Her Reason to Stay Page 7

“Do you want me to lock the door?”

  A faint “thanks” floated back. Daphne set the lock before she went out and got into her car. Traffic was lighter as the streets grew dark.

  She drove around the square until she found the church listed in the Yellow Pages. The side door stood open. Another welcome, though not the kind a lot of the folks who usually attended services here might even know about.

  Daphne parked and got out of her car. Nightfall had brought a chill to the air. Her sweater proved little protection.

  As she started inside, a woman came down the side staircase, tucking a leather notebook beneath her elbow. Daphne looked up to ask if she knew where the meeting was being held.

  Again, she peered into a mirror of her own face. Again, the shock was physical.

  “Daphne? How did you know—” A smile had started forming, but it froze on Raina’s face.

  “I didn’t.” With a familiar sense of desperation, she looked for the right door to escape through. She needed the support of a meeting tonight as much as she ever had.

  “You’re not looking for me?”

  “Not right this minute, but we need to talk.” She’d come prepared to tell a roomful of alcoholics that she was one of them, but this was no way to tell her sister.

  Raina looked down the stairs. “I don’t understand.”

  “I looked this place up in the phone book.”

  “There’s no service tonight. Where are you going at this hour?” She checked her watch to make sure she had the time right. Her notebook slipped.

  Daphne grabbed it and handed it over. “There’s a meeting in this building.”

  Raina glanced downward again. “Oh.” She stared at Daphne, her eyes troubled.

  “Maybe we should talk now.”

  “No.” Raina took one step backward, and Daphne felt the rejection with the force of a slap to the face.

  Tears started to her eyes. “I’m taking care of my problem,” she said, unwilling to let her sister see how much her reaction hurt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” It was the last thing she meant, but she had pride. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not and neither am I. We’re both too quick to misunderstand.”

  Raina came down a step, and Daphne wanted nothing more than to be the one to back away this time. But you didn’t change your life making the same old mistakes.

  “Come to my house. After.” She took one last look toward the stairs. “The meeting’s down there.”

  “After is too late for tonight.” And she wasn’t sure she could face Raina with her best intentions intact.

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Okay, but it’ll have to be late in the day. I have a job.”

  Raina looked up, her eyes wide and far more innocent than the ones Daphne saw in her own mirror.

  “Which one did you take?”

  Daphne laughed. “At least you assumed I’d have the choice. I’m working for Miriam Burke, the florist. Delivering flowers.”

  “I’m so sorry about this, Daphne.”

  “Forget it,” Daphne said, recognizing that the kindness in Raina’s voice meant she could, as well. “I want to explain, but we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Do you know where I live?”

  “No,” she said with a start of surprise.

  Raina pulled an envelope out of her purse and then rummaged for a pen. She scrawled words on the envelope and passed it across. “I’ll find something for us to eat.”

  Daphne nodded, too uneasy to contemplate food. “Okay, but Raina, it’s not as bad as you might be expecting.”

  “I believe you.”

  Raina took Daphne’s hand. Daphne hung on, imagining she could feel her twin’s pulse. The tears were going to rain like a tropical storm if she didn’t get out of here.

  She pulled Raina close and hugged her, briefly enough that Raina could put it down as a small collision.

  “Thanks, Raina. You can’t know what that means.”

  She barely touched any of the stairs on her way down. A sign posted on the third door she came to gave her almost as much relief as her first-ever double shot of Glenfiddich.

  She eased inside just as another woman latched both hands around the bull-nosed edges of the podium at the front of the room.

  Here was safety and a reminder that she was the kind of woman a sister could love. She’d fought her worst instincts to become a good woman. And Raina believed in her. That had to mean her effort was not in vain.

  The woman at the podium waited with a smile for Daphne to take the first open chair. “My name is Camille,” she said, “and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hello, Camille,” Daphne said with the others.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN RAINA FINALLY picked up the receiver, Daphne almost sang with happiness.

  But then Raina spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve been so out of pocket. I’ve had a busy week, several meetings, some loose ends to tie up from my mother’s work.”

  The voice didn’t even sound like Raina’s, and Daphne could find no response. In the nine days since she’d seen her sister in the church, Raina had kept putting off the talk they needed to have. Her compassion seemed to have been instinctual, but premature.

  “Daphne?”

  “I’m digging for the courage to ask the obvious question.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to talk now that you know I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Where do you get these ideas?” Raina must be moving around. A door squeaked on her side of the conversation. “Give me a sec.” A few footsteps—heels on marble—and then she seemed to push through another squeaking door. “I sounded so stiff because I felt ridiculous saying I had engagements and commitments when you’re working at a florist’s.”

  “I assume you’re not being condescending?”

  “Of course not. But your situation is making me very aware of mine. I was sitting at a conference table yesterday, eating foie gras while we decided how many blankets a shelter down near your hotel needs.”

  “You waste money on foie gras while people are sleeping cold in the street?”

  “Don’t make me think about it any harder. I feel ridiculous talking about my stuff when you do real work.” She lifted her voice. “But I did tell them we needed to eat pb and j from now on, like the clients who use the facilities.”

