Читать книгу Flowers on Main - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 7

Jake was very glad the job he was on required hard, backbreaking labor. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, thanks to that near miss with Bree. He’d worried that Connie could be right, that Bree might be staying in Chesapeake Shores. Then he’d worried even more that she might leave again. Nobody could ever suggest that his life was ruled by logic, he thought dryly.

He trimmed back another boxwood in a bedraggled hedge so his equipment could get a better grip to yank it from the ground. His broad, tanned shoulders were slick with sweat and the bandanna tied around his forehead was damp. He was wearing a pair of cutoff jeans and work boots. Sunglasses, covered by protective goggles, shaded his eyes as he worked with the power saw to cut a few more branches. The noise was deafening. As the last branch snapped off, he turned off the saw. But even as silence fell, it seemed as if the air still vibrated. He whipped off his goggles and turned to find Bree standing a few feet away, her expression uncertain. She looked cool as a cucumber in another of those sundresses she favored, this one a pale green.

He was tired. He was dirty. And he was in no mood for this,whatever it was that had brought her here. If things had been different between them, he might have admired her audacity in tracking him down.

“Hello, Jake.”

“I’m busy,” he said, snapping the goggles back into place and turning on the saw.

He’d wait her out. Cut off every damn branch, every tiny twig if he had to. He was not having this conversation with her. He was never speaking to her again. He’d made that decision when he’d found her all cozy and friendly with Martin Demming years ago. That had been the last straw, the deathblow to his hope that they might still salvage their relationship. The mere fact that she’d come home and was standing right here, apparently intent on butting into his life, didn’t change any of that.

He kept on cutting, ignoring her, until he’d left the base of the very last bush barely sticking out of the ground. When he was through, pleased with himself for not caving in to his desire to drink in the sight of her, he looked up and found her still standing right there. Her patience had always been a stark contrast to his rush through life, but today he found it more annoying than ever.

“Go away, Bree.”

“Not until we’ve talked,” she said, her chin jutting up stubbornly.

He whirled around and scowled at her. “Now? You want to talk right now? Where the hell was that eagerness to have a conversation six years ago? You didn’t seem inclined to say two words to me back then. You just took off. Half the time you wouldn’t even answer my calls, so I had to come to Chicago. And what did I find when I got there? You and Demming sharing a bottle of wine.”

“Having a glass of wine with a friend is hardly a crime,” she said mildly.

He retreated from the accusation and tried to make himself clearer. “The wine wasn’t the problem and we both know it. It was the way he was looking at you.” He shook his head. “No, it was the way you were looking at him. That was the real problem. Anybody with twenty-twenty eyesight could tell you were infatuated with him. We’d been apart how long by then? Three months, as I recall.”

There was a flash of guilt in her eyes that told him he hadn’t mistaken anything that night. He’d gotten what was going on between them exactly right. And even now, dammit, it still mattered. It continued to hurt that she’d been able to forget about him, about the baby they’d lost and the plans they’d made. Worse, she’d done it so quickly, so easily, as if nothing between them had ever mattered.

“I’m sorry, Jake.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t want to rehash things at this late date.”

He tried to stare her down. It would have worked at one time, but today she held her ground. He sighed. If she was intent on having her say about something, it would be easier in the long run to let her get on with it. After all, he didn’t have to listen. He could tune her out, think about … His imagination failed him. He couldn’t think of anything that would be compelling enough to keep his attention diverted from the words coming out of Bree’s mouth.

“Okay, two minutes,” he snapped. “What do you want?”

“I’m thinking of staying in Chesapeake Shores,” she began.

He tried not to let her words cut right through him, but they did. Just one more decision that had come too late to matter, one more way she could rip out his heart on a daily basis.

“Well, bully for you,” he said, because she was clearly waiting for a response.

She did wince then, but she didn’t back down. “I wanted to know if that would be okay with you, if we could at least try to get along.”

“We can stay the hell out of each other’s way,” he said. “That’s the best I can promise. Take it or leave it. Go or stay. It makes no difference to me.” The lie tripped off his tongue convincingly, he thought. At least he hoped it did. He would not let her see that she still got to him. It was one thing for Mack and Will and his own sister to see right through him, but not Bree. That would be too pathetic.

