21. Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Brandy
Jo and Ruthie's kitchen has become one of my favorite places. By the time I drove home, I felt heard and considerably less homicidal than I'd been at four o'clock. Plus, bonus, I had my own better-than-sex cake on the passenger seat. So, win-win.
The drive home was quiet. Denture at nine o'clock in the evening did the thing small towns do where the whole place turns the porch lights on, puts the dog out one more time, yawns, and goes to bed.
There might be the occasional car moving through an intersection with no urgency whatsoever, but for the most part everyone's done for the day.
And I loved everything about that frame of mind. At first, I didn't think I would. Coming from a big city, I thought I'd be bored and miss the noise, but I really don't.
I turned onto Clover Street and saw the little yellow house with the welcoming porch light on. Colorful flower boxes and hanging baskets that I'm so proud of. My beloved, comfortable outdoor furniture. I adored my porch. It was where I felt I could breathe.
Parking in front of the house, I gathered my stuff and headed inside. I was halfway up the porch steps when I heard footsteps. I glanced around and saw him.
A sweaty, heavy-breathing, bare-chested Nick Carson in running shorts stopped on the sidewalk in front of my house.
Steady, girl, steady.
I forced myself not to say anything. I just continued up the stairs.
"Wait," he huffed. "Please."
The way he said please stopped me. I'd been around him long enough to know Nick Carson did not say please easily.
I turned around on the second step and looked at him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I waited.
And waited.
"And?" I said.
"And I should have listened to you."
I kept waiting.
He didn't say anything else.
"And?" I said again.
"And I..."
"Nick." My voice was quiet. "If you were truly sorry, I wouldn't have to pull an apology from you." I shifted my bag on my shoulder. "Good night, Chief Carson."
I turned and went inside.
Leaning against the closed door in the dark for a moment, I closed my eyes.
Why does that mouth have to be attached to that body?
I went to the kitchen, set the cake on the counter, and poured myself a glass of wine. Putting on my sleepwear, I took my wine and sat on the sofa instead of the porch. I wasn't up to another accidental meeting with Nick on his way back home.
"I can't believe him," I said to myself. "How many times can one man put his foot in his mouth?"
I'm sure the sorry he just shared was enough for him, but it wasn't for me. Honestly, I'm tired of half-hearted apologies. He wasn't sorry when he accused me of wanting attention. And I shouldn't have had to pull the reason for the apology from him.
I keep asking myself, if we hadn't run into each other, would he have apologized?
"If saying I'm sorry was so important, why didn't he call my office this afternoon? Better yet, why not show up?" I told no one. "Making the effort goes a long way toward forgiveness."
I thought about the fact that Gary had never once shown up anywhere to apologize for anything he'd done. He never went out of his way to say he was sorry. Not once in nineteen years had he cared enough to make an effort.
Not that I was comparing them. That wasn't a fair thing to do.
I was just noticing and realizing my disappointment in the fact that I liked Nick Carson.
It's been a long time since I'd actually had those new-spark feelings toward someone.
I could still feel his kiss. And damn, it was a good kiss.
And as much as I wanted there to be the possibility of more, unfortunately, I knew now that wouldn't ever happen.
Not with everything that happened today.
"Men." I yawned. "Oh well, time for bed."
Even with all the things going on with Nick Carson, I still had a job to do tomorrow.
The next morning, I was at my desk by eight thirty, sipping my latte and designing a color-coded spreadsheet.
I had one goal today, a very specific mission, and that was to lose myself in work and not think about anything that had to do with Nick Carson.
Today he was out of my mind.
The Summerween promotional materials were coming together. I had confirmed fourteen business participants for the trunk-or-treat. Bill from the hardware store had texted to say his forklift game was ready to go. Was I interested in his nephew setting up a face-painting station?
I texted back that absolutely he could come.
He sent over his information, and I added it to the spreadsheet in a very satisfying shade of orange.
I'd moved to town for this job. I was going to do everything I could to make these events memorable and fun for everyone.
I was in the middle of drafting the community flyer promoting Safety Week and Summerween, like I said I would, when there was a knock on my office door.
"Come in," I called, not looking up.
The door opened.
"Brandy Wilson?"
I looked up.
A young man in a green polo shirt with a pink rose embroidered in the right corner was standing in my doorway holding an enormous bouquet of flowers.
It was the biggest I'd ever seen.
Roses and sunflowers and something purple and green that I didn't know the name of, but it was absolutely stunning. All of it arranged in a tall glass vase with sunflowers painted on it.
He was carrying it with the careful energy of someone transporting something expensive and breakable.
"I'm Brandy," I said.
"Delivery for you."
