A Gentleman's Kiss Romance Collection

by Ginny Aiken

  A knock on the door startled all of them for a moment, then Tom leapt to his feet and rushed to the door. A cart of sweets was pushed into the room by a pleased-looking caterer. A giant chocolate cake was the centerpiece, flanked by an assortment of other little goodies. And there were special decorative candles, already on the cake.

  “Hey, this is too much.”

  The caterer was generously tipped in the background by Chad and disappeared back through the door.

  “No … actually, we had planned to have Melanie jump out of the cake,” Tom said, with mock seriousness, “but we couldn’t find the right size cake.”

  Everyone laughed uproariously while Julie reminded Dave that he had to make a wish and blow out the candles. All of them. Tom was dutifully lighting each candle, as though there were hundreds, instead of twenty-six.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” Dave laughed. “But this is the happiest birthday of my life,” he said and looked at Melanie.

  “Make your wish,” she reminded him.

  “That’s easy,” he said, his eyes lingering on her before he turned and with a great whoosh of breath blew out each candle. Ginny and Julie then set about serving the rich cake with a colorful mint and a fortune cookie tucked on each side of the delicate china plate.

  Everyone had fun reading their fortunes and debating whether there was anything to them or not. Julie staunchly believed in fortune cookies. Chad did not. Meanwhile, Ginny was busy in the kitchen.

  “Hey, knock it off,” she called. “I’m making Dave his special espresso.”

  With that Julie joined her in the kitchen and they began to load the dishwasher. “We’ve made reservations at The Globe for dinner at nine. But that gives you two a few hours together before dinner,” Tom began.

  “In privacy,” Julie called from the kitchen.

  Melanie glanced toward the kitchen and then said to Dave, “I really would like to help them clean up.”

  “Okay.”

  A couple of gifts had appeared out of nowhere for him: golf balls with engraved hand towels and a new desk set. Melanie decided to wait on hers.

  When the party began to wind down and the others had gathered up all the debris, thrown it away, and pushed the caterer’s cart into the kitchen, they made their excuses.

  “See you at The Globe,” Ginny smiled first at Melanie then Dave.

  “And don’t be too late,” Chad teased.

  At that precise moment, the bedroom door opened and the sound of accordion music, mostly out of sync, reverberated across the room, drawing everyone’s attention to Tom who was wearing a French beret and had an accordion strapped to his chest. He was doing his best to give an imitation of a French song, but everyone erupted in laughter, quickly offending him.

  “Thank you, Tom,” Melanie called out. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  He shrugged as Julie tugged at his sleeve while he removed the beret and placed the accordion on a chair. He started to go then turned back and looked at Melanie and Dave.

  “You were right,” he said to Dave. And they both understood the meaning, and strangely, Melanie did too.

  After the door had closed and the voices had died away down the hall, Melanie realized that someone had put on a romantic sound track from a favorite movie, which seemed perfect for the occasion.

  “You know what?” Dave said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing each finger.

  “What?” she asked softly, staring up into his eyes and feeling as though they were drifting on a cloud again.

  “We’re not in Paris,” he said slowly, “and I’m more in love with you than before.”

  Tears glowed in her eyes for a moment as the romantic words about two people falling in love forever echoed to her. “Me too.”

  They reached for one another and at last Melanie knew the meaning of being a complete woman, of knowing the wonder of romance.

  And she knew Granny was probably smiling down from her own special cloud.

  PEGGY DARTY

  Peggy Darty authored more than thirty novels before she passed away in 2011. She worked in film, researched for CBS, and taught in writing workshops around the country. She was a wife, mother, and grandmother who most recently made her home in Alabama.

  THE GARDEN PLOT

  by Rebecca Germany

  Dedicated

  … to my wonderful family—the families of

  Germany, Betts, Acheson, and Royer—a network of parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and more who have made my life complete.

  Thank you for carrying the torch of Christianity, demonstrating the walk to me and the generations to come.

  “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.

  See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.

  Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.

  The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.

  Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me.”

  SONG OF SOLOMON 2:10–13

  Chapter 1

  Few things have disturbed me more than watching my children and grandchildren move away from this town. It’s good to have you home, Dandy.”

  Debra Julian giggled like a young girl. It had been years since she had heard her grandmother use that nickname for her oldest grandchild. Debbie, as a toddler with arms full of the flowering dandelion weed, had earned the nickname in this very backyard and on just such a warm spring day.

  “Well, Gran, it is good to be home. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to unpack and get organized much the last couple of weeks while I’ve been learning my job,” Debbie said as she gently propelled the wicker porch swing for the two of them. “Walking the halls of Dover High School again sure makes me realize that I’m not a kid anymore. So many of the students are taller than me and only a few of my old teachers are still around after ten years, but the whole attitude is different. Each new class of teens is in such a hurry to grow up.”

  “Maybe your counseling will help them slow down. Have you been able to figure out the system?”

  “The school secretaries have been very helpful, but it is obvious they still grieve the loss of Mr. Knight. He was a well-liked middle-aged man and no one was prepared for such a sudden death. He had requested two weeks leave for his surgery, so some things were in good order.”

