Hope Springs on Main Street

by Olivia Miles

  Henry blinked, then chuckled under his breath.

  Jane was in the hall when he came through the doorway; no doubt she had been listening the entire time.

  “Don’t say a word about my singing abilities,” he warned, wagging a playful finger at her.

  “Actually I was just going to say you did a great job. You’ll make an excellent father one day.” Her eyes flashed with amusement, but Henry felt his zest for banter fade.

  There would be no children in his future, and no wife either.

  And it was time to remember that and get the hell out of this house before he ended up making a bigger mess of Jane’s already complicated life.

  “I should get going,” he said, when she came back downstairs.

  He looked away when Jane’s brow crinkled. “Oh. Okay.”

  He strode purposefully to the living room, took his mug, and brought it to the sink in the kitchen.

  “You don’t need to help clean up,” Jane said softly. She struggled to meet his eye as she hovered within arm’s reach, so close he could kiss her again if he wanted to do, and God, did he. Her lips were red and full and her eyes a notch brighter than they’d been just minutes before, and all at once, Henry knew that something had shifted. They’d gone from a warm friendship to something more. Something dangerous.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said tightly, managing a smile as he move through the kitchen, his mind beginning to race. He’d crossed a line, lost control for a moment there.

  He hesitated at the door as he slipped on his coat, wanting to say something that would take away the questions in her gaze, but wanting even more to kiss the frown from her mouth.

  He stiffened. What good would that do for either of them? He could tempt himself, live the fantasy he’d longed for all his life, or he could turn his back, march outside and get back to reality. Move forward, no looking back, that’s what he did best. It had worked for him so far, no reason to mess things up now.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Ivy closed the door on her apartment and hurried down the back steps to her shop. Her leg was sore from the injection, but she still felt better than she had in weeks. Not that she’d be admitting this to Henry. He worried too much. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to burden him, though now that she had, she was happy he was back in town.

  Now, if only she could get him to stay…

  Grace was standing outside the shop, peering in the windows, as Ivy came into the storefront. She hurried to the door, unlocked it, and let her friend in.

  “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” She shivered against the biting October wind. “I just ran upstairs to… grab something to eat.”

  “I just got here, actually.” Grace’s green eyes sparkled as she rubbed her hands together. “So, is it ready?”

  Ivy pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly. She’d spent most of the afternoon working on the sample centerpiece for Grace and Luke’s wedding. Given how wishy-washy Grace had been about what she was looking for, Ivy could only hope she liked the result, or at least gave a clear direction on what she didn’t like about it.

  “It’s in the back room. I’ll go get it.”

  She hurried away, worrying her bottom lip as she questioned her design. She’d taken liberties—something she tried never to do—but honestly, the situation called for it. Her sanity called for it. Most of the flowers Grace liked didn’t go well together, and Ivy knew Grace’s style well enough to know what would really make her happy. She hoped so, at least.

  The phone rang as she made some last-minute adjustments to the arrangement. “Petals on Main,” she answered hurriedly from the office phone. She wedged the receiver into the crook of her neck and tucked a rose stem deeper into the round mercury glass vase.

  The woman on the other line began explaining her situation—florist fell through, last-minute wedding, Forest Ridge Country Club, a week from Saturday… Ivy scribbled the information down, but her hand stopped when the woman introduced herself. It was Kristy Richardson. The other woman.

  Grace had mentioned that Adam was getting remarried soon. Ivy just hadn’t realized it would be this soon. No wonder Jane had looked so upset the other day.

  Ivy closed the door a crack. Even though Grace wouldn’t know who she talking to, she felt suddenly sneaky and disloyal. Jane had been like a kid sister to her growing up, and still was in many ways. How could she show support to the people who had caused her friend so much pain?

  “I’m sorry, but I’m unfortunately all tied up for that date,” she fibbed.

  “I’ll pay you double,” Kristy offered. “Please, I’m desperate.”

