Flowers on Main (11 page)

Will frowned. “Mock me if you will, but this could be the one. This was our fourth date in two weeks.”

Jake and Mack exchanged a look. Will rarely went out with the same woman more than twice. Either he got bored or they got tired of having him analyze them. In one instance, when he’d gone out for two months with the same woman, he’d belatedly realized she’d actually been using him for free counseling. He’d sworn off dating for months after that.

Just as Mack was about to speak, Will stopped him. “Don’t worry. This isn’t another Jasmine. In fact, Laura’s a psychologist, too. She has a practice in Annapolis. She just bought a weekend place here.”

“And this is the first we’ve heard about her?” Jake chided.
“Are we not your best friends? Aren’t you supposed to run something this serious past us?”

“No,” Will said succinctly. “You’re my best friends, but you don’t have veto power over the women in my life.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you try to exercise your veto power over the women in mine,” Mack grumbled.

“I’d never veto Susie,” Will told him.

“I’m not dating Susie,” Mack repeated.

Jake nudged Will in the ribs. “Protesting too much, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Will agreed, clinking his beer bottle to Jake’s.

Mack looked as if he might want to crack his beer bottle over one of their heads, but instead, he took a long drink, then regarded Jake innocently.

“So why are we here? Does this have something to do with Bree?”

“I’m guessing yes,” Will said. “Jake’s not talking, though.”

“Because there’s nothing to say,” Jake insisted.

Because they’d each ruled out further discussion of the women in their lives, they fell silent. Sipping their beers, they turned their attention to the game just in time to see the relief pitcher walk in the other team’s winning run.

“Orioles suck,” Mack said.

Will nodded.

“You got that right,” Jake said, then sighed. It pretty well described the way his whole day had gone.

The smell of freshly cut wood filled the air inside what would soon be Flowers on Main. Bree stood back and admired the stainless steel–topped island that would be her primary work space in the backroom. It had nooks and crannies and drawers for storing vases, boxes, ribbons, wire,
florist tape and anything else she might need to create spectacular arrangements.

“What do you think?” Mick asked, standing beside her. “Is it what you had in mind?”

She turned and threw her arms around him. “It’s perfect, Dad. Thank you so much. I can’t believe you were able to create that from the scribbles I gave you.”

He laughed. “Believe me, it wasn’t the scribbles. It was the way you described what you needed for it to be functional. Running over to Ted Jensen’s place one morning helped, too. I figured after all the years he’s been in business, he’d know what you’d need.”

“Since he’s closing down, I probably should have bought his furnishings instead of having you go to all this trouble,” Bree said.

“Absolutely not,” Mick countered. “You’re starting out fresh. Everything should be top-notch. I did make an offer on his coolers, though. Told him I’d need to run that by you, but they’re in good condition and it’ll save you some start-up money.”

Bree bristled that he’d done such a thing without asking her, then realized she was being silly. He’d left the final decision to her, after all. If Mick had made a contact that could save her money, she needed to consider it. “I’ll go and take a look later today,” she promised.

“Okay, then, let’s take another look at this floor plan,” Mick said. “I want you to show me again where you think the front counter ought to be.”

They started into the front room just as the door opened and Megan stepped inside. Bree wasn’t sure which of them was more shocked, her or her father.

“Megan!” Mick said, his face lighting up. “I wasn’t expecting you. Bree, honey, did you know your mother was coming?”

“No,” she said tersely, watching as Mick crossed the room and pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek.

“How could I stay away when I heard about your new business, Bree?” Megan said, giving Mick a pointed look that Bree couldn’t quite interpret.

“Well, I’d stay and show you around,” Bree said, “but as you can tell, there’s not much to see and I have to drive over to Myrtle Creek.”

She was almost out the door, when she realized Megan was on her heels.

“Why don’t I ride along with you,” Megan said, her expression suggesting she wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

Bree gritted her teeth. “Up to you,” she said and went to her car. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get settled after your trip down from New York? You’ll be staying at the inn again, right?”

“I’m thinking about staying at the house, but I need to discuss that with your father first,” her mother replied. “You don’t have any objections, do you?”