  “Clients?”

  “Give me a little bit of understanding.”

  Daphne changed the subject. “When do you want to meet?”

  “Tonight would be great if you can make it.”

  They agreed on a time, and Daphne told herself to take Raina at her word and stop borrowing trouble. She shut her phone and entered the shop to find a crowd, several layers deep.

  Of course. It was the day before Mother’s Day. Miriam had put up posters and advertisements before Daphne had even started at the shop, but Daphne hadn’t connected Mother’s Day with Raina’s loss until now.

  On the day before her first Mother’s Day alone, she’d be celebrating by hearing the tale of her sister’s ugly past.

  Miriam hurtled out of the back, peering over the heads of three customers. “Remember how we discussed your working in the shop, too?”

  Daphne went to the counter, already reaching for an apron.

  The morning sped by. She had no talent for arranging, but she could gather the stems and blooms Miriam wanted. She sold most of the arrangements waiting in the refrigerators.

  “Talk about trial by fire,” Miriam said a little after noon as she took over a bow Daphne had manhandled into tattered ugliness. She tossed Daphne’s bow into the waste can and cut a new length of ribbon. “I’ll get this.” As someone else opened the door, she pressed her hands and the ribbon to her ears. “That bell is driving me crazy.”

  “I’ll see to them.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Daphne watched Miriam replace the mess she’d made.

  “Don’t worr
y.” Miriam glanced over her shoulder. “It’s a matter of practice.”

  Daphne went to the front, and almost collided with Patrick, studying the meager selection of bouquets still arranged in one of the refrigerators.

  Seeing him so unexpectedly was more than startling. “Hi,” she said, her voice squeaky because her throat had tightened. He was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt. Office uniform for billions of men every day. But Daphne had to fight to keep from sliding her hand over his chest, searching for the flat stomach muscles beneath his expensive cotton shirt.

  “Hi.” He didn’t turn to her. His hard-edged profile presented a challenge. She willed him to look at her. She wanted to see whether his need was as compelling as hers.

  “May I help you?”

  Her stiff tone did the trick. She expected ice in his eyes, but he turned as if he’d been waiting to meet her gaze. His eyes devoured her as she tucked her hands behind her back to keep from touching him.

  “Daphne,” he said.

  She nodded.

  He came closer. “I heard you’d found this job.”

  “I was worried you and Raina might disapprove.”

  “Work’s important,” he said. “I have clients who—” He stopped, his smile, self-mocking and irresistible. “Not that I’m comparing you to my clients.”

  He probably could. She’d done things that would shock him as much—maybe more than—Raina. The knowledge restored Daphne to reality.

  “You need something for Mother’s Day?”

  “My son wants a bouquet, or maybe a plant for his mother for tomorrow. I need to look at your catalog. Can you still deliver an arrangement today?”

  “Sure.” She came around the counter, looking for a boy, but Patrick was alone. “Where is your son?”

  “He’s at home with my mother. I promised to bring a picture of whatever I send.”

  She led him to the catalog on a stand on the counter. “I can make a copy.”

  “What do you think?” Patrick asked. “Carnations?”

  “Does your son have a favorite color?”

  “Orange, and Lisa likes carnations.”

  She tried to believe her stab of envy had nothing to do with Patrick. She wanted to be a woman whose tastes were remembered.

  “I saw an arrangement with orange-tipped ones.” She leafed through the plastic-sleeved pages. “Here we are. You have three options.”

  “Will would choose the big one.”

  Daphne laughed and looked up to find Patrick watching her. His intensity literally robbed her of oxygen.

  They weren’t alone. Suddenly, she felt as if everyone else in the shop was also waiting, breath held, to see what happened next. But no one else could be as aware of the line of his chin, the dark shadow of his beard, the contrast between rough and smooth of his hand on her wrist and his mouth, curved in a tense invitation.

  She longed to move close to him, to let his mouth persuade her that nothing was wrong about her unexpected need of him.

  Instead, she made herself remember her job. “Do you have an address?”

  At first he looked blank. His fingers, long, strong, capable, trembled as he fished a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket. She caught a whiff of his spicy scent as he leaned toward her, smoothing the paper open. “She’ll receive it by tomorrow?”

  “As long as we send it by five.” She glanced at the wide-faced, Victorian clock over the door. “You still have plenty of time.”

  She entered Lisa Gannon’s information, but it was like typing with a set of ten cucumbers. Her hands didn’t want to work. Finally, she got as far as taking Patrick’s credit card and running it through Miriam’s old-fashioned machine.

  He signed the charge slip. She pushed his copy to him.

  “Thanks.” He took it from her.

  Their fingertips brushed. Just like a heroine in a romance novel, she felt a surge of desire. Yearning that made her stomach feel hollow and her legs heavy.

  “Let me make a copy of the picture of the bouquet.” She took the sheet out and ran it through the copier and pushed that across the counter, too.

  He folded it and added it to the same pocket as his ex-wife’s address. “I want to see you,” he said, low-voiced.

