Love in Bloom Page 6

  All eight-by-tens in identical wood frames, they varied between photos of a chubby, bright-eyed, flame-haired infant and an equally bright-eyed, flame-haired young woman whose curls tumbled down her slender back in wild abandon, or were sometimes tamed into twin French braids that ringed her head and frothed into a riot of curls at her nape. The redheaded beauty yelled at a baseball game, petted a horse, laughed heartily, smiled dreamily, sat on a log, drove a tractor… The baby, no doubt Isabella, played with her toes, a favorite rattle, a doll, reached for a mobile, blew bubbles at the camera. There were no photos of the two of them together, no photos of Tate or anyone else, just Isabella and the young woman who had to be her mother.

  The latter woke an ache in Lily’s chest. She had the feeling that she was looking at the reason for Tate’s every frown, snap and growl.

  Daddy’s not married, either.

  Lily had tried not to think about Isabella’s statement, not to wonder how Tate had come to be a single father, but she felt in her bones that he was not divorced. No, these photos told her that Tate Bronson was widowed. Somehow his young wife had died. He had yet, however, to let her go. That became abundantly clear as Lily followed father and daughter into the roomy kitchen with its golden woods and rusty stone countertops.

  While Lily sat at an iron and glass table, Tate and Isabella fetched a pot from the stainless steel refrigerator, fastened a piece of cheesecloth over a crock in the sink and slowly poured the contents of the pot into the crock. From where Lily sat, she could see through the dining room to the living area, where a large, gilt-framed wedding portrait hung. A very young Tate in cowboy hat, blue jeans and a tuxedo jacket ran hand-in-hand with Isabella’s mother, who wore a billowing, strapless white wedding gown, her long, curly red hair and a white veil flowing out behind them, across a field of golden waving grass much like that which surrounded the barn outside. Sunlight slanted across a cloudless sky, beaming down on the happy couple.

  Lily’s heart literally ached for him. What had happened? How had Tate survived such loss? She felt silly and foolish, remembering her distress when some man she’d liked had failed to notice her or, worse, had shown an interest in her more vivacious younger sister. Tate had truly loved. Tate had been loved. His loss had been real. Lily’s had never been more than secret and imagined.

  God forgive me for my petty self-centeredness, she prayed silently.

  A giggle drew her attention back to the activities at the sink. The cloth was now piled with berries and leaves. Tate set aside the pot and twisted the cloth to remove all the juice before dumping the remains into the compost can, then he stretched a fresh piece of clean white cloth over the top of the crock. He did this twice more before the pot was empty. Isabella’s fingers were stained by the time they were done, but thanks to a dishtowel that Tate had draped around her neck, her clothing remained clean. Tate squirted dishwashing liquid into the pot and ran hot water into it then left it to sit while he and Isabella filled glasses with ice and ran the tea from a spigot in the crock. Isabella then proudly presented a glass to Lily. The tea was indeed blue, sweet and a bit minty.

  “Lovely. What is it?”

  “Dewberry,” Tate answered. “It was Eve’s grandmother’s recipe.”

  She didn’t have to ask who “Eve” might be, not that she had a chance as the front door opened and a middle-aged couple entered, followed by a younger couple and a toddler. Tate introduced Lily to his parents. Ginny and Peter Bronson were both in their fifties. Ginny’s short, thick, ash-blond hair hid her silvering well, but Peter’s dark brown showed a liberal sprinkling of gray. Tate obviously got his dimples from his dad and his warm brown eyes from his mom, from whom he also apparently got his height, Peter standing little more than an inch taller than his wife. The young brunette and tall, dark-haired man with the lopsided nose turned out to be Tate’s older sister, Gayla, and her husband, Bud Lott, visiting from Kansas City with their two-year-old son, Jay. Everyone seemed surprised to find Lily there, but no one appeared unhappy about it.

  “You’re one of the newcomers,” Ginny Bronson said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” Gayla, Tate’s sister, quipped, “just because the whole town’s future is resting on your shoulders.”

