Four White Roses

by Judy Ann Davis

  Joe was one of her brother’s best friends, one of her favorite people, and her closest friend. He was a dependable bachelor and was always available to help her when a drain backed up in her apartment or when a door lock broke and needed to be replaced. He had never once been part of the rumor mill when she returned from New York with an infant and no husband, nor did he ever have any disparaging words about her plans to raise Iris, her six-year-old daughter, alone. In fact, Joe had a soft spot for the little girl who adoringly trailed behind him at the landscape center asking endless questions, which he patiently answered.

  “I need to find Finn,” Torrie said. “He promised to watch Iris on Friday night.”

  Joe looked up under craggy eyebrows and studied her for a moment. He frowned. “I can babysit for you if you need help. I’ve told you that a million times now.”

  “Thanks, Joe. You’re a peach, and you’ve come to my rescue a million times. I appreciate it. But Finn was planning to go to Elsa’s after work. He can easily bring Iris back and keep her for a few hours so I don’t have to get up early on Saturday morning to pick her up for the weekend.”

  He nodded. “All right. Let me know if it doesn’t work out with Finn. I can always leave here a little early on Friday and get her.” He picked up a screwdriver and some screws and washers and started assembling the rack for the cart.

  “Is there anything I can help with? What needs to be done?” Her gaze circled the premises from the patio to the fenced in lot overflowing with hearty shrubs, trees, and potted flowers.

  “Just those two flats of purple petunias over there. They need to be taken out to the loading dock. Lulu Smith ordered them and said we could drop them off at Gertie Redman’s house. I see Rich is back in town. This time with his daughter. Your brother said you gave them a lift into town the other night.”

  “Yes, I did.” So the rumor mill had started. Torrie picked up a flat of flowers and trotted to the parking lot where her van was parked beside the loading dock, then repeated the trip one more time. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and stood before Joe with her hands on her hips. “I’m headed back to town and can drop them off. I just put new indoor-outdoor carpet in the van the other day and covered it with a big piece of plastic to keep it from getting soiled. I just have to remember to use the plastic.”

  “You’re trying to keep a delivery van’s carpet clean?” He chuckled, studying her face with an amused expression.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, Torrie, but you’ve somehow managed to get dirt on your face in the short time you shuttled two flats to the loading dock. Maybe we need to wrap your head in plastic.”

  “For Pete’s sake, not again!” Torrie swiped at her cheek and then her forehead. It was an ongoing joke at the landscape center how Torrie could attract dirt without much effort.

  There was laughter in Joe’s eyes as he resumed his work attaching the wheels to the cart’s frame. “And a word of caution,” he said without looking up, his voice growing serious, “Ivan Winters is inside with the boss man.”

  “Oh, brother,” she groaned. “What does he need from Finn? He never buys anything.” She dusted the palms of her hands together to dislodge the dirt and eyed the front door as if it was blistering hot and a dragon might jump out of it. “What’s he doing here?”

  “What he always does,” Joe said in a calm voice. “Looking for you.”

  “Well, I wish he’d save himself a lot of aggravation and give up. I have no plans to go to dinner with him, or go out for a ride, or meet his endless mind-numbing clients for drinks.”

  “How many times are you going to turn the man down?”

  “As many times as is needed to get the message across.”

  They exchanged a knowing glance.

  “For heaven’s sake, Joe, he makes me want to drink.”

  His low, raspy chuckle followed her all the way to the front door. But her hand barely touched the doorknob when it swung open and Ivan Winters stepped out.

  Torrie eyed him cautiously. He was a banking cliché. His whole appearance screamed financial guru from his dark suits right down to his meticulously shined, black loafers. She was certain his ingratiating demeanor and fake air of authority had been honed from schmoozing wealthy customers, handling their money, and securing low interest loans for them. Lately, he seemed to pop up every place she went, and she half-heartedly reminded herself to check her van to see if it was bugged with a tracking device.

