A Field of Poppies

by Sharon Sala

“Uh...”

  But Aaron was still riding the spotlight. “Yeah, I’ll bet that’s why he wrote her name in fireworks. She’s one woman you won’t want to cross, and if you don’t believe me, Frankie and JoJo will tell you. In fact, I heard they’ve not only given up huffing, but they quit their graffiti tagging altogether. Frankie’s still walking bowlegged and JoJo’s nose healed leaning toward his right ear.”

  That set off a roar of delight that made everyone laugh. Even Poppy started to grin.

  “Jesus Christ, Poppy. What did you do?” Mike asked.

  She shrugged, as if it was no big deal.

  “Oh, two worthless stoners decided to entertain themselves by writing rich bitch across the front of my house in red paint. I made them sorry.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “You went after two men by yourself? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Honestly? It never occurred to me. I grew up here, Mike. I’m as tough as they are.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Aaron said. “She had both of them on the floor begging for mercy and Millwood threatening to call the cops. It took all I had to pull her off.”

  Poppy waited. Either Mike was going to be horrified, or it would be okay.

  All of a sudden he grabbed her hand and held it high. “The winner and new Coal Town champion in a double TKO is Poppy ‘the ball-breaker’ Sadler.”

  Poppy grinned. This time when they laughed, it no longer mattered. The only secret she’d kept from him was finally out in the open and he was laughing.

  She took the teasing in good fun, but when no one else was watching, looked across the river to the house on the hill. The walls between them kept coming down. Even if she could, she was no longer certain that she would stop them.

  ****

  Two days later

  The sun wasn’t yet a full hour old, but already hot and promising to get hotter. Mike had already left for work. She’d traded days with another waitress, so having a day off in the middle of the week was unusual. She had a dozen things planned and was up early and already busy cleaning house. Johnny was coming by in a couple of days and she also wanted to do some baking before the day got too hot.

  She’d dressed in an old pair of jeans and a tank top, pulled her hair up off her neck in a ponytail, and was looking all over the house for her other tennis shoe when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey honey. It’s me.”

  “Hi Mike, what’s up?”

  “Go down to the river.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.”

  “You know I don’t like surprises. What is it?”

  “He keeps telling you in every way he knows how that you matter. Pay attention, woman. This is why your mother loved him.”

  “Mike, what-“

  The line went dead.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she muttered. “Whatever. I still have to find my other tennis shoe.”

  She finally found it under the edge of the sofa, then locked the house and headed toward the river on foot. There were only three blocks between her street and the riverbank so it wouldn’t take all that long to get there, but her steps were dragging. She knew exactly who Mike had been talking about but wasn’t in the mood for more fireworks.

  A dog barked at her from inside a fence as she walked past an empty lot, then continued to bark and was still barking when she finally reached Front Street, which ran the length of the Little Man. The closer she got to the river, the more anxious she became, wondering what embarrassing stunt he was about to pull now.

  There was that cheap little paper flower he’d worn all winter on his expensive designer suits until it had fallen apart. He’d turned the hill overlooking the Little Man into a marquee with her name lights. All she could think was, what next?

  Then she turned the last corner and the sight was so startling that she stumbled. The entire north bank of the river had exploded into a waving cascade of red. Whatever he’d planted had burst into bloom, but she couldn’t think what it meant. It was beautiful – so beautiful it made her eyes burn, but why did this prove he loved her?

  An old woman coming from the other direction saw Poppy’s expression and took the opportunity to strike up a conversation.

  “Ain’t that somethin?”

  Tears were welling, but she managed to nod.

  “Them’s poppies, you know. My mammy used to grow them, but nothing like that. I never seen a whole field of poppies before. Someone went to a mess of trouble to grow it up that purty.”

  Poppy grunted as if she’d been punched in the gut. When she could breathe without thinking she was going to pass out, her gaze went from the riverbank to the top floor of the Caulfield Building rising above it. When she realized there was a man standing at the windows, the hair rose on the back of her neck.

  It was him!

  He might have been waiting to see her reaction, but she was too stunned to think beyond what this meant - a field of poppies stretching all the way from the bridge over the Little Man to the east bend in the river. A field of poppies too beautiful too ignore, announcing her place in his life in a way only she could understand.

  The sun was in her eyes and then so were tears as the poppies blurred and melted into the river. Her chest was burning, like she’d been holding her breath forever, and when she finally exhaled, the last of her anger went with it.

  He had never denied her. Not from the moment he’d learned of their connection. He’d worn his heart on his sleeve for the world to see while she continued to deny him. She’d turned her back on the truth out of anger and pain, but no more.

  She started walking toward the bridge, and the closer she got, the faster she moved, until she was running.

  ****

  Justin had been standing at the window overlooking the riverbank ever since his arrival in the office. He’d shed his suit coat and tie the moment he walked in, and although the air conditioning was churning out a continuous blast of cold air, he still felt hot and anxious.

  He’d known the day was imminent, but even he had not been prepared for the magnificence of the sight. The field of poppies far surpassed his expectations. If she didn’t respond to this, then the cold war between them had to be over. He would accept his defeat like a man and allow her to live her life without him in it. The urge to call her a half dozen times had come and gone without following through. This was his last hurrah and he was scared out of his mind it wouldn’t work.

  He’d been pacing at the window for almost an hour when he suddenly realized Poppy was standing on the street across the river. Shock was evident in the posture of her body, but she was too far away for him to read the expression on her face.

  When he saw her look up, he froze. Was this where she turned her back on him in anger?

  Tension grew as he waited for her reaction.

  He held his breath when she started to move, then it took a few moments longer for him to realize she was going toward the bridge, not back to her house. His heart skipped a beat. The farther she went, the faster she moved, and that’s when it hit him. She wasn’t running away. She was running to him!

  He bolted toward the elevator, then out of the building and across the parking lot toward the river in an all-out sprint. The closer he got to the bridge, the faster he went.

  ****

  Poppy reached the bridge and quickly jumped onto the footpath, still running north across the Little Man while the cars flew past her, leaving hot air and exhaust fumes in their wake. Sweat was trickling down the middle of her back. The thunder of her heartbeat was a roar within her ears, but she had to keep moving to outrun her past.

  Out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared at the far end of the bridge. At first it was just his height and the stark white of a shirt against darker skin that caught her eye. But then she saw who it was and that he was coming toward her. After that, everything shifted into slow motion.

  The assault of heat against her skin.

&n
bsp; The jar of foot to pavement all the way to her bones.

  The man running toward her.

  Coming closer.

  Running faster.

  Close enough that she finally saw his tears.

  Then he opened his arms and her feet left the ground.

  She leaped forward, safe in the knowledge that he would not let her fall.

  Sharon Sala is a member of Romance Writers of America with 85 plus books in print, written as both Sharon Sala and Dinah McCall.

  First published in 1991, she is a seven-time RITA finalist, winner of the Janet Dailey Award, four-time Career Achievement winner from RT Magazine, five-time winner of the National Reader’s Choice Award, five-time winner of the Colorado Romance Writer’s Award of Excellence, winner of the Bookseller’s Best Award, and has received the Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award from Romance Writers of America.

  Her books are New York Times, USA Today, Publisher’s Weekly, and mass market best-sellers.

  Writing changed her life, her world and her fate.