Winter in Full Bloom (6 page)

Marcus shook his finger at me. “You know, you have a biting wit hiding under all that angst. But sometimes people spend more time hiding than living.” He crossed his arms and looked out at the lake.

Humph.
“More Marcus-ites?”

“No, Love, just the truth.” He grinned. “So, am I getting under your skin?”

“No, but you’re getting on my nerves.”

Marcus chuckled. “I wasn’t quite finished with what I was saying earlier. The trust fund I spoke of was set up with my own money. I don’t live off my family’s funds in case you were wondering.” He scrubbed his knuckles through his short dark hair, which left it even messier than before.

“Oh. I see. Sorry.” Guess my mind had run with that one. “So, how could you know I have angst or that I’m hiding anything?”

“Well, aside from the fact that you were weeping when I found you, you’re a picker.”

I started to argue with him, then looked at my almost bloody fingers, which had yet to heal from the last picking.

“Parrots get that way, only when
they
pick, it’s their feathers.”

What a sad thought. I twiddled my thumbs. “So what happens to them? You know, to the parrots?”

Marcus looked at me, his eyes full of what looked like regret for bringing up the subject. “Since you enjoy eating soft and sweet things you’re going to love lamingtons. Be sure and buy some while you’re here.”

“What does that have to do—”

“Okay. All right,” Marcus erupted. “The whole ‘you spend more time hiding than living’ thing was a tactless remark. Sometimes I
am
too direct. Too presumptuous. A bit arrogant. Insensitive. And lousy at combing my hair. You’re welcome to toss in a few more here. But I promise you, Lily, if you’ll go out to dinner with me … I’ll be fully reformed.”

The word
no
felt tantalizing, but something stopped me. “So you’ll be fully reformed between now and dinner? Unlikely.”

“I attend services at St. Paul’s. I do some volunteer work for them too. Surely that puts me in a better light.”

“It might count for something if it were true.” I did admire a man who gave of his time and talents to the church. Fascinating turn of events, since I could now catch Marcus in his duplicity if he were lying. “I was just over at the church.” I arched an eyebrow. “What time is evensong?”

“5:10.”

“Lucky guess. You happened to notice the sign as you
loitered
on by.”

He slapped his hand over his heart. “Woman, you wound me.”

“Okay, one last chance. What’s the man’s name who works in the gift shop?”

“Mmm.” He tapped his chin, frowning. “Not an easy one.”

I pretended to pick up my bag as if to leave.

“Rowan,” he said, quickly, grinning. “Top bloke.”

He must know Rowan, and he was teasing me again. Humph.

“So, does my redemption draweth nigh?”

What if Marcus really could help me find Camille? What if God had sent him?
But, Lord, why couldn’t You have sent a servant who was a little less ridiculous?

“God works in mysterious ways, Love.”

I restrained my surprise. “I was just
thinking
about God.”

“Well?” His face lit up as if the last of my lingering doubts had been divinely vanquished.

“Real Australian men call women
Love
, but you’re from Texas.”

He laughed. “I call women
Love
, because it never fails to bring a smile to their faces. Except to yours.”

“All right.” I took in a deep breath. I would say yes to his dinner invitation just to stop his silly debate. It was like being inside the head of Oscar Wilde.

“All right, what?”

“Dinner. But I’ll pick the place, and we’ll meet there. That way—”

“That way if my intentions are ungentlemanly you can make a safe exit.”

“Exactly. How about The Yarra Bistro.” It was a small eatery I’d noticed on my walk to the cathedral. It would do.

“I know where it is … Southbank. I’ll meet you there at 7:30.”

“Six thirty. We Houstonians eat at a civilized hour.” I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to go out with a stranger—such reckless behavior had never been in my repertoire of conduct. Julie would be appalled. Well, maybe not. She might applaud. She’d always told me to get out more. In fact, she’d been ecstatic when she heard about my trip, and I supposed she would be equally happy that I wasn’t spending all my time alone. I glanced over at this James McAvoy look-alike again, still dubious as to why a man, any man, seemed interested in me. I was bound to be as much fun as an IRS audit.