  Ivan’s father, Dr. James Winters, had been the town’s only doctor for over forty years before retiring a few years ago. He was loved and respected among the town’s population. Everyone knew he had been disappointed when Ivan chose the First National Bank and a swanky corner office over a career in medicine.

  “So there you are,” Ivan said. “My, my, looking as beautiful as ever.” He moved closer to her. Too close.

  Torrie took a step backward. “Ivan, nice to see you. What can we help you with today? Maybe some annuals or perennials or a new summer bush? We just received a shipment of flowering almonds and the marigolds and pansies are spectacular this year. Everyone’s buying petunias. Better grab them while there’s a selection to choose from.” She heard Joe snort from behind her.

  Ivan dismissed her spiel with a curt shake of his head. “Nothing, nothing. I actually stopped by to see you. Do you know you have dirt on your face?” He squinted through his wire rims at her.

  “So I’ve heard.” She swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, transferring some of the dirt onto it. She looked at it, frowned, and wiped her hand on the side of her shorts.

  Ivan looked at her with hopeful, expectant eyes. “I’m getting a few banking associates from out of town together at a local restaurant on Friday, and I was wondering whether you’d like to be my date for the evening.”

  Over my dead body. Torrie cleared her throat. “Sorry, Ivan, but I made plans to have dinner with a friend on Friday night.” It was the truth. It was exactly what Rich had called them. Friends. It had been a long time since she had dinner at a nice restaurant. She was looking forward to an evening where there was no pressure, no romantic implications, but a lot of good food and adult conversation.

  A look of disappointment crossed Ivan’s face. “Well, maybe next time,” he said. “There will be a next time. Right, Torrie?”

  Torrie hesitated. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, “We’ll see. No promises, Ivan.”

  “You’ll see?” There was a sharp edge to his voice. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

  “Not really,” she replied meekly. She could feel him frowning without having to look at him. “The landscape center is always busy at the beginning of summer, Ivan.”

  “Don’t you think you owe me a favor once in a while?”

  This time she heard more than mild irritation in his tone. The last thing she needed was for Ivan to get upset and go off the rails on her in front of everyone. She was never happier to hear her phone ring than at that very moment.

  “Excuse me.” She stepped backward a few paces and held up a hand. “I have to take this.” She turned around, glanced at the cellphone, and saw the caller ID pop up as her own name. Suddenly she realized the phone she was holding hadn’t played her usual tune, but rather an unrecognizable pop tune. Brows wrinkled, she said, “Hello, Torrine Larson.”

  “Torrie, this is Rich. I need to talk to you. Am I interrupting you?”

  “Actually, this is the perfect time.” She shifted to her warm, customer-friendly sing-song voice. “And don’t be silly, of course you’re not interrupting me. What kind of shrubs were you interested in buying?”

  There was dead silence for a moment. “You do know you’re talking on your brother’s phone?”

  “No, I didn’t, but it’s okay. He’ll understand. Our customers come first. Did you say you needed to order some flowers instead?” Torrie cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder at Iv
an while she frantically searched her brain trying to discern why Rich Redman had her phone. She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the home screen with a picture of a motorcycle behind the icons. Gus! She had her youngest brother’s phone.

  “Let me guess,” Rich’s soft sexy voice purred. “You’re trying to avoid someone around you, aren’t you?” A deep, rich chuckle rumbled through the phone’s speaker.

  “Yes, absolutely.” She silently pleaded for him to play along so she could make a clean escape from Ivan Winters before he caused a scene. “Did you have a particular arrangement in mind? Local flowers, perhaps?”

  And he did. “Well, yes. I have an absolutely fabulous idea swirling around in my head at the moment. Unfortunately, the arrangement has nothing to do with flowers.”

  “So sorry to hear that.” Torrie felt her face grow hot. She looked over her shoulder again. Ivan Winters inched closer, obviously hoping to catch a part of the conversation.

  There was a long, audible sigh from Rich. “You wound me, Torrie Larson. Listen, Gus stopped by and dropped off your phone, hoping to catch you here. The phones were switched when you left them in the pickup. You grabbed his after you rescued Estella and me.”