  “The whole town?” Lily echoed, alarmed. Was the situation in Bygones truly that dire?

  “Oh, not you personally,” Gayla said with a contrived little wave. “Besides, I hear that everyone has great hopes for this scheme.” She quickly changed the subject then, almost as full of questions as Isabella, though she managed to be a bit more subtle than Isabella had been.

  Everyone exclaimed about Isabella’s berry tea, which they all drank while eating heaping helpings of Ginny Bronson’s flag cake, a confection topped with whipped cream, strawberries and blueberries. The Fourth of July, Peter Bronson joked, was always a “berry good time.”

  After the cake they all trouped outside, carrying folding lawn chairs, and up to the crest of a low hill behind the house overlooking a pond, where a space had been cleared. Peter opened a box, and the fun began with Tate and Bud, who were obviously good friends, setting off the fireworks. Jay sat in his grandfather’s lap, while Isabella sat in her grandmother’s, oohing and aahing over every bang and bright splash of color. By the time the last starburst drifted into the dark mirror of the pond, Jay snored on his grandpa’s shoulder and Isabella’s eyelids drooped, though how either could entertain the notion of sleep with all the noise was beyond Lily’s understanding.

  As the party walked back to the house, Peter talked about his forebears. “This was all part of the original homestead of Saul Bronson,” he said. “He came to the state in 1870 from St. Louis.”

  “Isabella said something about a disagreement over a girlfriend,” Lily ventured warily.

  “Mmm-hmm. Sarabeth DeMonde. Both Paul and Saul courted her, but she chose Paul, prompting Saul to head west and lose himself out here on the prairie. Within a few months, though, Paul realized that Sarabeth was not worth losing his brother and only family over. He followed Saul to Kansas, and together the brothers founded the town, calling it Bygones in keeping with Saul’s decision to forgive and forget. The brothers enjoyed a sizable inheritance from their parents, who were in shipping, and converted it into land. Eventually both married. Saul and his wife lived in town. Paul and his family preferred the country. Guess we take after Paul.”

  “I can see why,” she said, inhaling deeply, enjoying the relative quiet. A bird called in the distance, the sound haunting and strangely poignant. “What is that?”

  “Whip-poor-will,” Tate answered. “I sit out here sometimes at night and listen to them for hours. Don’t know which I love more, them or the doves.”

  “It’s that old owl around here that I love to hear,” Ginny said. “I go to sleep listening to that ‘hoo-hoo-hoo.’”

  “I’ve got a sleepy baby bird right here,” Bud said, cradling his son against his chest.

  “We’d better get back to the house and get him down for the night,” Gayla said.

  “We’ll be along shortly,” Peter told them as they moved off toward their vehicle.

  “Mom,” Tate said, “could you stay and get Isabella to bed while I run Lily back into town?”

  “Of course, son. Your dad can ride on home with Gayla and Bud.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Isabella hugged Lily, saying a sleepy “G’night.”

  “Good night, sweetie, and thank you for all the help today and the yummy tea and the invitation. I had a berry good time.”

  Isabella giggled and went with her grandparents into the house. “It was nice to meet you, Lily,” Ginny called as she passed through the door held open by her husband.

  “You, too. Good night.”

  Tate walked her into the dark garage and opened the truck door for her again, handing her up into the passenger seat of the cab with exquisite care. Lily read that as accurately as a letter.

 
; Dear Lily, I will treat you as you deserve to be treated. Please do not mistake it for anything more than common courtesy. Sincerely, Tate Bronson.

  She thought of all those photos on the walls of his home and felt like crying, as much for herself as for him—not that she was foolish enough to think of Tate Bronson as anything other than a nice young man who had been dealt a heavy blow. She just hated for any of her friends to carry around the kind of sadness she now sensed in him.

