A White Rose

by Bekah Ferguson

  “I'm sorry if I've offended you,” he said softly. “But the coffee thing—It's just that… ” He looked pained now. “Well, I have a question for you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Bring it on.”

  He paused, glancing at the flagstone beneath them, one side of his closed lips dipping downward. “Why do you want to go for a coffee?” he asked, meeting her eyes with a look of determination.

  She debated how to answer. Obviously he knew why; but she still wanted to beat around the bush.

  “I thought you were a nice guy,” she said, shrugging a shoulder as though she hadn't given it much thought. “You're intriguing. And I'll admit, you're very attractive. A coffee is a good starting place, you know? A comfortable way to establish whether or not we have anything in common—whether a friendship would be worth pursuing. Although, I suppose that's what we're doing right now.” A lift of an eyebrow.

  He seemed doubtful. “What kind of friendship, exactly, are you referring to?”

  She laughed, tilting her head back. Enough with the sugar-coating all ready! Leaning forward, she gripped the table edge and gave him ample view down her tube-top. His gaze remained steady; he wasn't taking the bait. “What kind of friendship do you think, sweetheart?” She winked, sitting back in her chair again.

  Jason picked up his partly-eaten sandwich and took a hearty bite, his eyes challenging. “And that's why I turned you down.” He took another bite.

  Dakota's mouth dropped open. She couldn't decide whether to send him packing or let out a laugh.

  She chose the latter. “Goody-two-shoes, huh? Chaste little Christian boy, eh?” She narrowed her eyes.

  He laughed freely and shook his head. “Something like that.”

  “Surely you've dated women before! Don't tell me you're some kind of celibate priest.”

  His eyes darkened, surprising her. “Dakota—you're crossing the line here. My personal life is none of your business.”

  She would not be shushed. “Come on—tell me. Have you ever slept with a woman?”

  A loaded silence.

  “My guess,” he said finally, “is that you have no clue what real love is. And unless you stop prancing from one man to the next, you never will. So, if you mean, have I ever used a woman, the answer is no. And as much as I'm sure you'd like me to, I have no intention of using you either.” He pushed his chair back, standing.

  She stood up too and as he stepped out from under the parasol, the intense sunlight hit his hair, setting it ablaze. She noticed for the first time the bits of copper in his sandy waves. How handsome he was with so much dignity. His “righteous” anger was sexy… almost spellbinding.

  Like forbidden candy.

  “Jason, I'm sorry,” she said with a sweet smile. “Please don't leave.”

  “Thanks for lunch,” he said politely, a note of reproach in his voice, “but I've got to get going.”

  She followed him to the front door, bidding him a lame good-bye and regretting her forwardness. Here she'd gone and damaged her chances big time, all because she didn't know when to stop.

  Chapter 7

  A half hour later, Jason pulled into the sun-dappled, winding driveway of his wooded lot and parked his vehicle under a carport made of boards, rope and a giant blue tarp. A stack of firewood he'd chopped covered the entire back wall.

  Jogging up the porch steps, he opened his front door and went inside. Bear, his massive black Newfoundland let out a yelp of glee at the sound of Jason's entrance and bounded toward him from the nearby living room. Chuckling, Jason knelt down and ruffled the dog's scruffy, gleaming fur. A huge pink tongue slapped back and forth, licking Jason's hands and arms without restraint; dewy-brown eyes blinking at him with affection.

  He wrapped his arms around Bear's thick shoulders in a quick squeeze, and stood to his feet, brushing his hands on his jeans. Kicking off his shoes, he made his way down a hallway leading to the kitchen and opened the back door. This door lead to a wide deck and adjoining backyard kennel. Bear rushed outside, scooted down the deck steps into the kennel, and ran around—sniffing the sunbaked ground with his large snout.

