Waiting for Sunrise (35 page)

Anise
July 2000

Some memories come with distinction. Exactness. Moments I can recall with precision as to what I was wearing. Where I was standing. The music playing on the radio.

What I was thinking.

The day I met Ross Claybourne—
Dr
. Ross Claybourne—is no exception. The memory is clear.

I had put in a full day at the Calla Lily
,
my newly named floral shop. Up until two years before, when my mother died, the shop had been known as Kelly’s Floral Shop, appropriately named for the woman who’d opened it, Gertrude Kelly.

“Gertie” she’d been called by family and friends.

Not by my brother and me, of course. We’d called her “Mom.”

And Dad . . . Well, in the beginning he’d also called her Gertie. But soon after my tenth birthday, I suppose he called her “the plantiff.” After that, “your mother.”

But that’s another story. And a sad one. I tend to stay away from sad stories.

I was making floral margaritas for the Stockford wedding reception, ten to be exact. I’d filled the plastic margarita glasses with wax crystals, covered the wide opening with a circular piece of cardboard, and then hot-glued a mat of duckweed, which I topped with golden-yellow preserved gardenias and freeze-dried orange rose petals.

I placed them in a carrying container, along with yards of white and peach netting, which would be used to form a cloud at their bases. I reached for the on/off knob of the radio. Faith Hill’s song “Breathe” wafted from its small speakers, a song expressive of passion. Something I’d never really known.

The phone rang.

I finished the task of switching off the radio before turning toward the old wooden countertop where the phone rested, the black rotary phone my mother had installed in the mid-seventies and I’d not been able to part with.

“The Calla Lily,” I said. “This is Anise.”

“Oh good, Anise. I caught you. I was afraid you had already headed out to the church for the wedding.” My caller was Lisa MacNeil, co-owner of the Harbour Inn, one of the oldest bed-and-breakfast inns of New England. She was also my best friend.

I sighed appropriately, knowing Lisa would understand. “I’m nearly loaded up. One last box to carry out to the van. Cheryl is already there, so . . .”

“Are you planning to stay once you get everything set up?” Panic rose in Lisa’s voice.

“Goodness no. You know me and weddings.” I allowed a giggle to escape my throat. Forced but effective.

“Can I burden you to bring a fresh arrangement for the front hall sometime later today?”

“What happened to the one I brought yesterday?”

Now it was Lisa’s turn to sigh. “An unsupervised child just
had
to inspect it.”

This time my giggle was real. “I think I have something here that will suffice. I’ll be there around . . . five?” I reached for a pad and pencil to make myself a note.

“Perfect. Dinner afterward with Derrick and me? At the inn, on us?”

I paused. Saturday evenings were nearly always spent with my brother Jon and his wife—and my assistant—Cheryl and their family. My
not
being there would hardly be a tragedy. And, since I’d sometimes rather spend an evening with Lisa and Derrick, I decided to take her up on it. “Sounds good,” I said. “I could use some Lisa and Derrick time.”

“See you when you get here.”

I delivered the remainder of the flowers and other arrangements to the Chapel of Saint Mark and found Cheryl already busy at work. I watched her with amazement. What she’d managed to accomplish in the short time she’d been there was nothing short of miraculous. Already the reception hall looked ready for the one hundred guests who would celebrate in just a few hours, though I knew we had a few touches left to arrange.

As soon as Cheryl spotted me, she met me at the first table I’d come to, which had been set up as a place for staging our boxes and containers. “Before I forget,” I said, “I have to go out to the inn this afternoon to replace the front hall arrangement. Lisa has asked me to stay for dinner. I hope that’s not an inconvenience.”

Cheryl—a tall, willowy redhead—pretended to pout, but I knew her better than to take it to heart. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. Although little Aleya will be devastated.”

“Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow and I’ll bring her a lollypop.”

Cheryl brightened. “Well, with news like that, I can guarantee you she’ll get over the devastation.”

We reached into the box with the floral margaritas simultaneously; our chatter was complete and work about to begin.

