Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
R ose tied the last piece of twine around the linen wrapped silverware and placed it on the final floral plate atop the kitchen table. She stepped back, took in the ten place settings plus the old high chair for Broome’s youngest, Freddy.
Today would have been Magnolia’s seventy-third birthday.
Cloth napkins covered both scone filled platters down the center of the table.
Cinnamon crumb and orange vanilla. She’d stayed up late baking the orange-flavored ones.
Empty spaces waited for the fresh fruit and yogurt, keeping cold in the fridge.
Two trivets sat ready for the Quiche Lorraine cooling on the counter.
The three vases evenly spaced on the table were empty.
Crud. She glanced at the clock. She had forty minutes left.
In a fluid motion, she untied her apron and slipped off her pink flats.
She walked to the side door. Her leather gloves and her pruners sat inside the large basket that should have been filled with roses.
She shoved her feet into her peony rain boots, grabbed the basket, and slapped her straw hat on her head.
The screen door slammed behind her. The skirt of her dress swished, disrupting the light blanket of leaves around her as she rushed toward Magnolia’s rose garden.
When she reached the five rows, she noticed the number of blooms had lessened with the cooling temperatures. She’d have to choose carefully. She cut every available pink rose on the outside row before she moved to another.
Seven yellow ones went into the basket. She moved to the next row, slightly narrower, careful with her dress as she made her way to its middle. Full-petaled white roses.
Fourteen cut before she stepped right for more. A tearing sound stopped her. She turned to look, felt the telltale pull on her clothes, saw the long stems snared in her dress.
Curses. Of all the days. Why hadn’t she grabbed her rain jacket on her way out? It would have protected her new dress.
A quick glance at her watch made her fret. Twenty-five minutes. All her efforts last night, early this morning, would be wrecked if the family found her stuck in the middle of Magnolia’s prize-winning flowers again.
Magnolia once said that if curses existed, Rose’s involved a lifetime of ruined clothes, especially when thorns were involved. Willow’s talent with needle and thread covered years of snags and tears, enough so that the patches on Rose’s garments appeared intentional.
She reached her gloved hand back. If she could free her skirt from the little barbs, she’d have time to change, start the kettle, and brew coffee. Another inch of her dress tore. Hell.
A whistling tune reached her ears—a familiar one. Criminy.
What was he doing back here? Shouldn’t he be in Asheville doing doctor things?
She tried again to free herself. Rip. This was worse than a member of the family finding her. Trapped, she nibbled on her lower lip. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her.
The whistling cut off. Damntastic.
He moved closer, then stopped. “Morning Rose. You okay there?”
“Fine.”
He wore a t-shirt and paint splattered jeans. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting roses for the house.” It should have been obvious. She held pruning shears in one hand.
“In a dress? You might get stuck.”
It took effort not to grind her teeth together. “I’ll be careful.” She didn’t dare move. He might hear if her dress tore anymore.
His eyes narrowed. He moved closer until he stood at the edge of the outside row. “You’re stuck.”
She looked skyward. Why couldn’t he just walk away, go back to his house in Hollows Eight?
“Rose?”
She glared at him. “Fine. I’m stuck.”
“You could have said so.”
She didn’t answer him.
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Not really.”
“Stubborn woman.” There was more tease than menace in his tone as he slipped sideways into the row next to her. It was wider and allowed him space to move.
“These roses are the best ones,” she said. As if that explained everything.
“You’re definitely stuck.”
With gritted teeth, she asked, “Can you get me out? Without ripping my dress more?”
He looked behind her. “You’re caught in multiple places. Your dress is ruined.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
A quick laugh escaped him. “That’s true. Why aren’t you in jeans? I never knew you to garden in dresses.”
“I didn’t plan this.”
He bent over the row again. “Hold still.”
She did. She could see the top of his hair, still just as full as it had been when he was younger. That hint of a curl had stuck around too. Even though the color had darkened some, it caught red beneath the sunlight. Her fingers curled in on themselves, itching to sink her fingers in again.
“Turn to the left a bit.”
She moved left. Rip.
“Sorry. Other left.”
She turned the other direction.
“There. Stop. Hold still.”
She felt the gentle tug of his fingers, caught a sound of frustration before he straightened.
“I could only get one.” He looked apologetic, but serious. “I got an idea.”
How many times had she heard him say those exact words in their youth? How many times had they been really bad ones?
“I’m afraid to hear it.”
“Nonsense. I’m more mature now.”
“Out with it then.”