  Closing only the screen door so that he'd hear Bear when he was ready to come back inside, Jason filled a coffee carafe with water and scooped ground coffee beans into the old yard-sale machine. His studio, a converted dining room off the kitchen, was a corner room with tall sash windows, one in each outside wall. Ample light filled the airy room each day, making it a bright and inspiring place to paint. A professional easel filled a wide section of the room; a detailed mountain landscape halfway in the making. The rest of the room was filled with art supplies, a pine bookcase he'd crafted himself and a cushioned easy chair. A potbelly stove sat in a corner.

  Jason's entire house was heated by wood. There was a black and white antique cast-iron cook stove in the kitchen, a parlor stove in the living room, and more potbelly stoves in both the upstairs master bedroom and guest room. His furnishings were simple and comfortable; tidy but worn. It was the way he liked things. His parents had raised him humbly in this very house and he'd never desired anything other. A modern house with modern furnishings would only be alien to him—stiff and formal. And besides, there was nothing like a bedroom heated by firewood in the winter; climbing into a warm bed under a thick quilt; breathing in the everlasting scent of wood furniture, walls, floors. This old-fashioned, unhurried way of living was a haven to him; filling him daily with peace and serenity. The only thing missing was companionship—a family of his own to fill the old place with laughter once again.

  As much as he loved his country home of solitude, there were days when the rooms echoed their growing emptiness and the snow drifts threatened to shut him in forever. Summertimes were better. The sunshine, the greenery, the golden warmth—these things kept him content, enough to last through the winters that followed. But always, always there was a quiet, subtle ache inside him; a yearning. Not that of a discontent spirit or an empty heart, but rather a soul that knew it was blessed, was thankful beyond measure, but still hoped one day that the Lord might grant him the fellowship and love of a wife—and perhaps even the joy and satisfaction of raising a child.

  Jason poured himself a mug of oily, aromatic coffee and flipped on the light switch of his studio, setting himself to work. Presently, Bear wanted back inside where he was happy to curl up on the hardwood floor beside Jason to wile the afternoon away.

  Though he tried to focus on the task at hand—his painting—Jason couldn't stop replaying the conversation he'd had with Dakota. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to have accepted her lunch offer; but what was done was done. In some strange way, he was disappointed by the outcome, as though he'd hoped she might have more substance than he'd initially deemed. But no, she was as shallow as they come; obsessed with image, sex… What kind of life was that anyway? It seemed so vain and pointless to him. Where was the satisfaction in moving from one relationship to the next? Just what did she hope to gain from life?

  But then there was her gardening and floral business; something he couldn't help admiring. She was an artist, just like himself.

  Shaking his head, he set down his paintbrush and stretched, deciding it was time for a coffee refill. He couldn't deny that Dakota was attractive—physically attractive, that is—but she was not the kind of woman he desired. Yeah, time was ticking. He was nearly thirty and still single, not to mention lonely for female companionship. But a carnal fling was not going to bring him happiness—there was no future in it. It wasn't something he would enjoy, nor something he wished to be characterized by.

  He was a man of his word; a man of honor and commitment. And when he found the right woman, he would love her passionately and faithfully until the day he died. Dakota had no idea what she was trying to snag. He was not the kind of man who could separate sex from love. She was like a hungry shark trying to woo a sea lion.

  He'd be torn asunder.

  ***

  Dakota blared her po
p music and sang along as she whipped up and down the hilly, farm-laden road that lead to highway 11. She was going to visit her mother. Not because she wanted to, but because she felt obligated to. If there was one thing in life that burdened her, it was her duty to her mother. Not that her visits made any difference in their illusion of a relationship, but to not visit at all seemed . . . heartless. Dakota had to have some self-respect: yeah, she was easy and admittedly egocentric, but at least she was decent.

  Mona Reilly lived in a trailer park a few kilometers down the highway from Shanty Bay. Her cream and brown-striped trailer was lengthy, with a wrap-around living room at one end, a kitchen and bathroom in the middle, and a bedroom at the other end. It was an old trailer, hideous with its seventies furniture and curtains, and overly cluttered with piles of magazines, books and knick-knacks. But it was relatively clean. Mona wasn't much for housekeeping, but she made a point of keeping her dishes washed and her bathroom sanitary. For that Dakota was immensely grateful. She could tolerate all the lime green, puke brown and pumpkin orange, as long as the place was passably clean.