  “Ah ha, now I’m on the same page.”

  “Well, now. Since we’re on the same page,” Rich’s deep voice bounced back, “I’ve taken seven calls on this blasted phone. Two from your mother—who, by the way, was very warm and cordial—and five from people who want to place orders for floral arrangements. I have no clue whether they want local homegrown, imported, or exotic flowers. But if I have to hear ‘I Love the Flower Girl’ one more time, I’m going to pitch the phone in the rose beds out back.”

  “Hey, let’s not make any rash decisions. I’ll be right there to help you.” Delighted to avoid a confrontation with Ivan, Torrie gave Joe and him a quick wave and trotted to the parking lot with the phone still plastered to her ear.

  “Wait, wait,” Ivan sputtered. “I need to talk to—”

  Ignoring him, she shouted, “Sorry, guys, I have to take care of this.”

  She climbed into the van and breathed a sigh of relief. Dumb luck, she decided, was definitely better than none at all. Again, she had dodged another bullet with Ivan. How much longer could she thwart his advances? Yet, she wasn’t sure dealing with Rich Redman would be any easier than handling the blustering banker.

  ****

  The sun was casting long afternoon shadows when Torrie drove to her sister’s house later in the afternoon, after dropping off Gus’s phone at the garage. Overhead, a gentle breeze slowly pushed fleecy clouds eastward. The half-hour drive gave her time to mull over what had happened back at Gertie’s house when she returned the second time with the flowers for Lulu.

  Rich had been waiting for her and had answered the door with a pained grimace on his face, his hand gripping the cellphone. “This may cost you yet another dinner date,” he groused. “Or…maybe some other type of compensation for taking all these confounded intricate messages.” He waved a pile of notes under her nose. “I know what baby’s breath is, but I don’t have a clue what bouvardia and trachelium are. I can’t even spell the darn words. And delphinium just sounds too racy to put in anyone’s bouquet.”

  “Here’s Lulu’s flower delivery,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. She pointed to the two flats she had deposited on the front porch beside the door. “First of all, it’s not a date on Friday. It’s more like an outing. Second, I don’t need your notes, genius, if you left the callers’ numbers on my phone.”

  “Outing?” His grimace morphed into a bewildered expression that made him look like a kid who just had his candy stolen. Except he was no kid. He was a man who exuded sensual masculinity. “Hey, you owe me for that ridiculous conversation. Who were you trying to avoid?”

  “No one important.”

  When she stepped up to grab the notes, he scooped her into his arms and, without warning, planted a light kiss squarely in the center of her forehead, oblivious to the dirt. Before she could react, he shoved the notes and phone in her hand, spun her around, and nudged her toward the steps. “Now go pluck the local flowers and bamboozle all those poor unsuspecting customers. I have work to do.” He smiled an arresting smile.

  “Bamboozle?” She turned toward him and gave him a perplexed look. “Seriously? Isn’t that a word to better describe your occupation?” Forcing herself to suppress a grin, she clambered down the steps and called over her shoulder, “Don’t forget to feed Sheba. Have Lulu teach you.”

  She slid into the driver’s seat and tossed the phone and notes onto the passenger seat. But before she could pull away from Gertie’s house, her phone rang. This time it wasn’t her usual ringtone. Rich Redman had changed her tune from I Love the Flower Girl to the Yellow Rose of Texas.

  “The audacity of that man! What a blockhead,” she sputtered aloud. How dare he toy with her ringtone? Her mother had suggested the 60’s song when she first started floral arranging at the landscape center. She reached for the phone and answered more sharply than she normally would, “What? What do you want now, Richard Lee Redman? I’m driving. I can’t talk.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and Torrie hoped he wasn’t going to say you—or his Friday outing with her was going down the drain.

  Instead, he merely said in his low and sensual voice, “You know you have dirt on your face, don’t you?”

  Torrie hung up on him.

