“So—are you going out with him?”
“Going out with—no, he’s engaged!” Why in the world would Jenn ask that when she knew George Laurence was a client?
Jenn’s pixie-esque face crumpled into a frown. “Danny Mendoza’s engaged? Then what’s he doing sending you flowers?”
“What are you—?” Anne turned and for the first time noticed an enormous floral arrangement in the middle of the table. She must be more tired than she thought to have missed it. Meredith plucked the card off its stick and handed it to her. The flap on the tiny envelope hadn’t been sealed, thus explaining how Jenn already knew who’d sent them. Anne opened it and read the note:
Anne—
Sorry I’ve missed you the last few times I’ve called. I hope to talk to you soon and look forward to getting to know you better.
Danny Mendoza
What was wrong with him? He’d stood her up a week and a half ago, and she’d been avoiding his calls since then. Why wasn’t he getting the hint?
“Obviously he cares enough to drop a wad of money on flowers.” Jenn cupped a stargazer lily and inhaled its spicy fragrance. “Are you going out with him again?”
“What again? I haven’t been out with him yet.” Anne concentrated on putting the card back into its sleeve. She worked with April’s Flowers enough to know Danny had indeed “dropped a wad of money,” as Jenn so eloquently put it. Over two feet tall and about as wide, the bouquet featured not only the dark pink and white lilies, but also deep red roses, purple delphiniums, pink gerbera daisies, blue phlox, violet veronicas, lilac blossoms, and white hydrangeas.
“How could you not see them when you came in?” Meredith fingered a velvety rose.
“Have you seen the two arrangements in my living room? I have two others at my office, in addition to the purple tulips I get from April’s Flowers every time they get some in stock. The florist shops around here like me to keep them in mind when making recommendations to clients, so I get at least two or three deliveries every couple of weeks.” She turned the vase so the large purple bow faced forward. “I don’t think that going out with someone whose schedule is as hectic as mine is a good idea. When I meet the right man, I’ll know it.”
The image of George Laurence flooded her mind’s eye. Why did he have to be engaged? She tried to stop the flutter in her heart, but the memory of their conversation over lunch yesterday—his gentle humor, his deep faith, his expressive brown eyes, his to-die-for accent—wouldn’t go away.
“Oh, really, Anne!” Jenn slid down from her perch, arms crossed. “When are you going to give up on the idea of love at first si—” She jerked and grabbed for the cell phone hanging from her tiny waistband. “Sorry, gals, it’s the restaurant.” She whizzed out the door, phone to ear.
“Don’t mind her.” Meredith stood and stretched. “She and Clay Huntoon broke up.”
Anne frowned. “Clay Huntoon? The sports reporter for Channel Six who sings at church occasionally? Did I know she was seeing him?”
Meredith smiled and shook her head. “That’s how she met Danny Mendoza—Danny and Clay work together.”
“I swear she changes boyfriends like socks.” Anne fingered the waxy petal of one of the stargazer lilies. “Do you think maybe that’s why she’s so keen to find out if I plan to see Danny again? Do you think she might be interested in him?”
“Dunno. Maybe.” With a shrug, Meredith crossed to the door. “Hey, have you heard from Major O’Hara the last couple of weeks?”
Anne shook her head. “No, why?”
“He asked about you this afternoon—mentioned we haven’t worked any events with you recently, was wondering how you are, and said he’d probably give you a call to see if you have any small events he might pick up freelance.”
“Really? Are things so slow there that he has time to cater non-B-G events? I mean, it must really eat into the time he gets to spend with Debbonnaire.”
“You really are behind the times, Anne. Major and Deb broke up before Christmas. She wanted him to propose—after dating only two months, if you can believe that.” Meredith pressed her lips together. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ll tell Major tomorrow you’ll be calling.” Meredith pulled the door closed behind her. “Good night, Annie.”
“ ’Night, Mere. No, sweet dreams instead.” She grinned when Meredith stuck her tongue out at their long-standing joke.
After putting her kitchen to rights, Anne slid the chain lock into place and put a pot of English toffee–flavored decaf coffee on to brew.
The news that Major O’Hara was once again available hadn’t struck her the way it would have a few weeks ago. Twenty years ago, when he’d started working for Aunt Maggie, fifteen-year-old Anne had been sure she was going to marry him one day. Although he seemed to enjoy flirting with her, he never hinted he would consider asking her out. Then she met Cliff Ballantine and allowed her relationship with Major to fall into a comfortable friendship.
She forced Major’s dimpled smile to replace George’s sharp features and brown eyes in her imagination. If she was going to obsess about someone, better for him to be someone available. She concentrated on Major, trying to remember the last time she’d seen him. Hadn’t it been at church a month or so ago?
Had George found a church to attend yet?
“Stop it.”
She carried her laptop computer into the bathroom and set it on a low stool. Perching on the side of the tub, she held her hand under the faucet, and when the water reached a comfortable temperature, she measured out two capfuls of the black-tea-and-red-currant bath oil.
Going back into the kitchen, she filled a latte mug with the richly scented coffee, doctored it with a bit of half-and-half and sugar, then went into the living room to grab a DVD. She hadn’t indulged in a bath and movie evening in quite a while.
Not even twenty minutes into My Fair Lady, Anne stopped it and brought up the computer’s media player to listen to music instead. Why did Professor Henry Higgins remind her of George? Was it his influence over Courtney that made her seem older than her nineteen years? Had he seen her as a diamond in the rough and fallen in love with her as he taught her etiquette? Or was he just a wealthy man who wanted a beautiful wife and decided to get one young enough that he could mold her into the kind of woman he wanted her to be?
How had they met? He self-admittedly had never been to Bonneterre before. In fact, aside from the New York area code on the business card he’d given her, she wasn’t sure where he lived.
And where had his money come from? Probably some old, aristocratic family in England, with the legacy fortune passed down to and doubled by each successive generation.
Closing her eyes, she sipped her coffee as the strains of Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly with Me” wafted through the steamy room.
She’d opened up with him over lunch yesterday more than with anyone outside of Meredith and Forbes. Not even Jenn knew all of the details of Anne’s parents’ deaths or of why she had started her own business.
The next song started, and rather than picturing Dean Martin, she could clearly imagine George Laurence serenading her with “Return to Me,” her favorite song.
She jumped out of the tub, not caring that she splashed water all over the rugs and tile floor, and turned the music off. Jamming her arms into her bathrobe, she fled to the kitchen, where she grabbed her planner and flipped to the address book.
“Please let him still have this number.” She picked up her cell phone and dialed. It rang once…twice…
“Hello?”
“Hi, Major, it’s Anne Hawthorne….”
Soft amber light pooled on the brick walkway from the faux gas lamp outside Anne Hawthorne’s office. George stopped. Why had he come down this way? There weren’t any restaurants on this side of Town Square.