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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.”
Chapter Five
I t was a relief that Dreamscapes’ business increased by the day to help keep Devan preoccupied. While Lavender continued to tend to the floral orders, she and her team were forced to spread themselves thin to fulfill all of the requests to create holiday porches and scenescapes, and still finish landscaping yards for Riley Walsh’s new houses. That entailed longer hours and, as a result, the necessity to take up the Andersons’ offer to pick up Blakeley from day care and feed her dinner. Yesterday had been so grueling she even had to let them keep her overnight; it was healthier and kinder to let the child stay warm and get good rest than to drag her in and out of the SUV in the damp, chilly night air.
Today, however, they’d managed to finish in time for Devan to spend the evening with her child. Nevertheless, it was all she could do to get Blakeley bathed and tuck her into bed before feeling ready to collapse, too.
“’Night, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t read me a story, Mommy. Nana has been reading me a story every time.”
“So do I, remember? But Mommy’s throat is a little raw tonight.”
“Are you catching a cold from chasing the all mighty?”
Her hand on the light switch, Devan paused. “What?”
“Gramps told Nana that’s what you’ve been doing. He said that it would be better if you stayed home and didn’t chase it. All mighty what, Mommy? I heard that name in Sunday school, but that was God. I thought God was in heaven. Did he move to Mount Vance?”
Did she need this? Devan wondered. She certainly didn’t feel she deserved such a remark behind her back. It didn’t surprise her, though. Connie was quite good about accepting that their generation’s lifestyles were different than today’s. Or at least she didn’t force her opinion on people. For some reason Jerrold seemed obliged to protect his son’s memory, maybe males in general, and he didn’t care for her to be a businesswoman.
It was true that Jay had been a good provider and hard worker. The profit from selling the three dry-cleaning stores had been safely invested to guarantee Blakeley her future. His life insurance had paid off the mortgage on the house and still could take care of them on a day-to-day basis, too. But what about her? Didn’t she deserve to challenge herself and pursue goals?
Sighing, she smiled at Blakeley and gave her a last kiss before turning off the light. “Gramps was just sharing an opinion with Nana. He didn’t mean for you to hear.”
“Because it’s secret stuff? He didn’t whisper.”
Devan bet he didn’t. “No, boring grown up stuff about work. Sweet dreams, darlin’.”
Returning to the kitchen to load the dishwasher, tears burned in her eyes, and that wasn’t because virtually every muscle in her body screamed with fatigue. Afraid she was going to burst into tears, she buried her face in her hands.
She couldn’t let what Blakeley told her pull her down. Mind-sets like Jerrold’s were steeped in generations of Southern living. It didn’t mean he disapproved of her or had been pretending to care about her all this time.
You’ve got to be hormonal.
Knowing that as tired as she was, she would just lie there and watch the numbers on her digital clock change, she poured herself a glass of Shiraz, switched off the TV, and put on a CD of New Age music Lavender had asked her to listen to. They were considering carrying some romantic CDs to offer in their gift baskets and arrangements.
By the stereo was one of the vases with the white roses Mead had insisted on giving her the other day. There were vases in both her bedroom and Blakeley’s as well as on the dining room table, and their scent continued to fill the house and stir her emotions. She couldn’t get over what he’d done, or stop staring at the blossoms wondering why life was taking this latest twist.
Two years ago this would be the time of night when Jay would flip the TV remote through the financial shows, then the sports channels while she would polish the kitchen whether it needed it or not. Afterward, she would soak in the tub with a steamy novel that soon had her aching and wishing he wasn’t such a robot about their relationship. Their marriage hadn’t been a failure—there was an easiness, a tenderness that others said they’d envied—but she couldn’t deny that sometimes she was bored to desperation with its predictability.
Well, she thought yet again, who said life was supposed to be the Fourth of July every day?
How about one night a month? At least one night a year?
She knew uncontrollable passion existed. Sweet heaven, did she.
Heat rose in Devan like a furnace switched to full blast. She took a sip of wine, pulled one of the roses out of the vase and slipped out the back door to cool off. It was either that or ditch the wisteria-blue tunic-sweater she wore over a white turtleneck.
The porch light was off, but the rising moon illuminated the yard adequately for the minute or two she would be out here. Her rose looked all the more magical in that light and she stroked the velvety petals against her cheek.
Tomorrow she needed to remember to ask Lavender if she wanted to dry the petals for potpourri. Taught by her mother, Lavender was gaining a following for her experimentation of unusual scents. Devan had forgotten to ask her this evening due to a last-minute phone call from Pamela Regan demanding yet another change for the Chamber banquet on Saturday. Pamela didn’t bring up Mead, the episode in the woods, anything, but Devan didn’t doubt she knew and was continuing to harvest information on her and any additional meetings with her son better than any U.S. intelligence agency.
Oh, Regans, get out of my head!
As though to mock that thought, a shadow separated itself from the woods and sprang across the fence. Devan’s breath locked in her throat. But just as she was about to dash back inside and bolt the door, she recognized the intruder’s stride, the breadth of his shoulders and the way he hunkered into the upturned collar of his jacket.
“I wondered if I could will you outside,” he said once he got near enough where a murmur could be heard. “I was watching you through the window.”
