by Lynn Rae
Emily tensed. She hadn’t meant to be provocative, only humorous. Thankfully, he breathed out a laugh and gave her an abashed expression. “As far as I know.”
“Good, that means we’ll all get along at our next meeting. Unless you’ve reconsidered participating?” Emily returned the white chrysanthemum to the tray of its fellows and picked up a butterscotch-hued one instead. Where she’d gotten the boldness to ask such questions she had no idea. Maybe it was the fertilizer fumes.
“No, not at all. I’ll be there, at least until Shelly gets better and can come in for them. She’s the history nut on the family tree. Dave and Roger are just interested in meddling in her pet project. They’ve all been one-upping each other since junior high.”
Emily brushed her fingers against the springy petals of the flowers and considered the man in front of her. Paul Ellison was in no way similar to Dave and Roger. The other two men were portly, noisy, and busy trying to outtalk each other. She’d also experienced that familiar crawling sensation as they’d evaluated her body throughout the meeting. The man standing next to her was quiet, intelligent, and didn’t let his eyes roam farther south than her chin. An altogether different sort.
“They had some native asters over in another aisle, if you want to compare.” Paul’s dark eyes met hers, and again she couldn’t look away. “What sort of garden do you have?”
“These aren’t for me. I don’t have room for more at my house. I’m trying to embellish the planters downtown. Some of the merchants have complained they’re not cheerful enough.”
Paul rocked back on his heels and nodded slowly. “I thought you were a marketing consultant. In addition to being a sculpture expert.”
Emily laughed. As if she knew anything about sculpture other than it was three-dimensional. “I’m not really an expert in anything. Turns out, I’m the person who makes sure everyone else is happy.”
“Is there a lot of job security in that?” Paul asked with apparent sincerity, and Emily couldn’t help another laugh. Yes, keeping people happy was a never-ending task. He stilled for a moment as if he was surprised she got his joke, but smiled soon after. It was a great smile, and she warmed to him.
He broke eye contact and peered at the plants surrounding them. “Maybe I can help you make them happy. There’s decorative kale and rudbeckia in them right now, isn’t there? And some sort of millet?”
Emily was impressed. He knew his plants. “Exactly right. There’s not a lot of room left, but ‘something cheerful’ was requested.” She pulled out her phone and brought up the picture she’d taken earlier. Paul leaned closer to look at the image, and she detected the faint scent of soap and male skin. A little tremor crept down her legs, and she chided herself for her silliness. He was handsome, intelligent, and therefore, almost certainly taken.
“Hmm. A chrysanthemum would work. So would some pansies.” He sounded doubtful.
Emily shook her head, equally unconvinced. She suddenly had a perverse desire to make the urns stranger-looking, as much the opposite of tulips as she could find. After all, Halloween was coming up. Glancing up and down the aisle, she hoped something interesting would capture her attention.
“You mentioned native asters?”
With a quick nod, Paul indicated the correct direction, and he relieved her of the pot of rejected chrysanthemum and expertly slid the brownish-orange flowers back into the appropriate tray. They walked around wet pallets and coiled watering hoses until they reached an end cap clustered with delicate-looking purple-flowered asters. The blooms didn’t have the Technicolor range of the asters she’d seen in the whiskey tubs at the entrance to the nursery. He pulled out a pot, and they both peered at a tall plant.
“Too leggy,” he announced and shoved the wispy plant back. “You need something fuller.”
“Something unusual,” Emily added, and Paul quirked an eyebrow at her.
“What happened to cheerful?”
“They can have cheerful in the spring with their pink-and-blue tulips.”
He quirked his lips and scanned the nursery. Most of the available plants had been pulled forward and there were big sections of unoccupied shelving. They’d just left chrysanthemums, the asters were out, and more kale wouldn’t do them any good.
“How about those?” Emily pointed at some fuzzy, reddish flowers falling over on themselves in long tails.