  As she drove, she thought about Jason and his abrupt departure from their lunch together. Talk about uptight! Yikes. The guy couldn't even handle a simple adult conversation.

  So why was she still attracted to him? There were plenty of pretty fish in the sea. She should just move on. She thought of his sandy hair then, shining with hints of copper in the sunlight. His warm, gold-brown eyes… his dimpled smile. Argh! He was too handsome for his own good. What a waste. With those looks he could have any woman he wanted—anytime.

  If only he wanted her, she would gladly do the taking.

  This was the first time she'd ever been turned down by a man she'd specifically set her sights on. It left her disquieted. Was she somehow losing her charm? What was so great about Christianity that a man would give up sex for it? How could anyone be so brainwashed by an obviously phony belief system? It was so far-fetched. Science had disproved the existence of God as far as she was concerned, let alone the Son of God. What a bunch of fairy tales. How could any intelligent man or woman believe in that stuff anyway? Sure, she understood a family tradition of say, attending mass at Christmastime or Easter, in the same way one might watch Santa Claus movies or hide chocolate bunny eggs around the house for a child at Easter; but anything above and beyond that seemed ridiculous.

  If there were any religions that made the slightest bit of sense, they were New Age, Scientology or Buddhism—religions that were about bettering yourself, finding inner strength and power, being in control of your own destiny. Basically, being your own god. But worshiping some made-up God and following all his nit-picky rules and regulations your whole life—Why? Why would anyone willfully want to do that?

  Dakota was glad for the sunshine when she pulled into the trailer park and reached her mother's trailer. The trailer park itself was well-maintained and pleasant—certainly a great place to vacation for a week or so in the summer. But when you lived there all spring, summer and fall, it was gloomy and drab; especially on a rainy day. And being cooped up inside her mother's stagnant house-on-wheels was not Dakota's idea of a good time.

  At least on a warm day they could sit outside.

  When she pulled into her mother's tiny gravel driveway with its miniature picket fence made of plastic, she bit back a frown. Mona was sitting out front next to a paunchy, bearded man who was swigging back a bottle of beer; a burning cigar wedged between his thick fingers. Even worse than visiting her mother was having to visit with her mother's deadbeat boyfriends. And it was almost always a different man. Well, maybe that wasn't being entirely fair. Her mother kept boyfriends for at least a year at a time—far longer than Dakota did.

  She might as well give her mother some credit. At least she tried to make her relationships work—well, lately, anyway. Dakota had never tried because she didn't want a relationship. A good time could only last a month or two, six at best. If you let things get any deeper than physical, they got complicated and icky. Emotions, obligations, commitment. Yuck. She valued her freedom and independence too much to give it up for a handsome face—a handsome face that would ditch her for a new model when she reached middle age and started to wrinkle.

  She was no fool. Men liked their women young and smooth and perky. Her own father had ditched her mother for a younger woman. Not that her mother had been faithful either. But Dakota had no intention of giving her heart to a man only to have him grind it into the dirt twenty years down the road when she was no longer pretty enough to keep his interest.

  Maybe in old age she would settle down and marry someone for the sake of companionship; a constant buddy to play cards and Bingo with. Someone to share miseries with, complaints about the nursing home service; about their past lives and loneliness. But she hoped it would never come to that. If she was lucky, she'd die before reaching retirement-home age. She doubted life was worth living once a person became too old to take care of their self.

  Parking her SUV, she pulled off her over-sized celebrity shades and slipped her long legs outside. Mona and bearded man were sitting at a resin patio table in the center of a large, foot-high platform built of boards covered with synthetic grass carpeting. A rusted awning, fanning out from the trailer, hung precariously above them.