There was a quick flash of hurt in her eyes, but then she nodded slowly. “Okay, then,” she said softly, a quiver in her voice that told him she was near tears. He steeled himself against it. So what if he hurt her? It was nothing to the pain she’d caused him.

She turned on her heel and walked away, giving him a perfect view of her excellent backside. Just staring after her stirred him in ways it shouldn’t. What was wrong with him? Was he a total jerk? A glutton for punishment? Because he knew with every fiber of his being that given a chance, he would take her to bed. Not into his heart again. Never that. But sex? Oh, yeah.

After her uncomfortable—okay, awful—confrontation with Jake, Bree sat in an Adirondack chair on the front porch, her feet propped up on a post, a notebook in her lap. She was making a list, something that was more like Abby than her. She had to get a handle on what she could do if she stayed here, because if she didn’t have a solid plan in mind, it would be too easy to drift back to the life she knew in Chicago, lousy as it was. So far she hadn’t written down one single thing, maybe because she couldn’t stop thinking about Jake and the way he’d looked at her.

Had she hurt him again for no good reason? If she couldn’t come up with a plan, then she couldn’t stay, and that whole ugly scene would have been for nothing. Hearing the anger and disdain in his voice had dredged up the way she’d felt on the night he’d walked out of her apartment and out of her life. She’d known then, just as she had today, that she deserved every bitter word. Why she’d expected anything different was beyond her. Had she honestly expected him to welcome her home with his familiar crooked smile and a solid, reassuring hug? The idea was ludicrous. Men didn’t just forgive and forget. Most of them wanted to get even. If that was his goal, to hurt her as she’d hurt him, he was well on his way.

A hint of forgiveness would have been nice, she admitted to herself with a sigh. Jake had been more than the man she’d loved six years ago. He’d been her best friend. He’d been the one she would have talked to about this crossroad in her life. Now they couldn’t even exchange a civil word.

When her cell phone rang, she answered eagerly. Any distraction was better than this sudden rootlessness she was feeling.

“Bree, thank goodness,” Jess said, sounding frantic. “Can you get over to the inn right now?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“I have a wedding here in three hours. The florist who’s supposed to be doing the flowers is in the hospital. He didn’t have a backup, so the wholesaler just dumped boxes and boxes of flowers on my doorstep. I have no idea what to do with them.”

“Give me ten minutes,” Bree said at once. “Do you have vases, wire, ribbons, anything for making arrangements?”

“I have vases. That’s it.”

“Are the bouquets made, at least?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Okay, make it a half hour. I’ll pick up some supplies on the way. Is there any way you can call the bride’s mother or a bridesmaid and find out what they had in mind without starting a panic?”

“I’ll try. The matron of honor is actually upstairs. Lauren’s a lot calmer and more practical than Mrs. Hilliard. I’ll ask her to meet us in a half hour.”

“Perfect.”

Rather than risking a wasted trip to Ethel’s Emporium for supplies they might not have, Bree raided her grandmother’s greenhouse and sewing room. She arrived at the inn with ribbon in a variety of colors, some scraps of lace and everything else she thought she might need.

She found Jess and Lauren Jackson, who’d been in Abby’s class at school, waiting for her, surrounded by open boxes of long-stemmed white roses, white snapdragons, white orchids and white lilacs. There was one box filled with trailing ivy.

“Hey, Lauren,” she said, looking over what they had to work with. “Any idea what the bride had in mind?”

“Simple. Her bouquet was going to be white orchids and lilacs. There are three attendants, and we’re supposed to have a single white rose with some long white ribbons.” She glanced at Jess. “I think there are supposed to be stands with vases of roses and snapdragons up by the minister, and then small arrangements on the tables. It’s not a huge wedding, just family and a few friends, so there are only four tables, maybe. Is that right?”

Jess nodded. “She said something about the ivy going across the table from the centerpieces.”

“Okay, then. I think that gives me enough to work with. Are the groom and best man and ushers supposed to have flowers for their lapels?”