“All right. Six thirty it is.” Marcus looked at me, his blue eyes appraising me in a new way. “You know, there’s something else about you. More than the attraction I felt when I first saw you.”

The statement was so frank and flattering I wanted to blush, but I was too mature for anything so girlish. I doubted my blood vessels could manage such a workout.

“You look familiar to me.” Marcus rubbed the stubble growing on his chin. “You do.”

“Familiar? What do you mean?” A bud of hope opened itself to me. I’d only told Marcus that I was looking for my sister, not my twin. Had he seen someone who looked like me?

“Well, sometimes I’ve seen a woman play her flute on the Southbank promenade. She isn’t as slender as you are, but her face and raven hair are the same … and those gray eyes of hers … very much like yours and as memorable as the melodies she plays.”

I hurried past his flattery and asked, “So, you really have seen a woman on the streets who looks like me?” Without thinking, I leaned over and tugged on his sleeve. “Please tell me.”

Marcus seemed to study my face in a more serious fashion, and then he nodded. “Yes. In fact, you two could be identical twins.”

I sat tucked away in the corner
of The Yarra Bistro like a scared little bird in its nest. Story of my life. But the more Marcus’s claims about my sister ran through my head, the more I fluffed my feathers. “You two could be identical twins,” he’d said of the woman who played her flute on the streets of Melbourne. Could it be Camille? Right after dinner I would start my search along the river walkway—which was the place where Marcus claimed the woman played her flute.

Hmm.
I tapped the face of my watch. Marcus was a full fifteen minutes late. Did he forget? Maybe he wasn’t coming? Maybe he’d changed his mind about our date. Which would be fine. Absolutely fine. It might be best when all things were considered. And yet Marcus had been the first flare of hope after my first clue had fizzled. Meeting him in the gardens felt ordained. Then again, maybe Marcus was really a plastic worm, and I was the gullible fish. I barely knew the man. Could it be he’d lied to me and no mysterious woman who looked like me played on the streets of Melbourne after all?

Maybe I’d been had.

I fidgeted with my hands, rubbing the faint tan line on my finger where my wedding band had been. The ring now sat in a small box hidden away in my bottom drawer at home—along with my old socks, the ones that had gaping holes but I couldn’t throw them away.

Hmm
. Back to my Marcus musings. I gave myself the luxury of picking at my fingers as the endless pros and cons battled it out in my head.

Finally my thoughts went weary and landed on something more peaceful—the hemlock tree, which I’d spotted in the botanic gardens. Even though I’d never seen a hemlock tree in Houston, my Nanny Kate had always talked about the species at Christmastime. She’d said the reason the hemlock tree curled at the tippy top was because the trees wanted to discourage people from cutting them down to use as Christmas trees, their logic being that an angel on top would surely look askew if placed on its tilting crown. The silly tale had stayed with me. My personal survival tactics weren’t nearly so romantic as the hemlock tree. Strange the things a person thinks of when about to be disappointed by humanity.

By a man named Marcus.

A waitress popped over, refilled my water glass, and asked, “Do you want to go ahead and order?” Her black eyes held a mixture of weariness and kindness.

“Thank you, but no.” I placed my hand on the other menu in case she tried to take it. “I’ll wait a bit longer. Hope that’s okay.”

“No worries.” With a flip of her long tresses, the waitress headed to another table.

I gazed out the window and, without thinking, touched the glass as if I could draw my sister to me as easily as that gesture. If only. I left a fingerprint, just as I had on my mother’s glass dome in her study. She’d placed two tiny mustard seeds under the glass. What had been the meaning of it? Was it symbolic—representing Camille and me and the faith that someday we’d be reunited? No, it was too wild a stretch.

