High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

“No,” Bryant said. “I want to show you something.” He pulled out a small box. “This is Gabriella’s engagement ring. I’m going to give it to her before the party.”

  Though it wasn’t official, everyone knew Bryant and Emile’s sister, Gabriella, were planning to get married. They hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it until after Emile and Amy’s wedding.

  “Why did you bring that ring on this road trip?”

  Bryant opened the box and looked at the ring. “I don’t know. I just picked it up yesterday. I barely had a chance to look at it before Gabriella got home. And she drove me to the rink this morning to get on the bus. I just wanted to look at it some more.”

  Gabriella had spent the night with him. Lucky guy. “Aren’t you afraid you might lose it?”

  “Trust me, I am not going to lose this ring.” He handed it to Jarrett.

  Jarrett didn’t know much about rings, but it was nice—and a lot more tasteful than the ring Emile had given Amy, which looked like a stoplight. But this one had a rectangle diamond that was probably big enough to cover her finger all the way to her knuckle. It was framed with smaller diamonds and had still smaller diamonds set into the gold band.

  “Since Gabriella is so tall and beautiful, I thought she could carry off a big ring, but I didn’t want it to be over the top.”

  “It’s nice.” Jarrett handed it back to him. “Did she pick it out?”

  Bryant shook his head. “No. She wanted me to. I was nervous about it because I wanted her to like it, but once I got into it, it was a good thing. I liked thinking about what she’d like and doing it for her. Neyland Beauford is a jewelry maker. I told her what I had in mind and she designed it. It’s one of a kind.”

  One of a kind. He liked the thought of that. “Hey, let me see that again.”

  “Sure.” He handed the ring back to Jarrett.

  A ring. Too soon, of course. She’d think he was crazy. But wasn’t this what he’d always wanted? Wasn’t this where it was headed? It wouldn’t hurt to consider a ring. And now that he had looked at this one in a different light, he could see that it was very finely made.

  “Neyland almost has the bands finished. I got two, one to go on either side. They fit up under the stone and are set with little diamonds. I’m going to Beauford next week to pick them up.”

  That piqued Jarrett’s attention. “Really? Can I go with you?”

  Bryant frowned a little. “Sure. If you’d like.” Then he frowned some more. “Jarrett, you aren’t thinking of buying this girl a ring are you? After a week?”

  “No, no. Of course not. I read about Neyland Beauford’s studio in Garden & Gun. It sounded interesting. I’d like to see it.”

  “Sure.” Bryant rolled to his side away from Jarrett. “I’ll be glad for company. We should nap.”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly, he had a good idea. He reached for his phone. “I just need to send a couple of emails first.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The flowers arrived as soon as Foolscap and Vellum opened—pink roses in a crystal vase. Merry set them at the end of the counter where they always put the flowers that Chelsea’s husband sent on her birthday or Harper’s guy of the moment sent for whatever reason. This was the first time the flower spot was occupied by flowers for Merry.

  “Two dozen. Somebody really likes you,” Chelsea said. “Or else someone has done something really bad.”

  “I don’t think he does bad things,” Harper said. “They call him The Saint.”

  “Everybody does bad things, I don’t care how saintly they are,” Chelsea said. “Look at David.”

  “David who?” Harper asked.

  “King David, Harper.” Chelsea said. “As in David and Bathsheba. The psalmist.”

  “Oh, him,” Harper said. “I thought you might have been talking about a modern day David do-gooder.”

  Merry ran her finger over the silky petals. She’d gotten flowers before, but not for a long time and never this many.

  “Look at that vase!” Chelsea exclaimed. “I know that vase. It’s Lismore by Waterford.”

  “How do you even know that?” Harper asked.

  “I worked in the bridal department at Briley Jewelry before I opened this shop. I know crystal. He went to some trouble. That vase was not kicking around in the back of the florist shop.”

  “What does the card say?” Harper asked.