“Love Lies Bleeding?” Paul’s eyebrows crept up as he walked to the plants in question. Big heaps of green leaves interspersed with tapered scarlet flower clusters filled a section of shelves marked with a water-stained “clearance” sign.
“They’re pretty and sort of weird.” Emily stroked a furry flower, smiling as it tickled her skin.
“And only seventy-five cents.”
“Even better for the petty cash envelope.”
They grinned at each other like conspirators as they gathered up the available plants, counting as they went. There were just enough to go around, and both she and Paul balanced trays of the exuberant plants as they made their way to the checkout. The sleepy young man behind the counter sighed with the extra work of manually ringing up clearance plants but it produced a nice low total. Emily reached into her bag for the envelope of cash and made sure she got a receipt in return. Paul helped her squeeze the pots into battered cardboard trays and lugged an armful toward the door until the clerk stirred to life and called out.
“Hey, Mr. Ellison, you want those plants you brought up earlier?”
Paul stopped midstride and turned back to the young man. “I’ll be back for them in a minute.”
He courteously held the door open for her while managing not to drop any of the flowers, and she nodded thanks. They made their way to the car, and Emily had to clumsily set down her tray to retrieve her keys from her bag. Hands slick with water and mud from the pots, she dropped her fob on the ground and they both knelt to retrieve it. One of Paul’s trays slid out of his grip, and she caught it against her chest just in time. His hands collided with hers as they both supported the trembling plants. Smiling and shaking her head at the awkwardness of the situation, she glanced at Paul to find he was watching her with a distracted expression.
“Here, you hold this and let me go down for them,” she said, hoping her directions would work.
“Right. Okay.” He took control of the wayward tray as Emily knelt again and snatched her keys from the pavement. She rose and clicked open the trunk, leaning in to shove debris out of the way so she’d have room.
Paul loaded the plush Love Lies Bleeding without an inch to spare. She closed the trunk with a click and turned his way. How to handle this farewell?
“Thank you for your help, Paul.” There, that seemed perfectly all right. She held out her hand, and he took it in his warm grip. She felt that tremor again. It was just nerves, a faint worry at being out shopping in the middle of a workday and wondering if someone was going to gossip, being responsible for petty cash, and the residual stress from the meeting she’d just attended, that’s all. Her brother would be aghast she was wasting her potential running little errands like this.
“You’re welcome.” He took a breath and released her hand before propping his own on his narrow hips. “Who’s going to help you put all these in?”
“Angie, the mayor’s secretary, volunteered her son. He has to perform some community-service hours in order to graduate, and she figured the sooner, the better.”
Paul nodded. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it and a few silent beats passed. “Sounds like a plan. I guess I’ll see you next week at the meeting.”
“You will. It’s a job requirement.” She hoped he knew she was making a joke. He chuckled and waved goodbye as he ambled back to the entrance of the store. Emily watched him walk away, momentarily distracted by how easily he moved and then wondered what plants he was going to buy. Perhaps his wife wanted some of those gorgeous Teddy Bear Sunflowers she’d seen near the cash register.
As he unloade
d all the plants he didn’t need from the back of his truck and propped them up along his driveway, Paul berated himself for his behavior. He still couldn’t believe he’d almost asked Emily Fontaine out. He hadn’t known what or where, only that he hadn’t wanted to stop talking with her. It was ridiculous. She was too young, and he was too old. If he had suggested having a coffee, she probably would have blinked those big green eyes and excused herself as quickly as she could. Besides, he didn’t go out with anyone anyway.
He watered the aromatic asters and Green Wizard rudbeckia and wondered where in the garden he could fit them. Ever since he’d begun to transform his yard into a miniature prairie, he’d been unable to resist a plant or manage to make a plan for the landscape. Karen would have been amazed at his recklessness. His late wife had never been without willpower or control in all the years he’d known her. Perhaps that’s why she’d gotten along with his sister Shelly so well; they’d shared the urge to micromanage in equal degrees.