  “Just goes to show that no one knows when the Good Lord will call them home,” Grandma said with a soft, reverent tone.

  “Why does it seem that his loss was my gain just when I needed to find new work and make the major decision about moving back and buying your home?”

  “God’s timing is perfect timing,” Grandma almost sang. “He knows what each of us needs. Now, if your parents would only stay home for more than a week at a time they could enjoy having you back, too. But they—” Grandma suddenly stopped. She jumped to her skinny legs, waving her handkerchief at two dogs that were very interested in her flowering lilac bush. “Now scoot!” Soon the dogs ran into a neighboring yard. “Some of my best perennials have been ruined by those pesky strays,” Grandma huffed as she settled back onto the swing.

  “I’m surprised you never fenced in your yard, Gran. This corner lot is tempting for cross-through traffic.”

  “It’s just not the neighborly thing to do,” she crooned. “Besides, I don’t want to cut off the little view I have. If I had a fence, I wouldn’t be able to see Mr. Kelly’s pink crab apples in bloom or Myrna Yoder’s birdbath … and I may not have met my new neighbor.”

  “You could always use a see-through chain link or a low picket.” Debbie sighed and rose to go inside. “Don’t you think you ought to put your sweater on, Gran? The wind is picking up.”

  “Don’t you want to know who he is?”

  “Who?” Debbie paused with the back door open.

  “Oh, never mind, dear.” Grandma shook her gray head.

  Deb
bie soon returned with a soft white sweater and helped Grandma slip her frail arms inside.

  “Do you remember the Robillards?” Grandma asked.

  “Of course. They lived in this neighborhood as long as you and Grandpa.”

  “I sure hated to see them pass on … and so close together,” Grandma spoke softly as she picked at the balled wool on her sweater. “The house sold back in September.”

  “I’ve noticed the yard is looking very nice again.” Debbie looked across the backyard. The Robillards’ large Victorian home faced Sixth Street while Grandma’s house—now hers, too—sat on the corner of Sixth facing Maple Street with her backyard bordering the south side of the Robillard lot. She remembered that the Robillards were always good neighbors and friends to her grandparents. Good neighbors could be hard to find. Debbie only hoped that the property had sold to a friendly family. That house was made for a large, happy family, Debbie mused.

  “Debbie, girl, why don’t we put in a garden this year?” Grandma asked, bringing Debbie back to their conversation.

  “A garden, Gran?”

  “I always had a garden until about four years ago. It got to the point that I hurt too much to bend down and tend my plants.”

  “A vegetable garden?”

  “Why, yes. You’ll have the whole summer free to work on it.” Grandma paused. “Or, don’t guidance counselors get summers off like teachers do?”

  “Yes, Gran, I’ll have a few weeks free, until August, when I will be helping the cheerleaders train.”

  “Who needs to train to know how to jump around and shout?” Grandma muttered.

  Debbie just laughed and volunteered to fix them some lunch.

  The very next Saturday morning, the first in May, Grandma called from the bottom of the stairs and woke Debbie from her slumber, insisting that Debbie start breaking ground for the garden that day. After spending all but one evening of the past week helping her grandmother with various projects at home and at church, Debbie had anticipated Saturday as her catch-up day. She was beginning to understand one of the reasons why her parents enjoyed spending most of their retirement in Arizona. Grandma could be quite demanding, but Debbie loved being near family again, and she was happy to be in the position to buy Gran’s Cape Cod style home. Gran needed to be relieved of the responsibility and have someone around part of the time to avoid going into a retirement home. And Debbie loved this old house, full of sweet memories. It would at least make a good starter home for her while she waited for the right man to come knocking on the door of her heart.

  Debbie peaked out the dormer window to check the weather. Many yards in this small Ohio town showed signs of new life in the landscaping as well as the people who had come out to enjoy the warm spring day that promised even sweeter days to come. She left her laundry in sorted stacks around her bedroom and school files strewn across her tiny desk and headed downstairs.

  Debbie found Grandma in the living room, wrapped up in an afghan as she quilted.

  “Gran, don’t you feel like coming out and helping me plan the garden plot?” Debbie asked, suddenly concerned about her grandmother’s health. Grandma had just hit seventy-nine without having had any major health complications, unlike her long-deceased husband, but her family worried that arthritis and age were wearing Grandma down.

  “Oh, I better stay in out of the breeze today,” Grandma spoke slowly. “I know you will do fine without my direction.”

  Debbie didn’t know what to make of Grandma’s mood. She didn’t look ill, but Grandma usually didn’t miss a chance to be near the action. Still, Debbie decided it would be best to start the work.

  “Now, I don’t need to tell you how to operate a rotary tiller, but the old one in the shed will need a bit of oil and could take a few cranks to get going,” Gran instructed.

  “That’s all right, Gran.”

  “And … the garden is your project, but I would suggest that you go to the back of the lot, past the grape trellis, to start your digging. My other gardens were always right along the west side of the shed, and I’m afraid there wasn’t sufficient morning light there.”

  “Fine, Gran.” Debbie tried to head for the back door.

