Have Bouquet, Need Boyfriend (8 page)

Mimi for the follow-up art lesson they’d coordinated-they were cutting

and pasting together bear puppets made out of paper plates. As the

children hugged her goodbye, she pictured a child of her own, tucking

him or her into bed at night, whispering a good-night story by the dim

light of the moon glowing in the window. A little boy with black hair

and grass-green eyes.

She looked up, half expecting to see Thomas Emerson watching her. She

had to work up her courage to ask him about the baby plan.

But her nerve failed when she spotted him in Mimi’s adjoining coffee

shop. He wasn’t alone. Trish Tieney had cozied up to him in a booth,

flinging her wild red hair over her shoulder, giggling and flirting

outrageously.

Thomas tried to focus on Trish Tieney’s long-winded diatribe about her

real estate career; she had sold him his house, and no doubt he would

need her services again when he decided to put it back on the

market, but his gaze had strayed periodically to Rebecca and the show

she performed for the children.

When she looked his way, he smiled, and she offered a strained one in

return. Trish covered his hand with hers, and Rebecca turned away

abruptly. Her easy dismissal of him stung.

Besides, she’d been so loving to all the kids, and she’d sung and told

story after story with a dramatic flair, and hadn’t stuttered once with

them.

“If you need furniture, I’d be glad to go shopping with you,” Trish

offered. “I minored in decorating at Valdosta State.”

“I’m fine for now,” he said, knowing he didn’t want to buy anything else

that might not fit into his new place. But he was getting ahead of

himself. He still had to land the job.

“The invitation’s always open.” She flipped her curly hair over her

shoulder for about the dozenth time. She must think the gesture was sexy

but it simply annoyed him.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” He stood and pushed his chair back. “I

have to get back to the clinic now.”

Trish raked fake red nails down his arm. “If you need anything else,

too, just give me a call. I’d be glad to cook you a French dinner one

night.”

“Uh…sure, that sounds great.” What else could he say?

He rushed toward the door, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned and

searched the bookstore one more time for Rebecca. But she was helping a

customer, some burly guy who needed a shave, and she didn’t even glance

his way.

“Listen, Jerry, I appreciate the invitation,” Rebecca said, “but I’m not

much of a dancer.”

“Aww, come on, Becky, the American Legion plays great country music. And

it’s New Year’s Eve, everybody’ll be there.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I’ll teach you the two-step. It’s real easy.” He leaned forward, so

close his burgeoning belly brushed her arm. “It’ll give us time to

scrooch up and get to know each other better.”

Exactly what she didn’t want. “I…I think…” I’ll have a headache that

night. “I’ll let you know.”

He grinned toothily as if he’d just won the lottery, tugged his baggy

jeans up by the loops, then whistled. “Guess I’d better get back to

work. Got to butcher two hogs this afternoon.”

Rebecca nodded, chastising herself for giving him even a smidgen of

hope. Why hadn’t she just said no? Me and you scrooching or doing

anything else that involves touching is not going to happen. I can’t

imagine letting your smelly hands hold me, especially knowing you’ve

been cutting up pig’s guts with them.

Furious with herself for being such a wimp, she jogged back to the

self-help section. She’d find a book on being assertive and learn a few

techniques on handling herself better. Because she’d rather die than

have Jerry’s belly brushing hers all night long. And, God forbid, it

would be worse to let him think she liked it.

Then he would never leave her alone.

By the end of the day Thomas had two chicken casseroles, a sweet potato

custard and two jars of homemade peach preserves to cart home with him,

all compliments of the single women of Sugar Hill. Their mothers must

have taught them that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

But something else worked just as well. Only, none of the women seemed

to spark an interest in him in that area.

None except Rebecca Hartwell, who seemed immune to his charms.

Granted the food smelled great, and he hadn’t wanted for a single meal

since he’d moved here, but this was getting ridiculous, as was the

sudden increase in women’s ailments. Karina Peterson had dropped by

complaining of a nonexistent pain in her side-he was beginning to think

the woman was a hypochondriac. Then her friend Jillie Flannigan, who’d

been in the week before with a similar ailment, had invited him to her

daughter’s piano recital, hinting that her little girl needed a father

figure.

He packed the food in the back of the Mustang and drove the short

distance to his house, the cool December breeze blowing leaves and twigs

across the road. The bare trees swayed with the wind, the threat of rain

scenting the air as he went inside the house. He heated up one of the

chicken casseroles, then scooped a helping on his plate and set up his

laptop, but the house felt unusually quiet tonight. The massive

furniture seemed more massive, the gleaming floors shiny but silent,

lacking friendly footsteps, the perfectly decorated walls devoid of

life. He tried to remember what kind of paintings he had on the walls,

but he couldn’t visualize any particular one. What kind of artwork did

Rebecca like? Did she choose soft colors or flashy

neon shades or vibrant purples and blues that signified passion?

He could not think about passion and shy Rebecca Hartwell in the same

second.

His thoughts drifted to Trish Tieney and Karina Peterson and the way

they’d both flirted with him today, then to Rebecca Hartwell and how

she’d practically avoided him.

Like it or not, she would see him tomorrow.