But Karen was gone, and in the evolution of his grief, he’d found himself digging up the lawn she’d insisted on mowing in precise chevrons, pulling out the boxwood she’d trimmed to geometric perfection, and adding native plants she would have considered weeds. Her yard had become his over the last four years, and he liked the untidy mess of it. For a moment, he wondered what Emily Fontaine would make of it, and what sort of plants she would have bought at the nursery if she’d been able to.
As he wedged a pot of asters in between some butterfly weed and a fading liatris, his phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket. He could have asked Emily for her number with the excuse he might want to contact her to talk about the statue. What a weak-sauce excuse. His daughter’s name on the display brought him out of his reverie, and he answered the call, wondering what the crisis was this time.
“Hi, Dad, are you home?” Courtney sounded rushed and high-pitched as usual.
“I am.”
“Great, I’ll be right there.”
Before he could ask why, she’d hung up. He sighed. With no idea of his daughter’s ETA, Paul realized he needed to stop puttering and go into the house to see if there was anything she might eat. Courtney was too thin; she’d always made a habit of refusing to eat, and it had only grown worse after her mother’s death. For a while in her teen years he worried she might have had an eating disorder, but Karen had scoffed and claimed Courtney was merely going through a growth spurt, so he left it alone.
He entered the sunroom that opened into the kitchen and kicked off his boots before he went any farther into the house. Fall-afternoon light streamed through the French windows and made the recycled chestnut floors of the kitchen gleam. He opened the refrigerator and saw leftover spaghetti, three beers, orange juice, a jar of pickles, and some questionable cold cuts. He’d offer to take her out for dinner.
He heard the front door rattle open and then the familiar rushed steps of Courtney as she headed for the kitchen.
“Hey there.” Paul greeted her with a hug. She gave in to the embrace with a long-suffering sigh and leaned away as she twisted her long brown hair over her shoulder. She was wearing ripped jean shorts and a stretched-out T-shirt that hung off her thin shoulders.
“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?” She wandered around the kitchen, running her fingers along the slate countertops and looking out the windows at the wild backyard.
Paul assured her he was doing well and offered to put together something for her to eat, which she declined with a shrug. “How about we go out for dinner? We haven’t had a meal together in weeks.”
“No time. I’ve got to get going.”
“Where? Are you showing a house?” Paul tried not to wince. He knew Courtney’s generation had a much more casual attitude toward business attire, but he couldn’t imagine too many people would have the confidence to write a check for a few hundred thousand dollars to a young woman who looked like she’d wandered in from the beach.
“No. Jordan has a gig in Centerville tonight.”
Ah, so it was back on with Jordan Prescott, part-time musician, full-time mooch. He fervently hoped she hadn’t let him move back in with her.
“Good for him. Is he playing with his friends or someone—”
“It’s really no big deal. Dad, I have to get going and was hoping to borrow the car for a couple of days.” Courtney turned her brown eyes, so much like her mother’s, on him. Here we go again. Paul stifled the surge of dismay. She was young and getting her footing in the adult world. The last thing she needed was for him to treat her like a child who had to be managed.
“What’s wrong with your car?” There, he didn’t sound accusatory at all, but Courtney still narrowed her eyes and pulled back from her spot against the counter next to him. He’d bought her a Prius two years ago, and if she’d totaled it…
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just forgot to get the tags and got pulled over yesterday, so I don’t want to drive it anywhere right now.”
He didn’t remind her that her birthday had been the month prior so she’d had plenty of time to get the registration corrected, or that the fees from the department of motor vehicles would have hardly put a dent in the check he’d given her then.
“How long will you need it?” He didn’t want to loan her the Tesla. He might want a nice car in the next few days. His truck was fine for errands, but if he wanted to go out to a quiet dinner with someone, the old Scout wouldn’t be very impressive.
“Jeez, I don’t know.” Courtney whirled away and pulled out her smartphone.
“I’ll need my car back soon.”