Jess and Lauren regarded her blankly.

“I have no idea,” Lauren admitted. “I’ll call Tom, that’s the groom, and ask him.” She took out her cell phone and dialed. When he answered, she explained the situation and asked about the flowers, then shook her head for Bree’s benefit. She lowered her voice. “There is no need to panic, Tom. I swear it. Someone’s here right now, and we have it all under control. Whatever you do, do not say anything about this to Diana. She’ll freak out. Bye.”

She stuck her phone back in her pocket. “Everything set here?” she asked Bree. “Do you need me to stay and help?”

“No. I can take it from here. I’ll do the bouquets first, if you want to send someone down in an hour to get them. If they’re not right, we’ll have time for adjustments.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Bree. I’ll make sure Diana knows about this.” She grinned. “After the ceremony, anyway.”

When Lauren and Jess were gone, Bree took stock of the flowers and went to work. The bouquets were easy enough, thanks to the bride’s desire for simplicity. She held them up for Jess’s approval when she came back from checking on things in the kitchen to make sure the food for the reception was on track.

“What do you think?” she asked her sister.

“Classy and elegant,” Jess said at once. “I’m in awe of you.”

“Let’s see how you feel when I’m through with the tough stuff.”

As she finished each centerpiece, she carried it into the dining room where four tables were set with white linens, sparkling crystal, white candles, sterling-silver place settings and silver-edged china. She set the low arrangement of flowers in the center, then pulled strands of ivy between some of the place settings. She studied it, decided it didn’t look quite right and went back to gather some of the extra rose petals to scatter across the table with the ivy. She stood back again and concluded it didn’t look half-bad.

Jess came in as she was placing the last arrangement. “Oh, my,” she said, her voice filled with delight. “Bree, they’re beautiful. A professional couldn’t have done better. I swear if you weren’t off making a name for yourself as a playwright, I’d insist you do this for a living.”

Bree regarded her with surprise. “Really?”

“You’ve always had a knack with flowers, but what you’ve done here today, especially under pressure, it’s amazing. Much better than what I’ve seen from the florist that people around here usually use. The Hilliards are going to be ecstatic. You really did save the day. I’ll see to it that they pay you accordingly.”

“I don’t need to be paid,” Bree said. “This was an emergency. I did it as a favor to you. Besides, it was fun. I’ve always loved doing stuff like this.”

“You do work like this, you get paid,” Jess insisted. “And I’m taking pictures of these arrangements, too.”

Bree regarded her blankly. “Why?”

“Who knows, maybe one of these days you’ll get sick of Chicago and decide you want to take up floral design,” she said jokingly. “These will be the first pictures for your portfolio. I’m starting one for the inn, so I can show clients other events we’ve held here.”

Bree gave her a hard hug. “You are a very smart woman, sister of mine. Bring the pictures by the house later, so we can show them to Gram. She’ll be thrilled to see that some of those flower-arranging lessons she gave me have paid off.”

On the way home, Bree thought about the sense of satisfaction she’d gotten from what should have been a few incredibly stressful hours. She was halfway back to the house when an idea began to take shape. She made a U-turn and drove into town.

She rode slowly along Main Street, then pulled into a space in front of the only empty storefront downtown. It was two doors away from Sally’s, which could be a drawback in terms of the potential for crossing paths with Jake, but that also meant that everyone in town would know about a new shop within days of its opening. Most people in town had breakfast or lunch at Sally’s at least once a week, if only on Sundays after church. As she sat there, the vague idea in her head evolved into an actual plan.

She’d been in the space many times over the years when it had been a dress shop. She could imagine its possibilities for what she had in mind. She pictured the window filled with baskets of flowers, maybe even stands filled with colorful, ready-to-go bouquets on the sidewalk out front when the weather wasn’t too hot to wilt them. She could even envision the sign painted in the window in ornate gold script entwined with a few decorative flowers: flowers on main, and beneath that, in a much smaller font, Proprietor Bree O’Brien. She could see it all as clearly as if it had been in the back of her mind for years, just waiting for an incident like today’s to lead her here.