  The card? Merry had not looked at the card. She had assumed that Jarrett had sent the roses, but maybe he hadn’t. She couldn’t think who else might send her such extravagant flowers, especially if Chelsea was right about the vase. But maybe Chelsea was mistaken and the vase was just a look-alike. If that were the case, the flowers could be from anyone—her parents, though that didn’t seem likely since there was no occasion; Mark James from civil procedures, who she’d gotten through the final; maybe even the Beaufords as a thank you for their night at the hockey game, though unlikely since they had tipped so well.

  The thought of any of those people sending the flowers made her heart sink.

  She ripped into the card and scanned for his name before reading the message. Finding it shouldn’t have made her so happy, but there it was.

  Harper reached for the card. “Let me have that.”

  Merry held it over her head. “Back off.”

  “Yes, Harper,” Chelsea said. “Back off.” Then she turned to Merry. “What does he say?”

  Merry took a step back and read silently. “Okay. He says, ‘Don’t make lunch plans. Jarrett.’”

  “No love?” Chelsea asked.

  “I think the roses say it well enough,” Harper said. “Plus that four-thousand dollar vase.”

  “Not that much,” Chelsea said. “Not nearly. But enough.”

  Merry didn’t even wonder how much the vase had cost—didn’t care. How much didn’t matter, because there was very little limit to what Jarrett could afford to buy. What mattered was the trouble he’d taken to make it happen.

  “So it seems like somebody has a lunch date,” Harper said. “I wonder where he’ll take you.”

  “Now that you mention it, that’s interesting,” Merry said. “He’s in Chicago. They play the Blackhawks tonight.”

  “Then it doesn’t make any sense,” Chelsea said. “Unless he meant just that: don’t make plans for lunch.”

  And the three of them laughed together until the bell on the door signaled that they had a customer.

  “What a happy place,” the attractive blond woman said. “Laughter. Pink roses. I’m in the right place.” She was dressed like New York and sounded like old money, uptown, ball gown West Nashville.

  “What can we do for you today?” Chelsea asked.

  “My little girl has a birthday coming up. She wants a ballerina party. I need everything—invitations, favor bags, banners, napkins, plates—probably things I haven’t even thought of.” She glanced at the roses. “I’m hoping for just that shade of pink.”

  “Let me!” Merry said. It had sounded like a typical, boring order until the woman said she wanted to match the flowers. Suddenly, there was nothing Merry wanted to do more than go on a treasure hunt looking for things that matched her roses. “I’m Merry Sweet.” She offered her hand. “We’ll get you fixed up with everything you need.”

  The woman smiled and took Merry’s hand. “Carson Hamilton-Knox.” Merry immediately found herself wanting to please her. That didn’t happen very often.

  “Would you like some coffee, Carson?” Chelsea asked.

  “No thank you, but if you have some herbal tea, that would be great. Some kind of citrus spice, maybe?”

  “We have a lovely lemon ginger.”

  “Perfect.”

  Perfect was a fabulous word, and one Merry didn’t let herself indulge in very often, but why not, even if it was just for a little while? She’d had a wonderful date the night before, mentally beaten the hell out of a man who badly needed it this morning, and gotten roses to boot.

  It became clear that Carson
Hamilton-Knox was willing to spare no expense for the party, and it was easy for Merry to get into the spirit of things. After they knocked out the tutu-shaped invitations, pink tulle-trimmed favor bags, five happy birthday banners, matching pink striped plates and napkins, pink cake stand, twenty-eight tot-sized tutus, and a ballet shoe-shaped piñata, they proceeded to fill the favor bags—bubble wands, tiaras, unicorn socks, ballerina night-lights, pink hair ribbons, parasols, sunglasses, and bubblegum-flavored lip balm.

  “Would you like this delivered?” Chelsea asked. They didn’t usually deliver, but for an order this large, Chelsea sometimes offered. Or maybe she just wanted to please Carson, too.

  “No,” Carson said, handing over her credit card. “I won’t ask you do that. But if you would be kind enough to package it up and set it aside, I can have someone pick it up. Would in the morning be all right?”

  “Certainly,” Chelsea said.

