Читать книгу What Should Have Been - Helen R. Myers - Страница 10

“I promise, Laureen, I’ll talk to him about starting his motorcycle under your bedroom window and waking you and the birds.” Lavender rolled her eyes as Devan entered Dreamscapes. “Okay. I’ve got customers, hon, gotta go now. Make love not war. ’Byee.”

Hanging up the phone, thirty-four-year-old Lavender Smart swept her wild mane of flaming red hair and purple extensions from her face and noisily purged the air from her lungs. “Is it happy hour yet?”

Devan gave her a droll look as she shifted the thigh-high rabbit yard ornament by the door to keep it open. “Please. Not only is it barely past eight in the morning, but half this town is Baptist. Keep it down.” However, she’d recognized the name of her partner’s neighbor, Laureen Moyers. “Is Rhys in trouble again?”

“Heck, yeah. How can she complain about having a cop right next door adding to her personal security?” Lavender finished tying a green Dreamscapes apron over her jeans and favorite kitten T-shirt with the slogan, I Am Leo, Hear Me Roar.

“Oh, I imagine it has something to do with your active love life and her comatose one.” Devan recalled that fifty-something-year-old Mrs. Moyers was a widow three times over and only months after moving in and getting to know her highly critical neighbor, Lavender had had the poor judgment to suggest to her that each spouse had seen their demise as the preferred escape from the woman. Ever since that Laureen had taken exception to whomever Lavender invited to share her bed with…and there had been several invitees. To Lavender the opposite sex was like a candy store: too many choices to settle on just one.

“Well, she better get over it. Is it his fault that he’s on the early shift?”

Passing a display of gifts, Devan shifted a ceramic box adorned with pansies that looked too close to the edge of the table. “You don’t think he’s pushing her buttons?”

“Of course he is ’cuz he’s caught her peeking into the bathroom window whenever he’s showering, and in the kitchen window when he’s grabbing a beer after we’ve given the mattress a little workout. Mr. Cute Butt just figures she wants to get another look at him as he heads to the station.”

Never knowing what will come out of Lavender’s mouth, Devan gnawed on her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. “It sounds like you and Mount Vance’s newest uniform are made for each other.”

“Now don’t go getting ideas. He’s closer to your age, not mine. Heck, I’ll be menopausal like that rottweiler next door and Rhys Atwood will still look like a Playgirl centerfold.” Lavender fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, help. I’m thinking myself into a hot flash already.”

Devan gave up and giggled as she rounded the counter and patted her friend’s back. “I swear it would take a naval fleet for you to suffer seximus maximus, Lav.”

“Ho-ho, you’re one to tease, guess who called before Laureen asking about a certain somebody being at your house last night? Yvonne Ledbetter. Now tell me, Ms. Look Not Want Not, what on earth made you cut the steel corset and finally open your door to a man—Mead Regan no less?”

Devan had made it to the closet where she and Lavender put their purses, personal things, and kept the safe. She’d just come from dropping off Blakeley at day care and was only ten or twelve minutes late. She couldn’t believe so much had happened already. “So Beverly Big Mouth’s speed dial finger strikes again. Incredible. I knew she’d be spreading gossip, but I never thought she would call Yvonne Ledbetter.” Yvonne was Bev’s ex-sister-in-law. Although that marriage ended fifteen years ago, they would as soon toss each other’s car keys in a public commode than be the first to suggest bygones be bygones.

“Ah,” Lavender countered. “But Yvonne’s Charlie is city manager and you said yourself that Mrs. Regan’s car is parked outside of city hall more often than the mayor’s. My guess is that Bev couldn’t resist tempting Yvonne to be the first to pass on the news seeing as I’m your partner and she keeps my mane so marvelous.”

Locking the door again, Devan considered all that could trigger, but the machinations were too much for her tired mind. “There are more dysfunctional people in this town,” she fumed under her breath.

“Don’t make me one of ’em.” Lavender leaned a generous hip against the counter. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Devan owed her friend and business partner an explanation but could only bring herself to share the official version. The full story was too private, as was her history with Mead.

Even so, Lavender’s hazel eyes were twinkling. “I should rename you Sleeping Beauty. You get more male attention saying ‘get gone’ than most of the single girls in this town do primping and preening. If I wasn’t financially bound to you like an umbilical cord, I’d hate you.”

Which was one of the reasons Devan and Lavender got along so fabulously. There wasn’t an ounce of envy between them, and sharing the same birth month, they understood each other like twins, even though they seemed to be personality opposites. “When you run out of gush, let me know,” Devan said with a tolerant smile. Inside, however, she was worrying about how Pamela Regan was going to take this.

Lavender snatched up two faxed orders from the tray. “I’m done because I really should be mad at you. Why didn’t you call and tell me he showed up again?”