  “Now, I like rows that are no longer than about twelve feet, and there should be plenty of room between each, especially when it comes to cucumbers. I just hate it when those vines twine through my other plants. But you build it how you like it.”

  Debbie smiled and nodded.

  “About fertilizer. Did you buy the natural kind?” Grandma smiled sweetly. “You know … the kind from farms?”

  Debbie prayed silently for patience. “No, Gran.”

  “Well … it is your choice, but natural is always the best.”

  After a trip to a nursery for bags of natural fertilizer and a couple of tools, Debbie was finally ready to step off her garden plot. She would make it twelve feet wide and twenty-four feet in length, starting the length at Grandma’s grape arbor and working back toward a grove of evergreens near the neighbor’s yard, where the Robillards had always lived until they passed away and the house had gone up for sale. Debbie knew a bunch of rabbits were just waiting among those pines to eat her plants as soon as they sprouted, but there was no other spot big enough for the garden—except along the shed.

  Inside, the shed smelled like damp earth, the floor covered only by a thin layer of gravel. One whole wall was lined with shelves of flowerpots in every imaginable shape and size, while the opposite wall housed a collection of Ohio license plates that dated back to the late 1930s. Once, the building housed Debbie’s grandparents’ car before her grandfather had had a new garage built that connected to the house.

  She pulled an old rug off the tiller and tugged the machine out into the yard. It took more than a couple cranks, and a lot of tinkering on Debbie’s part, to get the old relic running, but eventually she directed the bouncing dirt digger to her garden spot.

  It required every ounce of her strength to keep the tiller moving in a straight line, but by noon she had dug up the whole garden. It would need to be gone over again to work out the clumps, but she stopped for a much-deserved rest, her hands numb from the strain and vibrations.

  Debbie slipped her dirty tennis shoes off on the porch and paused inside the kitchen door to watch as Grandma bustled around preparing tomato soup and sandwiches. She looked as happy and healthy as ever.

  “Are you feeling better, Gran?” Debbie asked as the porch door slammed behind her.

  Grandma jumped and gripped the counter. “Mercy, girl, you scared me. I was just getting ready to call you in. From what I can see from the window, you are making real progress out there.”

  Debbie washed up before joining Grandma at the old Formica table.

  “Let’s pray that God gives you a very successful afternoon,” Grandma insisted. And before long, she was shooing Debbie back outside to her project.

  Debbie went over half of the freshly turned garden again with the tiller before she had to stop and rest. The sun was shining directly down, and she wiped away a stream of perspiration as she tucked her long chestnut curls behind her ears. It would have been a good day to wear a ponytail. Her hands and arms ached from the tiller’s vibrations. She rolled her shoulders.

  “Hey!”

  Debbie spun around with a gasp, startled by the angry male voice.

  “It’s about time you turned off that antique and listened to me.”

  Debbie stared at a man of about thirty who wore old jeans and a polo shirt that were tailored to his athletic frame as if they had been a classic business suit.

  “I came out here to clean leaves from my flower beds,” he gestured widely with lean arms, “only to find you digging up my seed grass.”

  “I … uh,” Debbie had a hard time finding her voice as her cheeks flushed hot with her embarrassment. “There is no clearly marked property line. Did I get into your yard?” was all she could think to say.

  “I’d guess that at least half of your mess
is in my yard,” he grumbled. “Who gave you permission to dig here anyway?”

  “My grandmother assured me that this was the best spot for our garden,” Debbie said lamely, feeling like one of her scolded students. This handsome man stood at least a head taller than her and could have every right to be upset. Debbie detested her sudden lack of communication skills, and anger at herself and the situation began to rise. “Perhaps we should speak with her about the matter,” she gritted through clenched teeth.

  Without a word, the man followed Debbie across the backyard and up the porch steps, then waited as Debbie shed her dirt-caked shoes and went inside to find her grandma. She searched the whole house, upstairs and down, calling for Grandma. Debbie couldn’t find her anywhere and had to assume she walked to visit a neighbor, as she was often known to do. Debbie dreaded facing the grim neighbor again, but she straightened her shoulders and returned to the back porch.

  His back was to her as he leaned against a post. She had to admit that he was nice to look at but wondered how she would ever make a friend after such a poor start.

  Chapter 2

  A much relaxed face turned to greet Debbie. “You wouldn’t be little Dandy that Maxie speaks so fondly of, would you?”

  “Maxie?” Debbie’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “My grandmother is Maxine Julian. I’ve never heard anyone call her Maxie.”

  The man chuckled, transforming his whole face into a wide grin, and though it didn’t seem possible, he became even more handsome. “Mrs. Julian and I have become good friends since I moved in last September. You know, she makes the best apple crisp I have ever eaten. By the way, I’m Scott Robillard, the town’s newest optometrist. I bought my grandparents’ house. You may not remember, but I spent a few summers here.”

  Debbie looked closer at his masculine features and her face flamed. How could she not have recognized him? She was just fifteen and he was a “mature” seventeen-year-old who, along with a couple of his cousins, spent most of a summer with his grandparents. Debbie clearly recalled having spent her whole summer trying to gain his attention.