  ****

  A half hour later, Torrie pulled into her sister’s driveway, just outside Hickory Valley. Elsa lived with her husband, Neil, in a renovated farmhouse with enough land for a few alpacas for producing yarn.

  Torrie spied Iris flying high into the air on a swing set along with Elsa’s two boys. The little girl came tearing across the yard to meet her, and Torrie was barely able to get out of the van before Iris flew into her arms.

  Many nights Torrie lay awake and wondered how she could ever repay her sister, who had taken in the little girl as an infant and made her part of her family, so Torrie could work and not worry about babysitters—another cost she could hardly afford. Torrie considered herself fortunate she could see Iris every Wednesday on her day off, and then pick her up for the weekend. Adaptable for a child her age, but quiet and demure, Iris had settled nicely into a schedule of being beside her when she worked on Saturdays at the landscape center. All day Sunday was strictly theirs to enjoy before she drove her back to Elsa’s in the evening. Only close family members knew how hard Torrie was working to scrape together enough money to get a bigger apartment so Iris could stay with her in town and start first grade in the fall.

  Iris slipped out of her mother’s arm. She was a small girl and had the same aquamarine eyes and white-blonde hair as her mother. “Mommy, Aunt Elsa said she’d bake cookies with me later this afternoon. Swedish angels crisps. It’s an old, old recipe of Great Grandmother Larson’s.”

  Torrie stomach churned with guilt and frustration. She should be the one making cookies with her child. She pasted on one of her false smiles she had perfected over the last few years. “Wonderful, honey. Aunt Elsa is a terrific baker. Her cookies are the best.”

  The little girl nodded. With her tiny hand in Torrie’s, Iris pulled her across the yard to the house with the boys tagging behind. When they entered the kitchen, Elsa turned from mixing ingredients in a bowl at the counter. “I was wondering when you would arrive. I just baked a coconut cake with pineapple filling and toasted coconut frosting. Let me finish this cookie batter and put it in the refrigerator. It’ll keep.” She turned to the children looking at her expectantly. “We’re having grapes for our snack this afternoon and you can take them outside to eat while I talk to Aunt Torrie for a few minutes.” Obediently, all three waited as she handed them each a small plastic bag of grapes and a juice box. Amid a noisy discussion of who had the most, they headed out to the picnic table on the lawn to count and eat the contents in their bags.

  “I don
’t know how you do it,” Torrie said. “All these kids and still you find time to bake and sew, raise alpacas, weave, and keep everyone happy as well.”

  Elsa laughed. “I bake and sew and keep house. Keep everyone happy? Not my job! Wait five minutes until they all start quibbling, and you’ll see how happiness flows through this house.” She tapped the spoon on the bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. “Finn stopped by earlier today. He says the landscape center is doing so much better for early summer than it did last year.”

  “It is. And we are mowing more lawns and selling twice the shrubs and flowers as last summer.”

  “How’s the floral arranging?”

  “It’s starting to surge.” Torrie frowned. She thought of the five notes lying on her passenger seat. Five orders in one day were encouraging. Word of mouth was beginning to bolster sales along with her website. “But it looks like Rich Redman is here to sell Gertie Redman’s house and all my fresh local flowers will have to be uprooted and replanted, unless I can convince him to let me rent the portion of land where they’re growing. I could lose a lot of healthy stock, and the vintage roses are in a precarious position with new grafts on some of them.”

  Elsa set two plates on the table. “That’s not good. You and Gertie spent a tremendous amount of time working with those roses.” She proceeded to cut them each a slice of cake. “Have you talked to him about it?”

  Torrie’s mind flitted back to their conversation on the porch and the innocent kiss he planted on her forehead. The man was an enigma. She couldn’t quite read him. In control, was all she could think, and how glorious he smelled. How gorgeous and sexy he always appeared.

  “Just briefly.” Torrie picked at the cake with her fork. “And that’s another problem. I tried to explain why I don’t date, but he wants to take me out to dinner Friday night as friends.”