'Til Grits Do Us Part (6 page)

I smelled something. Something sweet and inexplicably familiar. I turned around in my chair, trying to follow the scent. The floral fragrance wafted through the newsroom, over the sharp scent of toner from the copier, the faint whiff of coffee, and Clarence's musty old cologne—so strong I turned my head in its direction.

I'd just turned back to my keyboard when Chastity nearly bowled me over, whirling around the corner with her arms full of roses. “Shiloh! You got flowers for your birthday. Check these out!”

“Flowers? For me?” My jaw dropped, speechless.

“Gorgeous, aren't they? From Rask.” Chastity preened, fluffing the flowers. Normally I could smell her coming; nobody else at
The Leader
applied Chanel No. 5 like lipstick, approximately fifteen times a day. But I only caught the heavy perfume from the bouquet.

“Who's Rask?” I sucked in my breath in awe as she turned the full bouquet around.

“The florist.” Chastity gave me a funny look, smoothing a strand of super-bleached-blond hair back into its smooth ponytail. “That downtown place on the corner that's been around forever. Don't you know it?”

“No. Why should I? I don't have money for flowers and neither does Adam. He must've saved up.” A throb of tenderness flickered in my heart as I pictured Adam in his brown UPS uniform, hauling packages and loading trucks so I could pay my back taxes last March and keep Mom's house.
My
house, rather, as she'd designated it in her will—and as soon as it sold, the much-needed income would provide Adam and me a place of our own come August.

The very weight of the vase surprised me as I lifted it toward the desk—heavy not from glass, but cut and polished crystal, clear as a Blue Ridge Mountain stream.

“Wow.” I stood back, temporarily breathless, to survey the load of intensely perfumed, deep red spirals. Each one perfect. Blooms so thick and full they nearly blotted out the green leaves, allowing a little lacy sprinkle of white baby's breath to shine through.

“Adam, what have you done?” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “They're beautiful!”

“They sure are.” Chastity's voice dripped with envy. “And you don't even like cut flowers.”

I tipped my head up from her dress-code-defying black stilettos to her cleavage-baring pink suit then quickly averted my eyes. I never knew exactly where to look when speaking to Chastity.

“Who said I don't like cut flowers?”

Chastity, whose outfits tended to cast some doubt on her name, rolled her eyes. She flicked one of my ferns, also from Adam. “You always have plants with…I don't know…roots and stuff. Why? What's wrong with cut flowers?”

“I like potted things, okay? They remind me of Adam's former business. That's where I met him, mulching trees and planting shrubs.” I buried my nose in the fragrant roses. “And besides, cut flowers just die. What's the use in that?”

Chastity raised a slim eyebrow (which Meg had informed me was permanent makeup) and sniffed in disdain, as if I didn't deserve such an expensive arrangement. “You're just weird, Shiloh. I love roses. Lucky you. And there's a card.”

I wanted to open it privately, but she just stood there, looming. “Aren't you going to read it?” she chided, hands on her hips. Even Clarence paused on his mail rounds, cart in hand, and waited.

I reluctantly opened the envelope. “
To my angel
,” Adam had typed in a crisp font, with matching red ink. “
My love and my joy. I can't wait to share my life with you only, no matter what
.”

“Hmm.” Chastity flicked an eyebrow. “Not bad, I guess. Even if it is a little canned.”

“Well, well, well. From Adam?” Meg appeared by the side of my cubicle with her trusty Cannon slung over her shoulder, interrupting the advice I'd like to have given Chastity about what she could do with her “canned” comment.

“Cool.” Meg bobbed her head in admiration then bent down to see better. “Wait a sec. Is that real crystal?”

A party at my cubicle. Who'd believe it? Most of the time we avoided each other like a bad virus, hoping our editor, Kevin-the-Stickler Lopez, didn't catch us yakking and give us more work. But when the proverbial cat's away at a journalism conference, well…the mice stand around jabbering about who the cops picked up on Greenville Avenue or what Kristen Stewart wore to the Oscars.

Or flowers. Whatever it takes.

“I can't believe Adam sent me roses!” I played with the little ferny chartreuse things that matched my green tea. Crinkly, iridescent red paper. A fat satin ribbon pooled in a flourish of scarlet on my desk.