  Double? Ivy’s heart skipped a beat at the thought, but no. She wasn’t going to sell her soul or lose a friend over a paycheck. Once the house sold, her situation would be better anyway. She just had to hold on for a few months.

  “I have a friend who’s an event planner. I’ll send them all your business. I happen to know she has four big holiday events coming up and is looking for a florist.”

  Ivy frowned. Kristy didn’t back down easily, but then, was this surprising? She’d swept in on a married man. A married father. “I’m sorry, but perhaps your event planner friend could help you find another florist.”

  “They’re all booked. And I’ve heard you’re the best in a fifty-mile radius.”

  There were only about half a dozen florists in a fifty-mile radius, but nevertheless, Ivy sat a little straighter.

  She checked herself. The woman was a sweet talker. And a bride. And Ivy didn’t like working with brides, especially ones who stole her friends’ husbands!

  “I’m sorry but—”

  “Triple. I know exactly what I want. Sahara roses and red berries. Very simple.”

  Ivy considered this. That was a very simple arrangement. And for triple her usual fee…

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her chin, “But I’m booked solid through Thanksgiving.”

  She disconnected the phone with a sigh. She’d allow herself to think about the income for thirty seconds, and then she would banish it from her mind. It was dirty money, she told herself, bad friend money, and she would have felt terrible taking it.

  Henry was generous and willing to help, and if things got too tight, she’d just have to take him up on his offer. She’d like to avoid that, though. He’d given her too much for too long. It was why she insisted on covering the arrangements herself, even when she’d hoped to use that money to get a bigger apartment. Why she’d insisted on staying in town, even when Henry begged her to leave. Henry’s shift had lasted twenty-three long years. He shouldn’t have to shoulder everything himself.

  Of course Henry didn’t even know the half of how bad things really were, financially speaking. If he did… Well, she didn’t even want to think about what he’d do. Probably shut the whole place down. Probably wire the bulk of his savings straight to her doctor, setting up some payment plan to make sure she was taking care of herself.

  She was taking care of herself. She knew her body, and besides, she’d gotten by on a reduced insulin schedule for a while. If she could just monitor her blood sugar for a few more weeks, until that house sold…

  Ivy picked up Grace’s sample and sailed into the storefront, holding her breath. Grace’s eyes went wide when she saw the colorful display of lilies, tulips, roses, and berries that burst from the antique vase. Ivy set the heavy arrangement on the table and stared at her friend expectantly, waiting for her to say something, and hoping, hoping so much it hurt, that she was pleased. It had been Ivy’s idea to tuck in the creamy roses for a touch of elegance, and the Queen Anne’s lace as filler. This was her best friend’s wedding—a day they had dreamed of since they were little girls sitting in Grace’s pink bedroom, flipping through magazines or flopped down on her big, comfy bed, chatting and giggling long into the night. She wanted this day to be perfect for Grace.

  “What a
re these?” Grace asked, motioning to a small orange flower.

  “Button mums,” Ivy informed her. She raked her eyes over her friend’s face, bracing herself for a reaction.

  “I…” Grace inhaled and shook her head. “I love it. It’s perfect!” There were tears in her eyes when she locked Ivy’s gaze.

  “Really?” Ivy reached out and embraced her friend. “I wasn’t sure, since you hadn’t mentioned roses in a while, and the berries—”

  “I mean it, Ivy. It’s perfect. I know brides must be especially stressful clients, so thank you.”

  Ivy couldn’t stop herself from smiling. This was what she loved so much about her job—being able to brighten someone’s day. As much trouble as wedding orders could be, when they came together, she had to admit they were particularly worthwhile. Especially when it was your oldest friend’s special day.

  “Oh, well, maybe you’ve helped change my mind. Maybe I’ll start giving a little more input to brides and it will help things go smoother.” She glanced at the door to make sure they were alone. “You’ll never believe who just tried to hire me. Kristy.”

  Grace didn’t blink. “The nerve! You said no?”