———

A few hours later, my Land Rover rambled toward the seashore and the inn. The windows were down; a cross breeze of thick air ruffled my recently ordered L.L. Bean linen cropped pants and a long-sleeved linen tunic. Though the summer sun warmed our eastern Maine town during the day, I tended to get cold in the evenings when the wind blew in from our surrounding hillsides, skipping across Seaside Point’s shoreline. Because the inn was only a stone’s throw from both, I slid a long, narrow scarf around my neck as soon as I pulled into the personnel parking area behind the grand inn.

The back of Harbour Inn rose majestically before me. Still early in the evening, faint light poured from nearly every one of the twenty windows stretched across the second and third floors. The first-floor windows were dark, save those of the inn’s restaurant against the right corner.

I slipped out of my car, closing the door quietly behind me. Such peace as what was felt in the gentle rustling of the shrubs, the lapping of water, and the salty-sweet air should not, in my opinion, be disturbed. I opened the back door, pulled the container holding the front hall arrangement—a summer collection of apricots and greens—toward me, and closed the door with a click. With the vase held tight against my body, I mounted the seventeen steps leading to the wide porch. A quick glance upward showed that the porch lights—though few—had already been turned on in anticipation of night’s fall.

Lisa purposefully kept the lighting muted. Too much, she said, deterred from the romantic feel of sitting in the rockers in the evening, listening to the quiet sounds of the sea, the music from the restaurant.

With it still being before sunset, the flap-flap of the American flag—proudly displayed at the left side of the inn—greeted me. I watched it as I climbed, paying no attention to where I was going. And why should I? I’d gone up these steps a thousand times or more. I knew each one. Just how high to step. Just when I had reached the landing.

But this evening’s ascent was complicated by one of the inn’s guests coming down. Rather quickly. Looking out toward the harbor rather than to where he was going. We crashed into each other without warning; the vase slipped from my grip, falling to the step at my feet, then tumbling to all those behind me.

I turned and watched as though in slow motion as it shattered. The small amount of water I’d placed in the bottom splashed against the white boards while colors of green and apricot sprayed the brick landing. Dizziness washed over me; a strong arm wrapped around my waist while a hand gripped an upper arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh no!”

Our words were spoken together; mine but a whisper, his a deep baritone. I looked from the disaster below to celestial blue eyes slightly crinkled and etched by laugh lines. “I . . .” I righted myself, gripping the clean-white board railing to my right. My assailant’s hands fell away. Just as easily, they returned to slip under my left elbow, to guide me the remaining two steps to the landing.

“I am
so
sorry,” the man said, though rumblings of laughter echoed within the words.

I shook my head as I studied him. An older man. Well built. His hair neatly trimmed and receding. Clear skin. Handsome to a fault and with an easy smile, nearly irresistible. Nearly. “You don’t sound sorry.”

Peals of laughter escaped him. He pressed a hand against his chest as he said, “No, really. Really. I am.” He looked toward the busted vase and dying flowers. “That could have been a real accident.”

I planted my hands firmly on my waist; the linen tunic billowed like a puffy cloud. “That
was
an accident. What could have possibly made it more real?”

The man took a breath before extending his hand. In frustration, I stepped backward, nearly losing my balance again. Instead of shaking the man’s hand, I reached for it in desperation, lest I topple and lie among the tossed flowers. I felt it jerk, my body slam against his—rock solid and smelling of expensive aftershave—my arms lock around his neck as he took several steps backward.

Just then, Lisa barreled out a back door. “What in the world?”

Now it was my turn to laugh . . . so hard, I had to find one of the rockers to sit, the man not far behind me. Together we rocked and hooted—I still have no idea why—while Lisa stood at the top step, looking to the ground, shaking her head. When we finally sobered and I had wiped the tears from my cheeks, Lisa turned to us and said, “I take it you’ve met.”

The man stood. I noticed his attire now. Pressed slacks. Blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and cuffs, which were rolled to the elbows. Casual confidence exuded from every pore of his being, even as he, again, extended his hand. “Ross Claybourne,” he said. “Nice to bump into you. Twice.”

I laughed again, this time more subdued. I slipped my hand into his. It was warm. Soft for a man’s. “Anise Kelly.”

Lisa joined us, pointing toward the railing and the scene below. “I take it that was the floral arrangement for the front hall.”