He crossed to my desk and set it down carefully.
There was a small white envelope sticking out of the flowers with my name on it.
"They're beautiful, thank you," I said, reaching into my purse for a tip. "Here."
I handed him a ten-dollar bill.
"Thanks, but we're not allowed to accept tips. Just use it to order more flowers sometime."
He smiled and nodded, then turned to leave. But instead he stepped to the right.
Because another man in a matching green shirt appeared in the doorway behind him carrying another arrangement.
Baffled, I asked, "Who are those for?"
He looked at me. "You," he said simply. Then he left the office.
The second arrangement was set next to the first. Then that man stepped aside and a woman came in with a third. Purple roses this time. Dramatic and full, filling the vase to overflowing.
"I..." I stood, not sure what to do or say.
The first man returned with a fourth arrangement.
Wildflowers in a tall Mason-style blue vase that somehow looked more expensive than the formal ones.
A fifth arrangement was stuffed with gladiolas.
"This has to be a mistake," I told the delivery lady.
"Aren't you Brandy Wilson?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then there's no mistake."
A sixth arrangement arrived, almost entirely Stargazer lilies, making my office immediately smell like summer.
By the time the seventh arrived, Connie from the mayor's office had appeared in my doorway behind the delivery people with the expression of a woman who had seen a lot of things in this building and was revising her list of the most memorable.
"What did you do?" Connie asked, smelling the current pink-and-white arrangement.
"I don't know," I said.
The eighth arrangement was blue orchids. I'd never had orchids delivered to me in my life.
"Oh, that one's stunning," Connie said, admiring the ninth one, which was done in yellows and oranges.
The tenth, dark purples, lime greens, and whites, was the largest one yet. The delivery man had to carry it with both hands.
All of them were extravagant, slightly ridiculous, and yet absolutely beautiful. My office looked like a garden. A very expensive and very fragrant garden.
The delivery people began to file out of my office.
"Wait," I stopped them. "Who are they from?"
The first guy pointed to the nearest vase. "There are cards," he said. "One in each arrangement." Then he was gone.
"This is amazing," Connie said, turning around in a circle.
"I've never seen anything like it."
The phone at her desk rang, causing her to hustle out of the office.
Needing to know who the over-the-top sender was, I gathered the ten cards and returned to my desk chair. I opened the first one. Pulling the card out, all that was on it was an I. I flipped it over only to find it blank.
"I?"
I set it down and opened the second one.
"Y?"
By the time I had them all opened, I sat back against my chair. The cards were spread across my desk in a single-file line.
I, Y, S, M, !, O, R, O, S, R.
"What the hell?"
I started sliding them around the way you slide letters in a puzzle.
R, O, S, S.
No.
M, O, S, S.
No.
I shuffled the cards around.
Then they fell into place.
I'm so sorry!
I sat back.
"Nick?"
I looked from arrangement to arrangement.
"Now, this is an apology."
"Oh my flowers."
Mayor Stevens stood in the doorway.
"Boy, the chief must really like you."
"Excuse me?"
"Chief McAllister." He pointed around the office. "Aren't they from him?"
"No, we're not dating." I didn't elaborate more than that, even though I knew he was waiting for an explanation.
"Did you lose a family member?" He was fishing for an answer.
"No."
"A friend owns a flower shop?"
"No."
"Another suitor?"
"No."
"Did you win a contest?" His chin was set and his brow furrowed.
"I didn't. They're from a certain person, but I'm not wanting to share who just yet."
"Ah, a secret admirer." He turned to leave the room.
"No, Rich, not a secret admirer," I called after him. "A friend."
He kept walking, raising his left hand. "Sure, alright."
Damn it, there's another rumor started.
Picking up the yellow-and-orange arrangement, I headed after the mayor.
"These are for Connie."
"Me?"
She gazed at the bouquet.
"But they're yours."
"I know, but I want you to have them." I set the flowers down on Connie's desk. "Also, please, if you hear any rumors of who the flowers are from, will you please squash them?"
"I can do that." She smiled.
I made a mental note on the way back to my office to bring Connie yellow and orange flowers once in a while to brighten her day.
I stood for a moment, eyeing my office.
No one's ever done anything like this for me.
I crossed the office to my desk and picked up my phone. The call rang twice, then went to voicemail.
"You've reached the desk of Chief Nick Carson, Denture Fire Department. For emergencies, hang up and dial 911. For all other inquiries—"
I hung up, not feeling like this was a thank-you I could just leave on voicemail.
I had to admit to myself, sitting alone in an office that smelled like a botanical garden, that I was a little impressed with Chief Carson.
Was I ready to completely forgive him?
I wasn't sure.
But I was impressed.