  “I can’t thank you all enough.” As Carson approached the door to leave, the little silver bell rang and a man in a chef’s jacket stepped in carrying two large vinyl carryalls.

  “Hello,” Chelsea said. “Can we help you?”

  “Delivery from the Butter Factory for you ladies,” he said.

  “Well as I live and breathe,” Carson said. “If it’s not Kit, king of the compound butter.” She had an amused, but puzzled, air about her now.

  He glanced her way. “Hello there, Carson. How are things at Twang Magazine?”

  Twang was the bible of the country music scene, and Carson must be connected with it in some way—a big way, Merry suspected.

  “Twanging along, but if we were depending on you to supply our sustenance, we’d be starving.”

  He laughed. “I told you, Carson, I don’t cater lunches—even for you.”

  She looked pointedly at his carryalls. “This shop is certainly charming and these ladies are wonderful, but tell me, Kit, what has Foolscap and Vellum got that Twang doesn’t?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes someone makes you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  As Carson looked around the shop, Merry could see the wheels turning.

  “Ah!” Carson trained her eyes on Chelsea, shifted them to Harper, and finally let them settle on Merry. She looked like a cat who was about to get some cream. “Kit, who made you that offer? I know Marlon Brando isn’t in town unless he’s spooking around in non-corporeal form. And you don’t strike me as the kind to be afraid of a ghost. You only care about money.”

  He laughed. “Life in the restaurant business is tough. And you know I’m not going to divulge the identity of a customer, Carson.”

  She nodded and looked straight at Merry. “Who got the roses?” Merry didn’t know why she even asked when she clearly already knew.

  “I did,” Merry said just as Chelsea poked her in the ribs.

  “Who are you dating, darling?” Carson’s tone and smile were so charming, so sweet—almost like a big sister who wanted to share in rejoicing over her good fortune. Merry nearly wanted to tell her—and maybe she would have if there had been anything to tell.

  “I don’t know if you’d call it dating—not yet.” Maybe never.

  “Is it Chase Callahan? I have it on good authority he’s seeing someone, but he isn’t telling,” Carson said.

  “Who’s Chase Callahan?” Merry asked.

  “Oh, good grief,” Harper said. Merry was amazed she’d been quiet this long. “Chase Callahan is the all that, hot new thing. He plays bass and sings backup for Jackson Beauford, but he just had a number one solo release of his own. ‘By Heart, I Swear.’ You’ve heard it.”

  “Well, thank you for that music lesson, Harper,” Chelsea said. “Why don’t you show this kind gentleman to the break room?”

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” Carson said.

  “Come in one night next week, Carson,” Kit said. “Bring Baxter. I’ll put you at the chef’s table and it’s on me—even if it bankrupts me.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Any chance you’ll call me and tell me when someone interesting will also be at the chef’s table?”

  He laughed. “You keep asking and I keep answering. And the answer is always the same.”

  “Thank you, ladies,” Carson said over her shoulder. “You’ll see me again.”

  “Carson’s a sweetheart first and a reporter second,” Kit said. “Which one of you is Merry?”

  “I am.”

  As he followed Harper, Kit said over his shoulder to Merry, “You don’t have anything to worry about. Carson thinks a musician sent this food. She has no interest in hockey players.”

  He set the dishes out on the table that Chelsea had hurriedly cleared of boxes of cereal bars, paper napkins, and plastic cutlery from the ghosts of takeout past. “He didn’t know what everyone liked, so he left it to me. I brought a variety—scallops, chicken, and beef tenderloin with a selection of butters. There are some assorted sides—sweet potato puree, braised spinach with pine nuts, and squash and goat cheese gratin. I refused to bring bread, because the quality would have suffered in the transporting. He didn’t want salad.”

  That made Merry smile. She waited for Kit to expound on where the chicken had been hatched and the goat milked for the cheese, but maybe that was something he only made his waitstaff do.

  “I hope you ladies enjoy.” He put his hands together and then reached into his jacket pocket and handed Merry an envelope. “There’s a note.”

  It said, “Hope you and your coworkers enjoy. Save room for dessert. Jarrett.”

