eyes, turned over, and gone back to sleep. But the bell's tolling seemed even more enthusiastic than usual.

Rain drummed overhead.

Sleet beat against his back window.

Clearly the bell's excitement wasn't weather related.

Tara.

He jumped up, scanned the clock, and panicked. Those were the noon service bells, not the early ones. He'd promised to meet Tara at noon, and apparently he had slept through the first bells and was already late. He threw on some clothes, grabbed his coat, and jogged toward the shopping district.

The miserable weather magnified his guilt as he passed
the mission and hooked a left. She was trying to do him a good turn, learn the business he was in danger of losing, and now he'd kept her waiting. Talk about a first-class jerk.

He reached the shop and headed for the door, then heard his name and turned. Tara was hailing him from the coffee shop across the street with a look of . . . welcome expectation? Her kindness pushed him undeservedly into the “hero” category.

“Good morning.” Gladness brightened her face as he crossed the road. “I got here early and grabbed coffee.”

Greg tapped his watch apologetically. “Technically afternoon, my bad, and coffee sounds like an excellent idea.” He grinned down at her and fought the sweet swell of emotion growing within. Her forthright smile was absolutely contagious. He eyed her empty cup. “Can I get you another?”

She shook her head.

“You might want one later, and you can't leave the store with the doors open,” he reminded her. “Although you could always lock up and run over. And you had no problem making me buy you food last night,” he added. “So I would think a Sunday coffee would fall within the parameters of
compensation for job well done
.”

“An excellent point, so I'll say yes.”

“What kind?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second before saying, “Just straight coffee. A medium.”

He watched her doctor the coffee at the fixings bar near the front window, and then he got it: she loved fancy coffees, but her budget-conscious mind didn't allow the extra expense. Instantly he felt like he'd paid too much for his
shoes, his shirt was too high-end, and he should be supporting more charities.

She turned and raised the cup. “Thank you! This is perfect. Shall we go?”

“After you.” He held the door open, let her pass through, then noticed the wide splotches on her pants and boots. “You're soaked.”

She shrugged as she crossed the street. “I
was
soaked. I'm almost dry now. Took a wicked splash on Germantown and got the worst of the deal. No biggie.”

From the look of the splash pattern it was a biggie, at least it would have been to any woman he knew.

Which should tell you something, Einstein. Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting . . . Come on, all those years of Christian education. You must remember something, don't you?

He did.

And Tara Simonetti brought the sweet proverb to life with her inborn optimism. Her hopeful attitude was just what Elena's Bridal needed.

Except she's leaving in a few months, which means your decisions have to be based on the here and now.

Greg pushed that reminder aside for the moment. He opened the door, followed her in, then pulled out books and computer procedures for her to study while he joined his buddies at Tim's. He'd come back after the first game, lock up, then drive back to Tim's apartment in Manayunk. This way she'd have a four-hour stretch of time to familiarize herself with the store, with coffee.

“Okay, I'm good.” She hung up her wet jacket, stowed her purse, turned up the heat, and was perusing the various
bridesmaid gowns for color options per style. “I've got your cell number. If I need to ask you anything, I'll call.”

“All right. Although Kathy knows way more than I do.”

“I have her number too. Maisy gave it to me yesterday.”