  Ivy nodded, deciding not to mention the incentive Kristy was offering. “Of course. There’s no way I could do that to Jane!”

  Grace shook her head, scowling. “They just can’t leave her alone, lately. I know Briar Creek’s a small town, but a little consideration would be nice.”

  Ivy thought back on how Adam and Henry had dined at Rosemary and Thyme. She hoped her brother, at least, would be more sensitive going forward.

  “Is Henry going to the wedding?” Grace inquired, and Ivy tipped her head. She hadn’t even thought to ask, and now her stomach knotted with dread.

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “He’s over at the house today overseeing the painting of the old siding.”

  She frowned, thinking of how lost Jane had seemed the other day. There was a sadness in her eyes she hadn’t seen in nearly a year, and back then, Ivy hadn’t a clue what was going on. Jane liked to hide behind smiles.

  Ivy knew that look. She wore it herself too many times. Her entire life, it seemed, had been spent with her chin up, teeth bared, trying to focus on the beautiful things in life instead of the ugly ones.

  “I’m worried about Jane,” Ivy admitted.

  Grace looked up from the bouquet she was still admiring, startled. “Jane? Because of the wedding?”

  Ivy shook her head. “No… Well, yes, that, too. I’m not sure that’s what’s bothering her. I’ve always gotten the impression she was over Adam.”

  “I think it’s more about disappointment at this point,” Grace agreed. “He broke up their family and their life. She trusted him and he let her down. I think her feelings for him are much more negative than positive at this point. There’s certainly not any longing for reconciliation.”

  “She just seemed really sad the last time I saw her. Remember that day she stopped in when we were going over the flowers?”

  “She did seem a little distracted. She was the same way at the cake tasting.” Grace’s expression turned to one of worry. “You don’t think my wedding is upsetting her, do you? The timing is just terrible.”

  “Maybe that’s all it is,” Ivy said with a shrug, but she wasn’t entirely convinced. There was almost a look of fear in Jane’s eyes, and she’d left so quickly.

  “I’ll talk to her about it,” Grace said firmly. “I’ve tried before, but she can be stubborn. I think she’d be happier if she got out more. Dated. Had a little fun.” Her brow arched as she homed in on Ivy. “Speaking of…”

  “Oh,” Ivy laughed nervously under her breath. How could she think about dating right now when the only man she ever wanted was about to come back into her life, even if it was only for a night, and even if he might have a date on his arm?

  She balled a hand at her side. She couldn’t stand the suspense for another second.

  “Maybe there will be some single guys at your wedding. For Jane.” She added. Her chest began to pound as Grace mulled this.

  “Maybe a few, but I can’t say any of them are Jane’s type, unfortunately. She knows most of them anyway.”

  Ivy was nodding far more quickly than natural, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for Grace to just come out with it already. Who was coming alone? Who was coming with a date? And who, God forbid, would the date be? Some equally brilliant surgeon with a Barbie doll figure and a long list of degrees from Ivy League schools?

  Oh, who was she kidding? Brett Hastings had never given her the time of day. Why would he fall for her now? The town florist. He was off saving lives, and she was… Trying to save her own, she supposed sadly.

  Henry finished hauling the last of the boxes from the kitchen to the giant Dumpster they’d rented and heaved a sigh. Setting his hands on his hips, he stared at the old house, trying to see it from an impartial view, not one tainted with unhappy memories and years he could never get back. Ivy had told him to be sure not to toss anything worth keeping, but she’d already taken the few photo albums their grandmother had maintained and any other nostalgic items when their mother had died last summer. Now all that remained were old chipped dishes, stained and damaged furniture, and the remnants of a time he wanted to put permanently behind him.

  With one foot in front of the other, he forced himself back into the house through the creaking back door, which had half fallen off its hinges, and washed his hands under the kitchen tap. He dried them on his pants and turned, leaning back on the counter, to take in the room. The cupboards were cleared out, and the peeling vinyl floors had been ripped up to reveal a pine subfloor. Still, whoever bought this place would need a sharp imagination and a desire to make it their own. Henry could sink all his savings into a proper renovation, but that would take too much time, and it would be too much of an investment, financially and emotionally. He needed to get this place cleaned up and sold. He needed to see it changed. But he didn’t want to be the one changing it. The less energy he put into it, the better.