In some ways she was as plodding and careful as Abby, but in others she was as impulsive as Jess. She went with her gut more often than not, and this felt right. Maybe if she hadn’t been going over her options for days now, if the decision to stay here hadn’t already been made, she would have waited, taken some time to examine this from every angle. As it was, she felt certain that this was something that could work, something she’d be good at, something she’d enjoy.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for her cell phone and called the number of the management company listed on the discreet sign in the lower corner of the window. It was a number she should have known by heart, since her uncle had started the management company and one of her cousins was running it these days.

When Susie answered, Bree almost faltered. Should her cousin know about this before anyone else in the family? The answer was tricky since there were still some hard feelings among the various branches of the O’Brien family that went back to the construction of Chesapeake Shores. She waved off her doubts.

“Susie, it’s me, your cousin Bree.”

“Well, hey there. I’d heard you were in town when Jess opened the inn, but I didn’t catch much more than a glimpse of you at the party.”

Bree laughed. “Big bashes like that give me hives. I put in an appearance for family solidarity and all that, then hid out in the kitchen helping the chef.”

“I thought you’d be back in Chicago by now.”

“I decided to stick around. That’s why I’m calling, in fact. I’m interested in leasing the space that’s available on Main Street.”

“Really?” Susie said, not even trying to hide her shock. “I thought you were doing so well with your plays.”

“I was doing well enough,” Bree hedged. “But I want to do something different. How about I come by now and sign the paperwork?”

“It’s a two-year lease,” Susie reminded her. “We don’t like instability downtown.”

“I’m not crazy about instability myself,” Bree said. “Two years is fine.”

“Do you mind if I ask what kind of business you’re planning to open?”

“A flower shop,” Bree said, her voice brimming with excitement. “Flowers on Main.”

“You even have a name for it?”

Bree laughed. “And that’s about all I have at the moment. And a lease, if you’ll wait for me to get over to the office.”

“I’ll wait,” Susie promised. “I want to hear all about why you’ve decided to come back home.”

Mostly so she could report it to the rest of the family, Bree was certain. Still, word would get around soon enough. She just had to make sure that Gram, Mick, Abby and Jess heard about it from her before anyone else went running to them with the news.

And by the time she talked to her family, she was going to have a whole lot more than a lease and some vague idea that she could reinvent herself as a florist. Otherwise they’d start worrying about her the same way they fretted about Jess, convinced that she’d jumped into something without thinking it through.

Which, of course, was exactly what she was doing. But for the first time in months, she actually felt a stirring of excitement deep inside, a resurgence of self-confidence. Maybe her destiny had been to work with flowers all along. Or perhaps this was just a stopgap measure until she got her feet back under her. Either way it felt right for now.

“You’re going to do what?” Marty demanded, his tone incredulous when Bree worked up the courage to call and tell him she wasn’t coming back to Chicago. “Surely you’re not serious. What can possibly have possessed you to even consider giving up the theater to open a flower shop? Are you having some kind of breakdown?”

His scathing tone stiffened her resolve. That a man who’d claimed to love her could even ask such a question in that tone was proof that she’d made the right decision. Chicago was not the place for her, and he was most definitely not the right man.

“Thank you,” she said wryly.

“For what?” he asked, clearly confused.

“For making it clear that I’m doing the right thing.”

“What are you talking about? I certainly said no such thing.”

“No, you said I must be having some kind of a breakdown.”

“Well, aren’t you? No one in their right mind would give up the opportunity you’ve had here to stay in that little hick town playing with posies.”

“I think I’m more suited to ‘playing with posies,’ as you put it, than to being demeaned at every turn by you.”

“When have I ever demeaned you?” he demanded, sounding genuinely shocked by the accusation. “All I’ve ever done was to support your work and offer constructive criticism.”

“Potato, potahto,” she said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Your version of constructive criticism is to tear me down until I’m no longer convinced I can write a coherent thought or a well-drawn character. Oh, I’ll admit, in the beginning I was so in awe of you that I took every word as a pearl of wisdom, but I see now that in taking your criticism to heart, in molding my stories to win your approval, I was losing myself. The voice that I brought to my first play faltered in the second one and disappeared completely by the third.”