Outside on the street, a man who looked like Marcus juggled three small balls in the air. My motto had always been to never trust a juggler—too unpredictable. His silly circus nonsense made several children laugh, though. I leaned closer to the glass and squinted. It was Marcus. Okay, so the scene came off charming, but what was he doing out there instead of in here? Did being on time mean nothing to him? I had no place in my life for irresponsible behavior, no matter how endearing.

Marcus ruffled the bushy curls on a kid’s head and with a leisurely gait strolled inside the bistro. After a moment or two he found me in the corner.

“You’re late,” was all I said, even though I wanted to tell him he looked almost handsome in his navy sports jacket.

He pointed to a clock on the wall, which read exactly 6:30. “I’m right on time. Didn’t you say 6:30?”

“I think I said 6:00.” Marcus twitched a bit as if to disagree, but then he said, “I will never argue with a lady. I humbly apologize.” He leaned down and offered his hand to me. “Get your purse and jumper. Nobody eats inside here on such a memorable evening.”

“Jumper?”

He grinned. “Your sweater.”

“Oh. Funny word.”
But funnier man.
I scooted out my chair and allowed him to help me up. “So, how do you know it will be a memorable evening? It hasn’t even happened yet.”

Marcus bowed like an earl. “I’m here, Lily, to make certain it’s memorable.”

I felt too tired to get feisty about his smuggery, so I grabbed my things and let him lead me outside into a breeze that was whippy enough to sail us away if we’d been on a boat at sea. “It’s usually too hot or humid to eat outside in Houston.” I put on my heavy sweater. “But here it’s almost too breezy and chilly.”

He placed his hand at my back and maneuvered me to a table with a nice river view. “You’ll get used to the weather,” he said.

I buttoned my sweater all the way up to my neck. “I won’t be in Melbourne long enough to get used to anything.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marcus pushed in my chair as I sat down. “Melbourne has a way of getting into your heart.”

“Oh, that.”

Marcus grinned.

When ordering time came, I said, “I’ll have the chicken.” It was what I wanted, or what I thought I wanted, but why did that seem so tasteless and predictable? Guess I’d become the very thing I was going to eat—a chicken.

“Why don’t you get something a little more exotic?” Marcus asked. “You can have chicken in the States.”

“You’re not going to let me glide along in my happy comfort zone for five minutes, are you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

I smiled, and the muscles around my lips were glad for the new workout. I gestured for him to order. “Okay, you may order, but no kangaroo and no emu.”

Marcus looked up at the waitress. “We’ll both have the lamb chops and potatoes.”

Sounded good, sort of. I tried not to think of all the adorable lambs from nursery rhymes and the ones that I sometimes counted to get me to sleep at night.

The waitress winked at Marcus, but to his credit, he ignored her flirtations.

“That’s a pretty heavy meal for my first night here. I’ll be so bloated you’ll be able to float me down this river, belly-up.”

Marcus laughed.

Guess that wasn’t a very ladylike thing to say.

“You’ll sleep like a baby. I promise.” Marcus used his finger on the tablecloth like a pencil, as if he were in the middle of a sketch.

“Do you mind if we talk about my sister for a while?” I pulled a small notebook from my purse. “I’d like to enjoy myself, but it’s not really why I’m here. I want to stay focused.”

“All right. I understand.” Marcus leaned forward. “Tell me what you know about her.”

“Well, her full name is Camille Violet Daniels, but I suppose her last name would have been the same as mine when she was born, which was Gray.”

He steepled his fingers together. “Did you go online and look up all the Camille Danielses in the area?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t find anything.”

“She’s probably just unlisted.”

“Yes, I thought of that.” Just to feel as if I were making some headway I printed my sister’s name at the top of the page just like in grade school. “It’s understandable for her to be unlisted, especially if she were a single woman. But I have no idea of that either.”

Marcus looked up as if concentrating on those tiny bits of information. But then he brightened and said, “You know what? Now that we’re talking about it, I do remember something else about this woman. Sometimes before she plays, she stops to talk to a man. Maybe it’s her husband or boyfriend. Don’t know. I’ve never met her, but sometimes I’ve stopped to hear her play. It’s quite mesmerizing.”