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his five o’clock shadow prickling under his palm, and then brought his fingers higher, tracing his cheekbone. They’d been standing here in the kitchen. He must have only been about twelve. His mom was cooking dinner, a rare change from their usual bowl of store-brand cereal, and he was helping, taking the trash out to the road, doing his best to stay out from underfoot, to keep things calm. He snuck a bottle in the bag, like he tried to do most weeks, unless she was down to just a few and it was too obvious. Then he diluted the clear stuff with water. Anything to keep things from getting too far out of control.

  He usually snuck out to the trash once it was dark, once she’d had a few and didn’t notice or care what he was up to, or if he was even home, but that night she was standing there, at the stove, and she turned right before he finished sliding the bottle of wine into the bag. She’d snatched it back with one hand, and slapped him across the face with the other. His grandmother’s ring, the one she always wore even though it was too big for her and the stone always slid around to her palm, sliced his cheek, and the cool, thin liquid spread fast.

  He’d said nothing, just marched to the sink to wash the cut clean; then he took out the trash, taking his time on the long walk back up the drive, staring wistfully at the warm glow emanating from the Browns’ house, wishing he could just run over and join them, but he couldn’t. Mrs. Brown would see his face, and there would be questions, and he didn’t want to have to answer them. Besides, he couldn’t leave Ivy alone with their mother when she was like this.

  When he came back into the house, the kitchen was empty. The frying pan of eggs was in the sink, facedown, and the burner was still going on the range. Henry flicked it off, grabbed some cereal and the jug of milk, and called out to his sister. When she asked what happened, he told her he’d slipped on the driveway.

  He closed his eyes now and then turned on his heel, letting th
e back door bounce against the frame as he hurried from the house. He nodded to the workers on his way to the car, and quickly slid inside and shut the door. He cranked the radio, attempting to drown out the sound and images, the memories he’d tried to forget.

  The lights were on in the Browns’ house, just like always, and before he had any time to reflect, he pulled the car out of his driveway and into theirs.

  Mrs. Brown answered the door with a smile full of surprise. “Henry! We were just sitting down to eat.”

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” he said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

  “Nonsense!” She was already ushering him inside. The smell of chicken stew wafted through the warm air, and he grinned to himself. “I was going to call and invite you over, but you seemed so busy up at the house, I thought I’d better let you keep working.” She led him back into the kitchen. “Roger, look who’s here! I swear, it’s like he could smell the stew and knew to stop by.”

  Mr. Brown laughed and stood and gave Henry a good hard handshake. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a little more lined than Henry recalled, but just as kind. Henry could still remember sitting at the table as the meal neared its end, while Roger and Adam planned to shoot hoops on the driveway until the sun went down, and later, when Roger paused at the door, looked at him squarely and said, “You coming or what?”

  He’d told himself if he ever had a son, he’d play ball with him like that.

  He stopped himself. There would be no son. Just like there would be no wife. He was a drifter, always hanging on the sidelines of other families’ comfortable routines. He knew better than to try to make one of his own again.

  The taste of Jane’s lips was still fresh. Almost as clear as the hurt in her eyes when he’d left so abruptly. He should call her, stop by the bookstore and explain himself. A woman like Jane didn’t need a guy like him. He had nothing to offer her.

  Mrs. Brown smiled as she brought the pot of stew to the table and encouraged him to take a seat. He chatted with Roger, about work and travel, and football season, trying to banish Jane from his thoughts and the guilt that was gnawing at him with each tick of that grandfather clock in the hall. Photos of Sophie in a ballet costume hung from the fridge by magnets, and he averted his gaze, standing instead to fetch the plates and help set the table.