I leaned back, crossing my legs. “I’m afraid so.”

Ross Claybourne shook his head. “My fault entirely. If you’ll let Lisa here know about the cost to replace it, I’ll be more than happy to pay.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going either.” I stood. “Lisa, I’ll run back to the shop, get another arrangement, and be back within forty-five minutes.”

Lisa waved her hands toward us. The overhead light shimmered within her dark blonde curls—cut short and framing her face—as they bounced in the fair breeze. “No, no. Just come in and we’ll have dinner. What’s one more night without a centerpiece?” She looked to the man standing nearby. “Dr. Claybourne, were you planning to go out for dinner or will you join us in the restaurant tonight?”

His gaze slid to the harbor, then to the hills, before resting on the two of us. “I hadn’t really decided yet. I just thought to get some fresh air first.” He nodded at me. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kelly.”

I swallowed. “Miss Kelly.”

A blush rose from the color of his shirt to his cheeks. “I apologize. Miss Kelly.” He nodded at Lisa. “Enjoy your dinner, ladies,” he said, then skipped down the stairs, stopping halfway. By now Lisa and I had stepped to the railing and peered down. His attention returned to us. “I’m more than happy to pick up the damage. The least I can do.”

“Don’t you dare, Dr. Claybourne,” Lisa said. “We have staff for that and you’re here for a much-needed break, remember?”

Even from where I stood, I could see the whisper of a cloud as it filled his eyes. Not entirely obscuring their blue brilliance but enough to tell me the man’s heart was wounded.

———

Derrick and Lisa filled me in on Dr. Claybourne’s story over steamed garden vegetables and halibut, broiled and seasoned to perfection by Derrick—a master chef. We dined in their private quarters of the inn: a sitting room, kitchen with eating area, bedroom and bath beautifully decorated in seaside blues and greens, yellows and reds.

“He’s a widower,” Lisa said.

I stabbed a piece of cauliflower with a silver fork. “Recent?”

Derrick, a handsome, fortysomething man with a remarkable full head of sandy blond hair, stuck the pad of his thumb to his lips to gather some of the seasoning of the fish. “Last year. He came here to get away for a while. To heal, if a man can heal after losing his wife of thirty-five years.” He pointed an index finger first at me, then at Lisa. “Don’t you two go cooking up anything for him, you hear me?”

Lisa gave him her best “get over yourself” look. “First, Mr. MacNeil, your words would have a much better chance of warning us if there were not such a delightful twinkle in your eye.”

Derrick rolled his green eyes in protest.

“Second,” Lisa continued. “Just how is it that you know so much about Dr. Claybourne.”

Derrick took a long sip of his iced tea. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said after a deep swallow.

“You most assuredly do. You know exactly how long the man was married.”

Derrick’s hands shot up as though he were being held at gunpoint. “Can I help it if he told me himself?”

Lisa’s eyes—a matching shade of green to her husband’s—narrowed. “What else did he tell you? Spill, Derrick MacNeil, or you may find yourself sleeping on that sofa in there tonight.”

I could only smile at their banter, fully aware of where it was all heading. My sweet friend had always wanted for me what she and Derrick possessed, a loving marriage. Completion in each other. Their love was second only to their devotion to God, in spite of the years of prayer for a baby that never came.

I was not far behind them, however. Only my prayers had been for someone to love me. The way Derrick loved Lisa. The way my brother Jon loved Cheryl. The way our father loved . . .

Derrick chuckled; my thoughts were interrupted. “His wife’s name was Joan, they have four daughters—all but one grown—and Joan died of cancer.”

I blinked. “What kind of cancer?”

He shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

Lisa’s shoulders dropped. “How sad. For him and for the girls. One still left at home, did you say?”

Derrick nodded. “Yes. But I didn’t get her name. Her social. Or anything on the other girls. Sorry, ladies.” He grinned as he picked up knife and fork and cut his thick slice of tomato into bite-size portions. “Oh,” he added, popping a piece into his mouth with his fingers. “One he did mention. She’s a doctor, like him.”

“What kind of doctor?” I asked.

Lisa stood, made her way over to the L-shaped kitchenette. “Pediatrician. I’m going to put on some hot water for tea. Anise?”