Bree shrugged. “It’s not my house.”

“It is your home,” her mother corrected. “And your opinion does count with me.”

“Then I think you should stay at the inn, assuming Jess has a room available. It’s been very busy. I’ll call her and check.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, flipped it open and dialed.

She ignored the hurt in her mother’s eyes as she waited for her sister to pick up. “Hey, Jess, this is Bree. You’ll never guess who’s here.”

“Mom,” Jess said. “Abby called me about an hour ago and told me she was coming.”

“Do you have a room available at the inn? I can bring her by right now.”

“Sorry. We’re fully booked. I told Abby the same thing. She said Mom could stay with her and the girls.”

“Perfect,” Bree said eagerly. “I’ll tell her. I can run her over there.”

“Not now. Trace is in New York for a few days, so Mom won’t be able to get in until Abby gets home from work.”

Which meant Bree would be stuck with her for the rest of the afternoon. “Wait, doesn’t Gram have a spare key to Abby’s?”

“Of course,” Jess said. “I don’t know why Abby didn’t think of that.”

“I’ll run by the house and pick it up. Bye, Jess.”

When she disconnected the call, she saw her mother regarding her with a bland expression.

“Have you palmed me off on Abby now?” she inquired lightly as Bree whipped her car out of the parking space.

“It’s not like that,” Bree said, but of course it was
exactly
like that and they both knew it. “I’m sorry if it sounded that way, Mom. It just seemed to make sense for you to stay there.”

Because she felt guilty, she turned toward Myrtle Creek rather than going straight to Gram’s. It wouldn’t kill her to be polite to her mother for an hour or so.

“Since Abby’s made peace with me and the rest of you haven’t, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?” Megan said. She met Bree’s gaze. “Did you know your father came to see me in New York a couple weeks ago?”

Bree swallowed hard and shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“He wanted me to come back with him then.”

“Why?” Bree blurted. Was Gram right? Were the two of them getting back together? Bree didn’t even want to consider the possibility. Unlike her younger siblings, she’d never longed for a reconciliation.

“He wanted me to come here because of you,” her mother said.

“Me, but I didn’t…” Her voice trailed off.

“You didn’t want me here,” Megan finished for her. “I can see that. Your father seemed to think you might need me, whether you want me around or not. After we spoke the other day, I sensed the same thing.”

“Mom, it’s a little late for you to pop up and want to have heart-to-heart chats with your daughters. We all grew up without you. Gram did a good job filling in for you.”

“I know that. Believe me, no one is more grateful than I am that she was here. And I don’t expect any of you to bare your souls to me, but I am older and perhaps a bit wiser. I’m also a good listener, if you need to talk. Most important of all, I love you and I’d never judge you. You can tell me anything.”

Bree gave her a bewildered look. “What do you think there is to tell?”

“Was there a man who sent you fleeing from Chicago?” Megan asked, her tone gentle. “Someone who broke your heart?”

“There was a man in my life there, but he’s not the reason I left.”

Her mother regarded her calmly, her expression patient.

“At least not the whole reason,” Bree amended. “And I really do not want to talk about Marty or Chicago. I have a whole new life stretched out in front of me. That’s what I’m focusing on.”

“And I applaud you for that. Sometimes, though, the past has a way of catching up to you.”

“Tell me about it,” Bree murmured, thinking not of Martin Demming, but of Jake.

A light sparked in Megan’s eyes. “Now, there’s definitely a story behind those words.”

“Mom, let it go, please. I don’t need or want your motherly concern. I don’t need advice. I’m handling everything.”

“If you say so,” Megan said quietly. “But I have to wonder.”

“Why? Why can’t you just believe me and drop this?”

“Because we’re halfway to Baltimore when I was almost a hundred percent certain you said your appointment was in Myrtle Creek.”

Bree glanced at the signs as she whizzed past and realized her mother was exactly right. She’d missed her exit twenty miles back.

“You could have mentioned that sooner,” she grumbled as she turned the car around at the next opportunity.