  And they did enjoy.

  “If you don’t marry him, I will,” Harper said, licking the last bit of gratin off her fork.

  “I don’t believe anyone has said anything about anyone getting married,” Merry said. “Besides, you’d have a better chance of getting this food on a regular basis by marrying the chef.

  “It’s not the food.” Harper sighed; she actually sighed. “It’s the romance.”

  Chelsea nodded. “As divine as the scallops were, this is old-fashioned courting at its best.”

  “Or someone with a cell phone and a credit card,” Merry said, but she knew what they meant, felt it in her soul. Sometimes the ride in the carriage smoothed out a bit.

  As she spent the afternoon counting rolls of ribbons and bullet journals for the year-end inventory, Merry tried not to think about it, tried not to be excited about what the next surprise would be.

  “I bet it will be some colossal, decadent chocolate something,” Harper said. “And I hope there’s enough for me.”

  Merry said nothing, but she knew it wouldn’t be chocolate—though there would be enough to share with Chelsea and Harper, because Jarrett was considerate. He might be the most considerate person she’d ever known.

  She was right. When the cupcakes arrived midafternoon, there wasn’t a chocolate one among them, but there were fourteen, two of each flavor.

  “What an odd choice of flavors,” Chelsea said. “Coffee, caramel, maple, butterscotch, lemon, orange, and almond. I wonder how he came up with that.”

  But Merry didn’t have to wonder. These were the flavors she’d told him were her favorites.

  She read the note silently. “Sweets for a sweet girl. Two goals tonight. They’ll have your name on them. I will call you after the game. Jarrett.”

  For the first time since moving to Nashville, she was sorry she didn’t have a television, and she wondered briefly if she could watch the game on her computer.

  “So what does it say?” Harper tried to peep at it over Merry’s shoulder.

  “Oh, not much.” She folded the note and put it in her pocket with the previous two. “Come on. If you help me, we can get these Le Pens counted before we close.”

  Harper groaned. “Le Pens! They are the worst.”

  After the shop closed, Merry pondered it all as she walked home in the near darkness. No doubt about it; all the attention had turned her head. How had she gotten so caught up in all this so fast?

&nb
sp; She was about to turn the corner when she caught sight of The Big Skate across the way. Might as well face it, she wanted to see that game, although she didn’t know anything about hockey. She hardly knew anything about Jarrett.

  But wait. Was that true? He was honest, considerate, and he loved his family. He liked to eat and he could mix drinks like a magician. He was kind. He could kiss like no one she’d ever kissed.

  And he seemed to truly like her—enough that he’d promised her two goals.

  The Big Skate was the Sound’s hangout. They would certainly have the game on. Would she be allowed to sit in the bar and watch the whole game? Surely so. That’s what sports bars were for. But without drinking? She wasn’t in the least hungry, but she could order food and explain to her waitress that she didn’t drink, but she would tip as if she did.

  She walked up to the door and then hesitated. Would the place be full of wives and girlfriends watching the game? Probably not. If they were going to congregate, they would probably do it at one of their homes.

  She went inside and went straight to the bar.

  Chapter Twelve

  4-3 win over the Blackhawks and two of those goals had been Jarrett’s. The last one had come in the final five seconds of the game, saving the team from overtime and saving himself from failing to deliver what he’d promised.

  After celebrating with the team at center ice, Jarrett skated off to find Packi waiting for him. “Gloves, helmet, stick,” Packi said, taking the items from Jarrett. He handed him a towel, a bottle of water, and his phone.

  “How did you know I wanted my phone?”

  Pack shrugged. “Kelton’s headed for you.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was talk to a sideline reporter right now. He wanted to call Merry and tell her he’d gotten the promised goals, because she wouldn’t know. Maybe she’d let him buy her a television.

  But Kelton Reeves was advancing on him, microphone in hand. “Kelton Reeves here at the United Center with The Saint.” One day Jarrett was going to break and scream at the universe to stop calling him that. But today was not that day. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with us tonight, Jarrett.” At least Kelton hadn’t addressed him as Saint.