For how long? She didn’t want to think about it. Thank goodness her hands were full, though, to keep her from exposing her self-consciousness and touching her messy ponytail. This evening she’d been so drained she hadn’t combed it out before dinner as she usually did.
“Mead…you shouldn’t be here.”
“Your neighbor went by when you put Blakeley to bed. Her dog picked up my scent and growled. She got so scared she didn’t bother turning her flashlight beam on me, she just rushed the rest of the way down the alley.” He sounded amused.
“Don’t you realize if she had spotted you, you would seem like the stalker she suggested?” Weak-kneed, she lowered herself onto the flat bench against the garage wall.
“It’s turning out to be my favorite time of day to walk. Could be more of that training I can’t remember.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it beats being stared at.”
That was anything but reassuring. Devan had the option to either think of his life as a commando, or wonder if rumor was right that his injuries had left him a walking time bomb.
“Don’t brood over it,” he added when she failed to reply. “You’re upset enough. What’s wrong?”
She made a small negative movement with her head. “Nothing worth repeating. A small family thing.”
Mead sat on the knee-high patio wall between pots of chrysanthemums. “You’re a slightly built woman, Devan. Resilient, no doubt, but finely made. And I don’t need a memory to recognize that you have a lot on your plate. My returning here seems to have added to that.”
“This is your home. You have a right to be here.”
He looked away. Despite the soft light, his profile was stone-hard and grim. “I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I want to stay. Being here is like being in a virtual joke, except that everyone but me knows the punch line—and it is me.”
“Oh, Mead.”
He shrugged again. “It’s appealing in a way, the idea of leaving. At least whoever I met would be as clueless about me as I am about them.”
“Your mother would be devastated.” In truth, Devan didn’t entirely believe that, but it was a way to avoid acknowledging how her own insides were plummeting and she feared the rest of her would cave in on the resulting emptiness.
Mead responded with a low sound of scorn. “Come on, Devan, one thing I recognize about Pamela is that she’s a survivor. I have a feeling the only reason she had me was to give my father an heir.”
“Now you sound like a soldier.”
“As in cold-blooded?”
“Pragmatic.”
“Was I that way before?”
She was the wrong person to ask. “I didn’t see you every day, so I can’t judge fairly. You’re five years older than me, too, and that put you way ahead in school.”
“My mother made sure the yearbooks in my room are open to strategic pages.” He rested his elbows on his knees to allow him to be closer. “I looked for you in them, but couldn’t find you.”
“I started Mount Vance High the year you left for college.”
“So when did we meet?”
“Rather, when did you finally notice me?”
His gaze caressed her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Devan. I figure I noticed from the moment you hit puberty.”
“Not with the likes of Megan Maples, Darcie Tracy, Carly Ferris and others competing for your attention.”
An involuntary chuckle burst from his lips and Mead self-consciously rubbed his jaw. “My mother put sticky notes by Megan’s and Darcy’s names. She wrote that Megan is the daughter of the bank president, and the bank remains independently owned and has three branches in neighboring communities, while by Darcy’s name there’s just one word—oil. Oh, and she also noted they were both single.”
Devan wasn’t surprised at Pamela’s not-so-subtle assistance in helping Mead with his memory. Pedigree was all-important to her, as it was to many Southerners. “Who are your people?” and “What church do you attend?” were common and acceptable icebreakers when welcoming a newcomer to a community that continued to embrace old Southern traditions.
“What she left out is that they’re accomplished women,” she replied. “Meg owns the most successful real estate firm in the county. Darcie happens to be an attorney in her father’s oil company.”
“Why do you suppose she left out Carly?” Mead asked.
“Carly’s fortune is inherited and she recently buried her second husband. Stunning though she is, you may be too young for her tastes.”
This time Mead threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Well, I can’t begin to think of what we’d talk about now.”
Too aware of Pamela’s determination, Devan could only smile. “It was good to see you laugh anyway.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject away from you.”
In an attempt to keep things light, she quipped, “Ah, but we were discussing your long list of conquests.”
He didn’t even smile this time. “Was I a skirt-chasing SOB, Devan? Is that why you kept me at arm’s length, as you apparently did…and are trying to do again?”
She didn’t use such expressions, even on people who clearly deserved them, and it was painful to hear he worried he could be one of those. “You were never that. You could seem aloof, but that’s because you never wasted time suffering fools, and when a girl failed to get a proposal out of you, they sometimes stroked their injured pride by announcing that you were emotionally cold and that ending the relationship was their idea. You remained a gentleman, graciously never contradicting them.”
His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Talk about being gracious…you really did understand me, didn’t you? Is that what I felt when we met again? It was like nothing else I’ve experienced since waking in that hospital bed.”
Devan had to put down her glass for fear of him seeing how his comment left her hands shaking. The one holding the rose she rested in her lap. “Mead, a lot of people understood you, you just haven’t been exposed to them yet. You didn’t lack for friends or attention.”
“My father’s fortune could explain that.”
No one except the most naive could deny that possibility for some, but Devan couldn’t let him miss something important. “You loved life, and that enhanced your natural charisma. You were always seeking something, eager for experience. At least, that was my impression,” she quickly concluded, suddenly embarrassed. What nerve she’d had accusing Lavender of gushing the other day. With her motor mouth, she would yet expose that she hadn’t just watched him from afar, she’d studied him with rapt fascination every chance she’d had.
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