He ignored the small flutter of desire that curled in his belly at the

thought of spending time with her. Sure, he was a red-blooded male and

he had to admit she was attractive. But she was not the

bed-‘em-and-shed-‘em type. And he couldn’t start something that would go

nowhere. End of story.

He forced himself to eat and block Rebecca and those blue eyes from his

mind.

Of course, the other women who’d brought him food today might give him a

one-night stand, but he couldn’t accept. Another downside to small towns

was that if he slept with a woman, it was bound to get around town. And

he would never sleep with one of his patients.

All the more reason he needed to move.

He scanned the data on the Atlanta medical facility, jotting notes about

the plans for the research facilities and surgical specialities they

planned to offer, along with the fertility clinic that would be housed

inside. Maybe he’d check out Atlanta housing while he was at it. The

sooner he nailed down his plans, the better. Then he could finally have

the life he wanted….

The crisp winter air smelled heavenly as Rebecca left the Book Nook to

go home to her apartment. She’d rented one of the small lofts the town

had recently renovated to encourage newcomers, and loved it. The small

loving town had embraced her like the arms of one of the ancient oaks

and become her extended family, offering her a comforting haven through

friends and family.

She’d moved around all the time when she was young, never having a real

home. She couldn’t imagine ever leaving or living anywhere but Sugar Hill.

Although some of the downtown area still needed a facelift, and a few

shops were struggling, Mimi’s shop and hers were successful, and so was

Alison’s bridal boutique, Weddings To Remember. She passed her aunt’s

law practice, the antique store, Cissy’s Cut and Curl, and a hardware

store. Roger Thornhill had a small feed store, and Wilbur Cummings had

opened a hobby shop across the way where the kids exchanged baseball

cards and the men met for checkers. Beside the bakery sat the butcher

shop where Jerry worked; she always avoided it on the way home. The town had

also added a playground in the center of the square with benches for the

moms and dads to relax.

She darted inside the florist’s, gazing at the roses in the window along

with the other assorted flowers and plants, memorizing the details of

each one to add to the painting she’d started of her grandmother’s

flower garden. Enchanted by the heavenly scents, she couldn’t resist;

she bought a bouquet of assorted flowers to take home.

As she stepped outside, a gust of wind rustled the elms and maples and

spun the weather vane that topped the hardware store. Neon-green and

orange signs advertising her uncle Wiley’s end-of-the-year used-car sale

swung back and forth above the one stop light in the town square. He’d

also run radio commercials advertising the special extravaganza on New

Year’s Eve, featuring live entertainment with an Elvis Presley

impersonator scheduled to sing before Wiley gave away a car-a

pickup he’d custom painted purple. Uncle Wiley was such a character, so

easy to talk to that you had to love him.

Except, he and her father didn’t get along at all. She’d never quite

understood what had caused the rift between them. Her dad complained

about Uncle Wiley’s outrageous ads, called him cheesy and said he was an

embarrassment to the family. Wiley claimed her father was a snob, that

he’d turned his back on his family when he’d moved to Atlanta.

Maybe they would behave themselves at Grammy’s surprise party. She

certainly hoped so.

Rebecca rounded the corner to her apartment and opened the wrought-iron

gate, then froze. She heard Jerry before she saw him, his muffler

roaring above

the strains of Garth Brooks’s “Shameless” bellowing from the speakers.

No matter what time of year, Jerry kept his windows rolled down.

Not wanting to face him tonight, she sprinted inside before he gathered

his thermos and lunch pail and locked up his truck. Once inside, she

ignored his phone call. Thank heavens for caller ID. After a week of him

knocking at her door unannounced, she’d learned to keep her music low

and her shades drawn. Then he never knew if she was home or simply

ignoring him.

It was easier than hurting his feelings.

She fixed herself a sandwich, then changed into her grubby clothes and

went to the easel. She’d already completed one canvas of her

grandmother’s bulb garden-the white, crimson and yellow tulips and blue

hyacinths set off by the wide, sweeping border of purple Virginian

stock. This time she decided to paint the mountainscape and detail the

gazebo where her cousins had married; it would be her birthday present

to Grammy.

The next two hours Rebecca lost herself in her work, mixing colors and

painting details of the lush mountain greenery, then filling the

mountainside with day lilies and wildflowers. At last her eyes were so

heavy, she put the paints away and settled down to bed. The hope chest

glinted in the dim light of the Victorian lamp on her bedside table, the

items beckoning. She reread her grandmother’s letter, each carefully

chosen word etched into her memory. Then she raised the antique mirror

to study herself.

Follow your dreams. Believe in yourself.

She whispered the words over and over in her mind.

The book of erotic poetry beckoned her, but she refused to torture

herself with the fantasies they evoked of a night in a man’s loving arms.

Of a night with Thomas.

Instead, she crawled into bed and closed her eyes. That dream would

never come true. But maybe the other one would.

During the night, she dreamed that the sweet scent of an acacia drifted

around her. Its soft branches were clothed in pointed, silvery,

evergreen leaves, the thick double pom-poms of fragrant bright-yellow

blossoms in full bloom.

The next morning she checked the dream analysis book to see if it

mentioned dreaming of flowers, acacia especially. She found a reference

on the third page.

Acacia-to see it bloom or smell its fragrance is a lucky omen for your

most secret hope, your passion.

Could it be possible? Would her secret hope of having a baby come true?