  She studied the other customers. No one seemed to be as interested as she feared. “Call me,” she said. “Or come to the hote—no, I don’t want you to come there.”

  “I’m not a snob.”

  “I’m not sure this is even the right conversation to be having.”

  “We have to,” he said in an almost-resigned tone. “I can’t pretend I don’t—” He glanced at the others in the store now. “It’s too strong,” he said. “We can’t pretend nothing’s happening between us.”

  “Patrick, I’m working,” she said, willing him to leave, yet wanting him to stay.

  He took her wrist and pulled her toward the door. “I know it’s the wrong time,” he said almost against her temple.

  “You don’t know things about me.”

  “Like what? You can’t imagine what I do know about people.”

  “Not like me.”

  “What are you trying to—” And then he stopped. “I forgot something.”

  “What?” Her heart was banging like a cannon even though she prided herself on the control that had gotten her through rehab and AA without a misstep so far.

  “I need to go to the greenhouse.”

  On an exhale, Daphne laughed, part shock, part amusement, a hundred percent awareness that Patrick was a mystery to her.

  “I know,” he said, “but you might as well realize I’m tangled up in family. Miriam developed a rose for my mother, and I give her one for Mother’s Day every year.”

  “Okay. I’ll get Miriam.”

  “No, thanks.” He tugged at his tie and his tailor-made collar. “I can find her, but you and I are going to talk.”

  He disappeared through the doorway to the back, and Daphne sagged against the counter. Miriam’s voice lifted as she greeted Patrick with gladness. His rumbled in return.

  Like a high-school wallflower, Daphne leaned into the hall to get a look at them. Their silhouettes moved toward the greenhouse.

  Daphne rubbed her forearms for comfort. She couldn’t stand still. She plastered a smile on her face and threw herself into selling flowers and explaining she wasn’t Raina.

  The store emptied out again while Patrick was with Miriam. Their voices preceded them, coming back.

  “I appreciate it,” Patrick said.

  The clock ticked over the door. Daphne still had deliveries to make. She should leave now, but she couldn’t make herself use that door before Patrick did.

  How long since she’d felt anything except horror at her bad judgment and fear that she’d drink again? She should be thinking of Raina, worrying about the conversation they had to get through tonight.

  Family mattered. A man with priorities of his own did not…could not…matter to her.

  “I owe your mother everything,” Miriam was saying. “She started me in business, and she showed me what to do with the roses. I enjoyed the time she spent with me here.”

  “It’s a shame her greenhouse is sitting neglected, but you know Mom. She bounces from one interest to the next. Interior design is her newest thing. You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t drop by with Will in tow to coordinate your color palette.”

  Miriam laughed. “I’ll bolt the door if she shows up.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  “The Gloria is on the house.”

  “Thanks, but I want to pay,” he said. “It’s my gift for her.”

  “You never change, Patrick.” She rested her fist against his shoulder. “Daphne will check you out.”

  Patrick stopped, smiling as he set a long-stemmed rose on the counter. A mauve ribbon matched the bud bursting to bloom.

  “Need my card again?” he asked.

  “Uh-uh. Thanks.” Daphne’s fingers refused to obey again. She fumbled with th
e buttons on the cash register and had to start over.

  Daphne finished his transaction and wrapped his rose in pale pink tissue, marked with Miriam’s logo, and then she found a box, in which she nestled the rose in more tissue.

  Patrick waited by the counter, making her nervous. “Did you manage to talk to Raina?” he asked.

  “I’m seeing her after work tonight.” She could just imagine his reaction to the stories she had to tell her sister.

  “Good. She needs you.”

  “That was the last thing I expected you to say. Have you talked to her?”

  “I know her.” He balanced the box in one hand and went toward the door. Daphne followed him. He pushed against the weight of the door with his free hand. “Maybe you need each other.”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm. Cool air swept in around his shoulder. More spring showers on the way. “Why are you saying these things? You don’t know me.”

  He shook his head and let his fingertips rest against her cheek. When she leaned against his hand, he bent down. His lips brushed hers. Need met need, sheer physical relief spun into urgency.

  Suddenly, it was as if she were a spectator. She saw Patrick, his back to the open door, and herself, lifting her hands to his face because she couldn’t stop, and then she imagined Miriam bursting out of the back or one of Patrick’s neighbors literally stumbling across them.

  She broke away, staring at him, stunned and yet eager for him to take the decision away from her, to take her in his arms again.

  “I know you,” he said. “And you know me. Isn’t it like that sometimes?”

  “I KNOW YOU,” he’d said while his kiss had still burned on her mouth. But in fact, he didn’t. When he really understood the truth about her, how would he feel?

  The old Daphne would have fled, the better portion of a fifth of whiskey in her gut, and the rest of the bottle tucked safely close at hand in the glove box. The new Daphne turned the lock on the door at Bundle of Blooms, leaving Miriam to her greenhouse work.

  She still had Raina to face.

  Daphne walked quickly to her car and climbed in to lean her forehead against the steering wheel.

  She pulled Raina’s envelope from her purse and committed the chicken-scratch directions to memory. When she dropped the envelope on the seat again, she saw the return address and laughed.