“Why? You have the truck.”
“I might want to drive something nicer.”
His daughter raised her chin and gave him a challenging stare. “How am I supposed to show a house to someone with no car? You like driving that weird, old truck.”
“That’s true, but I also like to drive the car. I need it back tomorrow.” He might run into Emily, and she might declare she was famished and he could escort her to lunch. Impress her with his amazing anecdotes about diodes and touchscreens.
“Fine, Dad,” she replied with a weary air.
Feeling mollified, Paul relented. “When are you going to pay for the tags and ticket?”
“Oh, yeah, about that…” Courtney had the grace to look away.
“How much do you need?”
After he handed over a couple hundred dollars, Courtney apparently considered her business concluded and sped out of the house after snagging the car keys off the rack by the door. Paul sighed out a few dissatisfied breaths and stared at the finch feeder in the backyard. It was covered with bright yellow birds whirling around and fussing at each other rather like his confused thoughts.
Chapter 2
Emily was glad she had her sunglasses. She stood on a narrow sidewalk in Dorchester, Indiana, staring at bronze sculpture of a bearded man on a rearing horse. The late afternoon sun felt like it was boring into her brain. She hoped it wouldn’t trigger a migraine, but in her sleep-deprived state, the odds weren’t in her favor. The last thing she needed to add to her trials was fighting off a killer headache after spending the last few hours with Dave Attlebee and Roger Morcross.
She’d been stuck in the backseat of Dave’s car for the forty-five-minute car ride over the state line, and their incessant jokes and sports talk had driven her almost over the edge. She longed for some earplugs or her iPod, but using either sound baffler would have been rude. She’d also found herself wishing Paul had been able to join them before they’d started out, but he’d said he’d meet them at the statue due to a previous commitment.
“This General Polhamus is a lot more impressive than our Ellison private, if you ask me.” Doug took a picture of the statue with a disposable camera he’d picked up at a drugstore on the way over. Both he and Dave had been delighted to stop and load up on junk food as if they were undertaking an epic road trip instead of a short jaunt. Emily had self-consciously followed them around the convenience store a
s they’d filled a basket with chips, pop, candy bars, a newspaper, and lottery tickets.
“Even with the extra helping of bird crap?” Roger shot back but stopped himself with a guilty glance Emily’s way.
“I just think of it as snow. Or what does the wife call it? Highlights?” Dave wandered along the small sidewalk that circled the monument’s pedestal. The whole structure was awkwardly placed in a wide spot where the north-south and east-west streets intersected. Cars and trucks blared past them, and the stench of exhaust made Emily feel slightly sick to her stomach. The traffic was so close, Emily wished she could hug the base of the monument for a little security.
“It seems like they haven’t done much work on it recently,” Emily said as she tried to get the men back on track. She’d already contacted the Dorchester municipal administration, and they’d stopped by before heading to the statue. The very polite woman who’d answered her list of questions had known little about the monument other than it was cast at the same Cincinnati foundry as Palmer’s, and it had supposedly been restored by an expert twenty years before. The administrative assistant had known the company was out of business, and none of their records were available. The three of them had marched over to the library at Emily’s suggestion to look for any records. They came out with a few copies of newspaper articles from its installation in 1911, and one gossip column covering the cleaning in 1993. Essentially, they’d driven over here to look at a dirty statue of a man they’d never heard of.
She sighed at the thought of the phone calls she needed to return, the flyers she had to lay out, and all the Sugar Beet Festival minutia she’d have to contend with once they returned to Palmer. At least she’d managed to phone Mrs. Volker and warn her about the changes to her planter designs before she’d started this futile field trip. She looked forward to retreating to the municipal building and hiding in her small office, which she suspected was a converted supply closet. The space was narrow, lined with shelves, and located close enough to the restroom she could hear more than she wanted any time it was occupied by a civil servant. The mayor probably thought it would suffice for the duration of Emily’s yearlong appointment.