  Mona lifted a lazy hand and waved, gold bracelets sliding down to her freckled elbow. A cigarette dangled between her lips and thin black hair drooped over her shoulders.

  “Hey.” She gave her mother an equally pathetic wave.

  Mona reached up to grip her cigarette with two yellow-stained fingertips and took a long drag. Then, grinding the cigarette into an ashtray on the table, she exhaled the smoke and crinkled her eyes, the edge of her lips curling upward. “Hello, Rose.”

  Dakota stuck her hands in the back pockets of her shorts and leaned on one leg, not sure what to do. The table was small and she didn't want to sit too closely to the bearded man. He was already eying her up and down. This guy was a new one. Her mother had been seeing some lanky man for the past year.

  “Pull up a chair, Rose,” Mona urged. “This is Donald. Donald—my daughter, Rose.”

  Donald grinned and tipped his grimy baseball gap. “Nice to meet you.”

  Fighting the urge to groan aloud, Dakota did as told and sat down across from the two of them. As unusual a feeling as it was, she found herself wishing she hadn't left on her tube-top. Donald was already drooling and the suggestive glint in his eyes made her nervous. She knew he was trying to see as much of her form as possible, despite his pitiful attempt to be discreet.

  How vile.

  Pursing her lips and sucking in a breath through her nose, she plunged into polite, meaningless chit-chat with Mona (thankful that at least her mother wasn't drunk this time), and kept a constant eye on her wristwatch.

  She would only stay an hour.

  ***

  When Dakota dialed Michel's cell phone, she was pleased to find that he was already at her favorite club.

  A half hour later, they were sitting across from each other nursing strong, bubbling drinks. She wasn't embarrassed or bashful in the presence of this new casual lover; nor did she feel a sense of intimacy. Over the years, she'd effectively learned to separate emotions from sex. Perhaps it was only denial, a deadening of the conscience—but it nevertheless made things more comfortable. Besides, she was proud of her body and saw no reason for debasement when she happened upon old lovers.

  She made flirtatious small talk with Michel, drowned-out by thumping, bassy music, and ordered a second, then a third drink. Throwing on vibrant, seductive smiles, she forced herself to forget about Jason. He was a lost cause. Tonight she would simply have fun and ignore weekly responsibilities, bills, and mundane life. Tonight she was a flashy, desirable woman with a sexy young man whipping her around the dance floor till she lost her breath and pulling her close against his body when the music slowed—just the way she liked it.

  After a swirling, pounding night
of drinking and dancing, she called a cab and brought Michel home with her for the second time.

  He did not need persuasion.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday afternoon, absorbed in the arrangement of a set of bridal party bouquets, Dakota glanced up from her work counter when the entrance bell jingled, and was shocked to find Jason filling the sunny doorway. He was the last man on earth she'd expect to come looking for her; especially after last weekend.

  Immediately she regretted her ensemble. She was wearing a one-piece, hunter-green gardening suit and scuffed-up boots. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. After spending most of the quiet morning working in the greenhouses and her outdoor garden, she simply hadn't had the time to change before setting to work on the bouquets after lunch. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were her time in the shop, while her part-time employee, Jackie, manned the shop the rest of the week. This gave her time to manage the greenhouses during the growing season, and Jackie occasionally worked extra days when there was an overabundance of wedding or funeral orders.

  The only men she tended to meet here were married or engaged ones, so it just didn't matter if they saw her in coveralls. Besides, mixing male friends with career life was something she preferred to avoid. But now, here was Jason, and she wasn't looking her best. Not at all.

  “Jason, hello!” She threw on a charming smile and came around to the front side of the counter, fiddling with the top button of her suit and wondering if she should undo a couple while he wasn't looking.

  He smiled and glanced about the shop. “I need flowers.” He met her eye with a quirky smile.

  She laughed, tearing open four buttons the moment his gaze averted. “Well, I should hope so,” she said. “Other than small trees and shrubs, that's all we have here.” She winked at him. Who did he need flowers for anyway? A girlfriend?