“You’re blaming me because your third play was a disaster?” he asked, incredulous.

“No, absolutely not,” she said swiftly. “I blame myself,because I listened to you. Don’t get me wrong, Marty. You taught me a lot in the beginning. You’re an amazing playwright. But I can’t be a carbon copy of you. I needed to be myself, and somewhere along the way I forgot that.”

He was silent for so long, she thought maybe he was too furious with her to speak. But then he said, “Maybe that’s true.”

She was so stunned by the admission, she didn’t have a response.

He went on in that same thoughtful tone. “Now that you understand that, though, this is exactly the wrong time to turn tail and run. You need to come back here and get back to work. I’ll still help you, if you want it, or I’ll leave you alone.” He turned on the familiar charm. “You’re good, Bree. Those last reviews aside, you can’t lose sight of that. Besides, I miss you. I need you back here with me.”

That almost swayed her. Marty never admitted needing anyone. Then she remembered how quixotic his moods could be. He might need her today, but by tomorrow his ego would kick in, and he’d need no one, least of all her. Besides, if she was leaving Chicago at least in part because their relationship had turned toxic, then she could hardly go back because of some faint hope that it could change. She couldn’t allow him to charm her into forgetting how things between them had deteriorated.

No, she decided firmly. She needed to stay right here in Chesapeake Shores, at least for now. She needed to tackle something new, get a fresh start. The thing about writing was that it could be done anytime, anywhere. If inspiration struck, she had her computer and she had her contacts in the theater. Staying here didn’t mean she’d never write another play, just that if she did, it would be hers from act one scene one right on through to the closing curtain.

“It’s too late, Marty. I’m not coming back, at least not for the foreseeable future.”

“I’ll come there. I’ll change your mind.”

“Please don’t even try.” It might feed her ego a bit to have him come, but more worrisome was the possibility that she would succumb to his persuasion. She knew all too well how skilled he was when he wanted something. “If you care about me, even a little, you’ll let me make this change. Accept it and wish me well.”

“A few months,” he said with obvious reluctance. “You’ll be going stir-crazy and you’ll call me begging to come back.”

“Maybe I will,” she agreed.

“I can’t promise you it won’t be too late,” he warned.

“I can live with that.”

“Bree, my darling, you’re making such a terrible mistake,” he said.

“It’s mine to make.”

“And there’s nothing—” He cut himself off with a heavy sigh. “No, I am familiar with your streak of Irish stubbornness. I can’t change your mind now, can I?”

“No.”

“Will you come if I send a ticket when the next play opens?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” she said, remembering how thrilled the theater had been to get the play for its pre-Broadway run. Rehearsals had just begun when she’d left town.

“The first in five years. I want you here. You were my inspiration, my muse, when I was writing it, after all.”

The flattery was deliberate, she knew. She was also aware he’d probably said something similar to other women. Marty was like that, scattering little hints about his gratitude far and wide, so that everyone thought they owned a share of his success.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised. In a few weeks, perhaps she could go back for a visit without feeling like a failure. She’d made friends there, people other than Marty she would miss. It would be a chance to catch up.

By then, too, she’d have her business up and running. She’d have her fresh start, an exciting new beginning. Marty’s seductive charm wouldn’t be a match for that.

“I’ll be in touch, then,” he said to her.

Only after they’d hung up did she realize that not once in the entire conversation had she sensed even the slightest hint of surprise on Marty’s part that she was closing the door on their relationship. Unlike Jake, whose passions still ran high over their breakup after six long years, Marty had let her go with barely a whimper of regret. For all of his claim to miss her and need her, she didn’t doubt for an instant that he would move on by the end of the week, if he hadn’t already. He was the kind of man who couldn’t survive for long without the adulation of a woman.

For the first time since she’d fallen, awestruck, into his orbit, she actually felt a little sorry for him. She didn’t miss the irony that it was seeing Jake again, hearing the anger in his voice and seeing the heat in his eyes, that showed her just how deep real love was supposed to run.

And despite many good memories, just how shallow her relationship with Marty had truly been.