“I had to get Blakeley into bed, get a load of laundry in the washer, pay some bills. And I was already exhausted.”

“Okay, but you let him into your house? Didn’t you feel a bit uncertain? I mean, the man was trained to kill people, probably has killed people.”

Devan couldn’t help wincing. “Lav, he was a soldier, what do you expect?”

“And now he’s a human time bomb, what with the lost mind and everything.”

“Memory! He’s lost his memory, not his mind.”

“Well, Bev said he’s on drugs they give psychotics or something.”

“When did Beverly Greenbriar meet Mead and get that information? And I can’t recall her being a friend of Pamela’s.”

“Then tell me. What’s he like now? I saw a photo of him in the paper and he looks kind of gray and grim.”

Devan kept her gaze on the clipboard she’d retrieved from under the counter that contained today’s job sheets. “You would, too, if you’d gone through what he has. He’s a quieter man now, and thoughtful. He was very kind and concerned about Blakeley. And for the record, he looked much better than the day before.”

“Did he now?”

Hearing the note of speculation entering her friend’s voice, Devan knew it was time to run. “I’m getting the guys and going to work.”

“Wait—I’ve got an order for an orchid basket. Will you pick out a pot for me while I go choose a plant? You seem to understand those things so much better than I do. I swear those and African violets are killers for me.”

“Sure. Go. Just tell the guys to finish scarfing down the sausage and biscuits you brought them this morning,” she added, referring to Jorges Luna and the other four young boys they hired for various jobs.

“I know, I know. I’m corrupting them, but the younger ones are so far from home, and look so lonely at times. Back in five.”

Devan shook her head as Lavender dashed through the French doors to the nursery and hothouse beyond. She had earned her spread-the-love attitude honestly from her flower child parents who these days ran an organic vegetable farm in Oregon. An older brother painted set scenery on Broadway—when he wasn’t honing his mime technique at Central Park—and a younger sister worked at a private animal rescue farm in California.

Relieved they’d cleared the subject of Mead, Devan got herself a last cup of coffee from the machine in the workroom and checked their computer to see what else was pending for today. Lavender had already posted three orders for Mrs. Enid Coe at the workstation table. Poor soul was eighty-something and had been a good customer, often scouring the greenhouse looking for African violets and roses out in the nursery. What a shame to think she was in the hospital yet again.

Wanting to send something herself, she was back at the counter filling out an order sheet, and was slow to notice that the shadow falling over the counter was a person and not moving limbs from the trees across the street in the square.

“Hi, can I help—” she blinked “—you.”

Mead stood on the other side of the counter looking tall, freshly shaved and more respectably dressed in a white dress shirt, pressed jeans and a blue windbreaker. “Morning,” he said.

As if that wasn’t surprise enough, out of the corner of her eyes she noticed movement and to her consternation realized two of the morning park bench sitters were on their feet and leaning over their canes and walkers to peer from across the street at them. Closer yet was Judy Melrose from Melrose Insurance next door, who had stopped at the far end of the display window, mostly hidden by the life-size scarecrow, to stare at Mead.

“How did you get here?” Devan didn’t see a car out front—she didn’t know if Mead could even drive yet. “I mean, it’s so early.”

“The sign says you open at eight.”

“True.” Accepting that she was acting like a fool, she took a stabilizing breath and smiled her welcome. “What can I do for you?”

He glanced toward the display cooler. “I wanted to place an order. But that’s a lot of flowers to choose from.”

Devan considered that a compliment. “We’re fortunate to still be the only florist in town and that brings us considerable business from the outer areas of the county.” Struggling to ignore the commotion as Judy was joined by one of her office staff, Devan added, “Did you have something in mind? A certain flower, style, price range?”

He remained silent for several more seconds before asking, “What would you choose?”

She and Lavender were often asked for their advice—or were left to their own discrimination. “It all depends on the occasion and what you’re trying to say.” She grew hesitant. “This isn’t for a funeral, is it? You didn’t get a bad phone call last night? Your mother didn’t get ill on another rubber chicken dinner?”

“Well, she did eat out, but all seems okay so far.”

Clearing her throat, Devan tried to restrain an outright grin. “Then this is a birthday, anniversary, thank you or…just because gift?”

“Is it possible to…blend the latter two?”

“Sure, and how nice.” It was good to see him again and Devan hoped this meant his mother wasn’t upset that he’d stopped by last night. Or was this some last gesture before the ax fell? “That leaves you with lots of choices, in fact just about anything will work aside from calla lilies—although, personally, I adore them for elegant evening centerpieces.”

“You do?”