“Especially on a budget.” Chastity's mouth turned up in a slight smile. “Aren't these a little expensive for Adam? He's got some kind of blue-collar job, doesn't he? Lawn mowing…? I forgot.” She wrinkled her nose.

“No.” I spun around to face her, raising my voice a touch. “Not lawn mowing. And if he hadn't sold his business for me, he'd still be his own boss.”

“He gave up a college scholarship, too, didn't he?” Meg tipped her head as if trying to remember. “For his amputee brother or something?”

“Well, I only let Jeff give me medium-red roses,” breezed Chastity as if she hadn't heard us, examining a velvety bloom with perfect fingers. “He owns Furniture Gallery. Did I tell you that? He just bought a boat and a Jet Ski.”

“Yeah. You've mentioned it.” Meg wrinkled her brow in Chastity's direction and crossed her arms, making the hole in her sweater arm stretch.

“Oh, have I? Sorry.” Chastity's lips curved into a sweet pink smile, obviously forgetting that her money talk had little effect on Meg, who'd lived out of a VW Bus for three years. “Well, anyway, I only accept roses that are lipstick red. Long-stemmed, and not too open. But these are cute, too, Shiloh. Enjoy. Even if they are hacked. Doomed. Whatever you call it.”

Chastity patted me on the head like an ungrateful puppy. “Oh, and I loved the cow picture. Thank your friend Becky for me.”

She retreated to her desk in a cloud of perfume.

Oh, please trip. Just once
. I shot her a sour look, fiery color shooting up my neck. If I ever got my hands on Becky Donaldson and her dumb camera, so help me, I'd make her eat it for breakfast with her grits.

Meg watched Chastity go, obviously trying to suppress a smile. “Lipstick red, huh?” She flicked one of my blooms. “Good luck making lipstick out of this color.”

“My friend Kyoko back in Japan would,” I replied, sitting back down at my desk and trying to calm my temper. “She's into all this goth and punk-rock stuff. Or no, New Wave. Whatever she calls it. I don't know what she's talking about most of the time.”

“Is she the one that sends you all those shrimp-seaweed rice cracker things?” Meg's brow peaked in worry. “And those dried… Don't say it…”

“Squid?”

“I told you not to say it.”

“My offer still stands.” I hovered my hand over the drawer. “Am I tempting you?”

“Not exactly.” Meg scrunched her nose. “But listen, Shiloh.” She tipped her head closer. “Don't let Chastity get to you. I think she's harmless. She's just…bored.”

“Who wouldn't be in a town where kids get excused school absences for hunting?”

“I rest my case.” Meg laughed. “She's bored…and, well, an idiot—to spare your newly sainted ears the appropriate word. Anyway. Enjoy your roses. And if the cow photo bothers you, just let me know. I can Photoshop it into a unicorn or something.” She shouldered her camera and started off, raising her stinky mug in “cheers.”

I liked Meg. In a weird way she even reminded me of Kyoko—but with a lot less angst. On the contrary. Meg was the type who'd fold a thousand (recycled) paper cranes according to the hope-filled Japanese tradition, and Kyoko would grind them all through a paper shredder with unnerving satisfaction.

Adam. I need to call Adam
. I dialed his number from the desk phone, holding the receiver under my chin while I turned the vase around, curling the satin ribbon around my finger as he picked up.

“I got them! You can't imagine how special this is.”

“Shiloh?” His familiar voice, touched with the faintest hint of Southern drawl, came across patchy from bad reception. “I can hardly hear you out here. Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, Adam. They're so beautiful.” I gave a misty smile, thinking of all the sacrifices Adam had made for me already. Knowing him, he'd probably gone without lunch who-knows-how-many-days just to save up. “I can't believe you sent me roses.”

“Sorry?” Static crackled again. “Sent what?”

“The roses. I love them.”

More static, and I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Hello? Adam? Where in the world are you?”

“Verona. What did you say before that?”

“The roses. Chastity brought them over to my desk a few minutes ago.” Silence filled the line. “Roses? Sorry, Shiloh. I must not be hearing you right.”

My fingers froze on the ribbon. “Didn't you send me roses?”

“Roses? No! Why, somebody gave you a bouquet?”