“I thought perhaps you’d decided to take me straight to Abby’s office so you could dump me on her doorstep.”

“That’s not amusing, Mother.”

Megan grinned at her. “I wasn’t trying to be amusing, just to prove that I know you better than you think I do. Don’t tell me that thought didn’t cross your mind.”

“So you think driving halfway to Baltimore was some sort of Freudian slip?”

“Or perhaps an unwitting admission that you were more interested in what I had to say than you wanted to admit.”

“That’s pretty convoluted reasoning,” Bree accused, then grinned back at her mother. “It sounds like the kind of logic one of my characters would love.”

“Then you are still writing?” Megan asked.

Bree’s smile faltered. “Not at the moment, but I’ll get back to it.”

“It would be a real shame if you didn’t. You’re very good.”

“How do you know? Did Abby send the reviews?”

“She did, but that’s not how I know. I was there.”

Bree blinked at that. “There? As in the theater?”

“For every play,” her mother confirmed.

“Even the bomb?”

“Don’t you dare call it that,” Megan said indignantly. “The characters and theme in that play were right on the money. Since being in New York, I’ve seen a lot of good theater productions, so I think I know one when I see it.”

Stunned by her mother’s assessment and suddenly anxious to hear more, Bree pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall that had a coffee shop at one end. “I’d like a soda. How about you?”

“I’d love a cup of coffee,” Megan said.

“And peach pie?” Bree asked, suddenly remembering it was her mother’s favorite.

Megan’s expression brightened. “You remembered that?”

“How could I forget? It was the one thing Gram baked that we had to fight you to get our share. You were always trying to come up with excuses to send us away from the table without dessert.”

Her mother immediately looked guilty. “You knew what I was doing?”

“Of course. We all did. Sometimes we deliberately misbehaved to help you out.”

Inside the coffee shop, when they had their drinks and their pie, Bree lifted her gaze. “Tell me why you thought the problems with the last play weren’t my fault.”

Her mother’s expression turned thoughtful. “For me, what makes a good play—a good drama, that is—are the characters. Are they people an audience can relate to? Is the story solid? I liked the people you wrote about. I cared what happened to them.”

“Then what went wrong? Why did the critics hate it?”

“Okay, maybe I’m being completely biased here, but I think it had to do with the performances, and since I’d seen
many of those same actors in your other plays and they were good, then it seems to me it must have been the director who steered them wrong.”

Bree sat back in astonishment at her mother’s insight. Marty didn’t always direct. He’d filled in at the eleventh hour on her third play because the director they’d hired had a last-minute conflict. At the time she’d wondered if his directing style wasn’t a little heavy-handed, but she’d still been too much of a novice and too much in awe of him to question his decisions. When he’d reworked dialogue, removing every last speck of subtlety, she’d argued, but eventually given in to his expertise. If the seasoned actors in the cast weren’t balking, how could she?

Listening to her mother pick apart the production with the eye of someone who understood drama, who could somehow separate the words spoken from the actor’s performance and the director’s staging, was an eye-opener.

“You really saw what I wrote, despite what happened on that stage,” Bree said, amazed. “Why couldn’t anyone else see that?”

“For one thing, it’s the critic’s job to assess what’s actually on the stage, not what it could have been if things had been done differently. For another, I know your heart. And it’s in everything you write. I’d love to see that play done again by someone who truly understands the characters.”

“What about the second play?” Bree asked, genuinely wanting to know.

Megan’s brow wrinkled. “My least favorite, actually.”

Rather than being upset, Bree merely wanted an explanation. “Why?”

“I felt as if you were rushed writing it. The characters never felt completely real to me.”

“You’re right. I was blocked at first, and then, with a
deadline staring me in the face, I did rush. Marty said it was fine, but I never believed that. I was surprised it did as well as it did.”

She lifted her gaze to her mother’s. “I wish I’d known you were there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make you nervous or upset you. Those were your nights. It was enough just to share in them. I was so proud of you I could hardly stand it, though. I wanted to leap up and shout that you were my daughter, especially during the encores on that first play when they brought you up onstage.”