“Aside from just loving white flowers, they’re graceful yet surprisingly sturdy.” She gestured toward the long-stemmed beauties in the lower bucket. “If you’re sending these to a lady, white embodies everything—beauty, spirituality, nature at her most gentle. Whatever the flower—gladiola, carnation, rose—okay daisy is a bit impish—but the rest are saying a dozen things with each blossom via their purity.” Remembering that Lavender would be back in a moment, she cleared her throat and resumed her hastier sales pitch. “But those yellow roses are particularly vibrant this week, and so are the coral ones. On the other hand, we can do a sparkling bouquet with multiple seasonal colors. Your choice—I promise Dreamscapes never disappoints.”

Mead studied the cooler once again. “I guess the white roses are the way to go.”

Pleasure warred with regret as Devan reached for the order pad. She’d loved looking at them since they arrived yesterday afternoon and hoped whoever received them would appreciate how special they were—as was the person taking such care in choosing them. As she filled in his name, she said, “Lucky whomever. Okay, how many?”

“All of them.”

A muted cough drew Devan’s attention outside again. In the doorway stood Barry Sweat, Precinct 2 Constable in Franklin County. The one and only time he’d been into the shop had been to buy three carnations for his third wife for Valentine’s Day. Devan wanted to go out and suggest he pay more attention to the potholes over by their neighborhood than to eavesdropping. Instead she leaned across the counter to keep her voice low. “Mead, there are three dozen.”

“That’s what I figure.”

She didn’t doubt he could afford them but didn’t want to be seen as taking advantage. On the other hand, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she would stop being the morning entertainment. “Just checking. Do you want us to bill you? Your mother has an account.”

Mead pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take care of it.”

Expecting a credit card, Devan was surprised to see him pull out cash. “Fine. Now where do we deliver?”

“Three twenty-seven Circle.”

The seven ended up looking like one of those tin curlicue wind-catchers, and for good reason. The address was hers. Almost. Looking up, she met his calm scrutiny. “Do you mean Lane?”

“Is it Lane? Lane.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded, not believing this was happening.

The carousel of sentiment cards stood on the counter and he turned it, studying the offerings. “Can I choose and write my own?”

“No. Yes. I mean…Mead, you can’t come in here and—send me flowers.”

“Where else should I go?”

“Nowhere. There’s no reason to do this. No need.” Through the French doors she saw Lavender heading back. How her friend would eat this up. A born romantic as well as an optimist, Lavender had come into town almost three years ago with her then boyfriend in a beaten-up van. The boyfriend and van had moved on, but she had stayed. Seeing Devan “matched up better” was always on her mind. “Please, Mead. It’s a lovely gesture, but no.”

He studied her and some light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re embarrassed that I’m here.”

“No.” Impulsively, Devan put her hand over his. “It’s not that simple—and hopefully, I’m not that shallow. But this enterprise isn’t just about me. I have a partner and we have debt. There are customers we can’t afford to lose.”

“My mother.”

“Among others.”

“Riley Walsh?”

“It would be unethical for me to say anything else.”

“Let me worry about my mother,” he said, nodding to the pad. “Take the order or I’ll figure some other way to do this.”

Why? Did he even know? No, he seemed stable enough; she wouldn’t listen to gossip. But even so, fear gripped her. Was this incredible gesture the sign that he intended to continue with the mind-set that he’d broached last night? She couldn’t let him. On the other hand, losing the sale and explaining the reason to Lavender would be no party, either.

Devan decided to total his bill, then she took the cash to make change. “Thank you.” She kept her eyes on what she was doing. “Really. This is…lovely.”

“You’re welcome. When can I see you again?”

He was going to scrape her insides raw. “Mead, I’m so shaken, I’m about to lose the breakfast I barely ate.”

Confusion shadowed those dark eyes. “I’ve made you sick?”

“Oh, no! It’s because—” how did she make him understand? “—I did an extra good job convincing myself that I’d never see you again. And then there’s the man you were. I don’t believe he…you would be doing this.”

“But I am.” He leaned closer to force her to meet his gaze. “Would you be hoping I would?”

She couldn’t bring herself to answer.

That won a real smile from Mead and he dropped the bulk of the cash she’d returned to him onto her copy of the invoice. “Add the yellow roses.”

“Oh, no, Mead, please—”

“Think about me, not who you think I should be, or the people you keep looking at outside. Not my mother.”

As he left, Lavender burst through the French doors with her usual energy and curiosity. “Who was that? Whoa—long legs, tight butt and shoulders so wide he wouldn’t notice if I ate a pint of ice cream every night. Did he place an order?”

“Does the word Rhys ring a bell with you?” Devan said, a little exasperated.

“Of course.” Lavender set a glorious purple orchid on the counter. “I’m just asking.”

“Yes, he placed an order.”

“Super, so we’ve got his phone number.”

“We already have it on file.”

“We do?

“It’s the same as Pamela Regan’s.”

“Oh. Oh…wow.”

Devan sighed. “You can say that again.”