  Chapter Five

  Lily Farnsworth was a quiet one. Well, quieter than the other women of his acquaintance, anyway, Tate mused. She was quieter than his mom, way quieter than Gayla, quieter than Eve had been or certainly Isabella would ever be. Tate had seen her looking at the photos, and he knew that she wanted to ask questions, but she wouldn’t. He could avoid the whole subject just by keeping his own mouth shut. The puzzling thing was that, for once, he didn’t want to avoid the subject.

  He waited until the house fell from sight in his rearview mirror, then he just said it.

  “She died of a stroke about four minutes after Isabella was born.”

  Lily gasped, her face turning to him so that the dash lights reflected off the lenses of her glasses. “What?”

  “Eve. My wife. She died about four minutes after Isabella was born.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “It was a long, difficult labor,” he went on. “Eve’s blood pressure had spiked repeatedly, but the doctor wasn’t worried. Then we went into delivery. Evie was so tired. I said, ‘Let’s get this over with, sweetheart. Let’s bring our little girl into the world.’ I don’t know how she did it. She pushed so hard, and then there was Isabella, beautiful and perfect. We were laughing and holding her together while the doctor and nurses took care of things, and then they asked Eve for one more push. Suddenly she convulsed. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she died in the space of a heartbeat.”

  “Tate.” Lily reached across the cab and latched onto his forearm with her finely knuckled hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, feeling oddly comforted. “They tried to bring her back. They knew she’d stroked, that her brain was gone, but they’d hoped to keep her heart beating so she wouldn’t die on our daughter’s birthday, but it didn’t work.”

  Lily took her hand back. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say. Eve and I were high school sweethearts. We married young. Everyone thought too young, but we were sensible and got our house built and in order before we started our family. And then Eve was gone.”

  “Your greatest joy and deepest sorrow within minutes,” Lily whispered.

  He nodded. “That about sums it up. A father and a widower on the same day. I don’t think I’d have made it through the loss without my daughter.”

  “I’m glad you have her.”

  “So am I, but you can see now why Isabella latches on to every single woman of a motherly age who crosses her path.”

  “Because she never knew her own mother.”

  “Just so. Make no mistake about it, though.” He shifted in his seat and said it straight out. “I never intend to remarry.”

  “But marrying again doesn’t mean that you’d be widowed again.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but the odds against it are—”

  “The odds against it the first time were high.”

  “Still—”

  “I won’t marry again because I won’t have more children,” Tate stated flatly. “I can’t go through that again. I just won’t risk it,” he told her, “and no one has a right to ask me to. No one. Not after what I’ve been through.”

  “O-of course,” Lily whispered, ducking her head.

  Tate nodded, telling himself that it had to be said. It was better this way. Now, no one would be hurt. No one would start imagining futures where none could exist. They could be friends without worrying about romantic foolishness.

  He changed the subject, chatting about fireworks and dewberry tea, the calf he’d treated and the progress they’d made in the shop that day. She nodded, hummed and tried to act interested, but he felt like Isabella, running off at the mouth. When they got to the shop, he started to get out and go around to open her door for her, but she hopped out before he could get a boot on the ground.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she called from the curb. “And for all your help this afternoon.”

  “Sure,” he replied, waving. “No problem.”

  She closed the door. As he pulled away, he heard her say something. It sounded like “Just part of your official responsibilities.”

  Why that made him squirm, he didn’t know. It was only the truth. He was her SOS Committee contact and host. Nothing more. He had done what he was supposed to do where she was concerned, and now that he’d laid out the facts, he could fulfill his official responsibilities without fear of any misunderstandings between them. Finally he could relax around her. He was sure that he’d start to feel good about that anytime now.

  * * *

  Staring down at the dark, empty street the next evening, Lily set aside her prepackaged dinner, her meal largely untouched. Earlier that morning after her flowers had arrived, she had worked on the arrangements that she had promised the other business owners, pouring everything she had into the work, aware that much depended on the success of this “scheme,” as Gayla had put it. Throughout the afternoon the Independence Day decorations had come down, and the Grand Opening banner had gone up. Spanning the street, it declared Monday as the “Heart of Main Street GRAND OPENING” and named the new businesses in town: Cozy Cup Cafe, Sweet Dreams Bakery, Love in Bloom, Happy Endings Bookstore, The Fixer-Upper and Fluff & Stuff. Spurred by that reminder of the looming opening and the hopes of the town, Lily had stayed so busy that she’d barely had time to think about Tate or Isabella or the previous evening’s events. Yet everything he’d told her had hovered in the back of her mind.