He held out his hand. “Hand me your pruners.”
She cradled them to her chest. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Cut you loose.” He reached for the tool. She gave it to him. “The stems are snarled in your dress. I have to trim each one. You can pretend you’ve been shot by multiple arrows.”
He leaned over. She heard the open and closure sound of the shears. She held her breath as she heard another snip. And another. The gentlest of tugs on the last rose stem felt like a caress, as if the movement of her dress against her thigh were his knuckles against her flesh.
He straightened. Shoving the pruners in the back pocket of his jeans, he held out his hand. “The roses are too tall to pick you up and carry you out of there. If you hand me your basket, you should be able to hold your dress close and get out.”
She passed over the basket.
“Mind the stems. The thorns are still in the fabric.”
She carefully pressed the skirt against her legs and inched out of the row, angling towards him as they left the rose garden.
Rose stole glances at him. He wore a faded black concert t-shirt.
She didn’t have to touch it to know it would be soft between her fingers.
The slight humidity encouraged it to cling to muscles he hadn’t had back in high school.
She swallowed. His triceps stood out more than she remembered.
Smudges of white paint touched his knuckles and his forearms.
His worn, paint streaked jeans hung low on his hips.
The knees sported gaping holes, along with a small one on his backside above a back pocket that gave just a hint of the dark blue he wore beneath.
Did he still wear boxer briefs, or had he gone to something different?
And of all the things that could come to mind, why was she thinking of his choice of underwear?
She held her gloved hands out. He put the shears in one and the basket in the other.
“Thank you.” She glanced at her watch. “I have just enough time to change and put these in water.”
“Glad I could help.” He shifted his stance. “First time I met you, you wore a pink dress.”
She tilted her head. “I was. I forgot. You remember well.”
“Hard to forget. You were covered in dirt by the end. Your grandmother was furious.”
She had been. One of many transgressions that earned Rose a lecture.
He flashed a smile as if in memory of that day.
Their recent time together during the storm almost made her forget the past. Their conversation felt natural, as if their argument never happened.
They’d kissed, more than once.
He said, “You had that word you used. It wasn’t a real word.”
Her heart felt a pinch. He’d forgotten her favorite make-believe word. “Criminy.”
His eyes twinkled as he repeated it as if the word had flavor. “Criminy. That’s it. Still use it?”
In every single book she’d written. “When I need to.”
Her fingers tightened around the basket handle.
He glanced back toward the woods as if something waited for him there. “I should get back. I’m still painting. I needed a break from the smell.”
His words shook her train of thought. She’d been staring at him, had even caught the scent of him when he’d handed her the basket. Pine, the something else on top of it—all him. He’d always reminded her of the woods. The woods always reminded her of him.
She felt the flush move over her skin as she thought of pressing her face into the skin of his neck to plant open mouthed kisses from his collarbone to his jaw, maybe nibble his ears too.
“Rose?”
He stepped closer. Said her name once more.
Her lips on his skin. His lips on?—
She clutched her dress. A bad idea. A thorn pierced her palm. The pain broke the spell she’d been under.
She needed to change. Cut the quiche. “Quiche,” she muttered.
“Did you say quiche ? Is that your latest curse word?” His voice had a bit of tease in it. He was so close. They could share air. Her insides fluttered.
She should invite him. It might be a horrible idea. He might say no. But here, now, with him, it felt like it used to be. And she missed him.
“I’m serving quiche.” She stammered. “Sc-scones…for brunch.”
He only nodded, looking at her like she’d been in the sun too long.
Her words rushed out. “Come to brunch. Please.”
Surprise filled his expression. And wariness. He motioned downward. “I’m not dressed for brunch.”
“You look delicious.” Had she really said that?
“Thanks.” The spark returned to his eyes.
Backpedal. “Fine, I mean. You—clothes. It’s casual.” Another flush. Was fine a synonym for delicious? She shifted on her feet.
“You’re serious.”
Why would he think she wasn’t? She nodded.
“I don’t know.” He took a step back. Put his hand on his neck, his expression one of debate. “Your family’s coming, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” His reminder snapped her back to reality—the time.
He looked hesitant.
“Tess’ pink lemonade. I made three pitchers’ worth.”
“You would use that.” He sighed.
“It’s your favorite.” Her tone changed, quieter. There was so much she didn’t know about him now. “Or it was.”
“Still is.” He nodded. “I’ll see how fast I can get the second coat on.”
“I’ll save you a glass.”
“Save me two.”
“Deal.”