I jerked my hand off the flowers, whose perfume suddenly smelled sickly sweet in my nostrils. Something dreadful welling up in my stomach, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

“You didn't write this card?”

“What card? No. I'm sorry. I've got a potted arrangement for you at home. Since you like them better anyway.” He paused. “By the way, Becky sent me some weird photo of you and a cow. Have you seen it?”

“Huh?” I reeled, scooting my chair back. Adam's words barely registered.

“So who's the bouquet from?”

I picked up the card again, feeling that sick feeling slither from my stomach to my throat.

“Shiloh?”

I
can't believe this.” I slumped in my chair—a gray Office Max special that squeaked when I turned to the left—and tipped my head back, not wanting to open my eyes and see the sparkling crystal vase. It gleamed like Carlos's perfect white teeth when he came from Japan last year, trying to find my house—and a free green card—in his rented Prius.
The snake
.

“Shiloh?” Adam's phone line snapped and popped. “I'm losing you. Do you know who sent them?”

“I've got a good guess.” My eyes narrowed. “And I'll tell him to bug off.”

“Who?” Adam's voice came loud in a sudden burst of clarity.

“Carlos, probably. The big bouquets are his style.”

“Have you told him we're engaged?” Adam's voice heated slightly, and I heard the dying groan of the UPS truck engine. “I'm pulling over. Hold on.”

“No, I haven't told him anything—because we haven't talked since he showed up here last year.”
Showed up
is an understatement. Among other things, he'd tried to sweet-talk me into marrying him for a green card so he could jump-start his new modeling career on American runways.

I could see the headline: H
OTSHOT MODEL USES BANKRUPT EX-FIANCÉE TO CATAPULT HIMSELF TO FASHION FAME.
Personally, I had a lot more respect for Carlos when he was a rich, arrogant stockbroker.

I dug through my supple leather purse for my wallet and pulled out a glossy international calling card. “I'll call him right now.”

“Good, because if you don't, I will. It's probably close to midnight in Tokyo, though, you know.”

“Too bad for Carlos.” I closed my purse. “So, I'll see you after work Friday then?”

“Looking forward to it.” Adam paused, sounding not quite ready to hang up. “Listen, I'm so sorry I can't meet you tonight, Shiloh, on your birthday. I hate that you have to wait. But I'm a trainee, so I can't choose my own hours like I used to.”

“Don't worry. Friday's fine.” I winced, remembering when Adam had hired his own contractors and signed their paychecks. “We can meet at the park if it's not raining.”

“Sounds great. I'll bring your flowers.”

I leaned back in the chair, not quite ready to say good-bye either. “Okay. And thanks for the arrangement you bought me.”

“Oh, I didn't buy this one. I made it. With some of my leftover bulbs and things. I hope you like it.”

“I'll love it.” My throat tightened a little as I thought of him there in his hulking delivery truck, hauling boxes instead of kneeling over green saplings, his fingers dirty with fragrant Virginia soil. “Do you miss being a landscaper, Adam?”

The line weighed silent a moment, and I heard a car whiz by Adam's truck. “A little,” he said finally, the line crackling around the edges. “But not as much as I like being able to marry you.”

I told Adam good-bye, put my head down on the cool desk, and scrunched my eyes closed. Because it was, after all, my fault he'd sold his business. My fault he now wore brown polyester and stacked packages instead of setting his own hours.

But now wasn't the time for sentiment. I had a dragon to vanquish. A dragon with a Spanish accent.

“Let's see what you've got to say, eh, Carlos?” I dialed and held the receiver a little away from my ear, as if his gorgeous Argentinian good looks and sultry voice might zap me into hypnosis even over the phone line. Not that he could pull me away from Adam. But Carlos's brilliant, beautiful smile reeled in women the way Tim reeled in trout—by the bucket load.

At least I'd managed to unhook myself from his line before it was too late.

The phone clicked as someone picked up. “Hi, Carlos?” I said.

“Hi?” demanded a female voice in a decidedly suspicious tone. “Who's calling?”

I ignored her challenge and raised my voice. “Could I speak to Carlos, please?”

Silence. “Hold on.” And then again, defensive and demanding: “Who is this?”

“Look, should I call back later?” I tapped my pen. “I'm kind of busy here, and Carlos definitely needs to hear what I have to say. So please put him on the line.”