  She had held it off by hurrying to the grocery to fully stock her freezer, refrigerator and pantry, paying to have what she couldn’t carry, including numerous cans of tiny shrimp, delivered by a teenage boy in a beat-up Jeep. Now, however, with the day done and downtown all but deserted, she could no longer hold the shadows at bay. Instead she let the dark clouds roll over the horizon of her thoughts and faced facts.

  She was a fool when it came to men. She continually built emotional castles in the air around men who cared nothing for her. Most had never known she even existed. Tate, at least, had recognized her interest. He’d seen that she was intrigued by him and his daughter, despite her best intentions and better judgment, and he’d let her know that she shouldn’t pin any hopes on him. She should be grateful to him, not moping around and disappointed.

  Lily stared across the street at the yellow light behind the window shade of Miss Mars’s apartment and wondered if she would still be here in another fifty or sixty years, sitting alone, eating frozen dinners and staring down at an empty street. If so, she hoped she would be as good-natured and sweet about it as Miss Mars. Lily couldn’t help wondering if that old dear had ever had her silly heart broken. Did she have a sister, for instance, who had married the man with whom she’d fancied herself in love? Lily could not even call home to Boston for fear of hearing about the newlyweds, who were no doubt back from the honeymoon by now and at the law firm, taking the world by storm. No, it was better to sit alone and concentrate on what was important.

  This town was important. Making her business a success was important. Living the life that God had ordained for her was important. That mattered most of all.

  After a while Lily went to her room, got out her Bible and read until her eyes grew heavy and she finally slept, comforted. For the moment at least.

  She woke the next morning uneasy, however, and no matter how industriously she worked, for some reason Lily couldn’t seem to pull the shop together. Oh, all the elements were there. The fixtures were all in place. The fresh flowers had been delivered. Th
e painting had been finished and the shelves were stocked, but the place seemed a jumble. Lily couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong, so she simply asked God to show her what was missing.

  After saying that prayer, she decided to spend the majority of Saturday afternoon finishing the arrangements and delivering them to the various stores. Everyone seemed quite pleased, and she tried to take heart from that. Feeling that she had done all that she could, Lily spent the evening painting her furniture and puttering around the apartment. She went to bed that evening pleasantly exhausted—and woke the following morning deeply depressed.

  She missed her friends. She missed her church. She missed her old apartment, dinky and expensive as it had been. She missed her car, as pathetic as that seemed. Everything just felt all wrong, and this being Sunday, she didn’t even have the distraction of work to occupy her mind. Worry moved in and took up residence.

  What if she couldn’t make the shop a success? Bygones was banking on her and the others to make their businesses work. Suddenly it felt as if the town expected too much, needed too much. Lily knew, of course, that such defeatist thoughts were not of God and that she should get her mind off them.

  An image of the church by which Tate had driven her on Thursday came to her, and Lily briefly considered walking there. It couldn’t be more than six or seven blocks, but she hadn’t noted the service times so didn’t know when to arrive. Besides, she’d never been bold enough to walk into any place uninvited and unannounced all alone.

  Well, she would just have to have church by herself. So determined, she made herself presentable, fetched her Bible from her bedroom, perched on the chaise, which was quickly becoming her preferred piece of furniture and began to read aloud from the eighth Psalm.

  “‘O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens.’”

  A tapping came at her door, and she looked up from the Bible as if expecting a guest to materialize in the center of the room. But of course she had locked her door the night before. It was easier to take the girl out of Boston than to take Boston out of the girl, after all. Keeping her finger inside the Bible to hold her place, she quickly rose and moved into the tiny entry to let in her guest.