of roses, baby's breath and greenery on the counter, beside the cash register.
"Miss Keith," he gasped, "you must have an important admirer. This took all the roses we had in the store. We had to have some sent over from Berryville." With a wave, he returned to the van and drove off.
"What on earth?" Lynn said, as she put her face in the flowers, to inhale their perfume. "Good Heavens. Who would send me something like this?"
The blooms were huge, obviously first quality, and every color. Deep yellow roses with rust-edged petals shared space with pink, white and lavender blossoms; others were dark, velvety red, almost black. The myriad of fragrances rivaled the best Bulgarian Rose Oil. "There must be two dozen roses here in every color there is."
"Six," Violet said, delightedly. "I counted. Who are they from?"
Only one time in Lindsay's life had someone given her flowers—the corsage she wore to her high school prom. Pure feminine pleasure swept through her. She felt cherished. Who could have done this?
"Aren't you going to look for the card?"
"Here it is," a customer volunteered, handing her the white envelope. By now every person in the store had gathered around, curious, because they sensed the drama.
She opened the envelope, glanced at the card, and caught the name at the end of the message. "Oh, for goodness sakes," she said, and dashed to the storeroom in back, where she could read the note in peace.
'Dear Miss Lindsay Keith:
Since my clumsy attempts at apologies have failed dismally, I hope these roses will express the sincerity with which I regret the rudeness I've exhibited on several occasions since first meeting you. I beg your forgiveness and ask one last chance to make amends.
May I escort you to the Chamber of Commerce Dinner Dance a week from tomorrow? Please consider it. I'll call you tonight for your answer.
A hopeful and profoundly contrite,
David Martin.'
A thrill shot through Lynn, turning her insides to mush. He cared this much about how she felt. Oh, my.
Violet barged into the storeroom. "Okay, you've been holding out on me, boss. Who do you know can send you four hundred bucks worth of roses?"
There was no hope of keeping this private. "You know the night Janine, Caro, Mary, and I went to dinner at the Kensington?"
"When you checked out the new waiter, and you thought he might be interested in you? Ohmigod. The waiter sent you these roses?"
"His name is David Martin. I've met him since at the Soup and Bread Supper and again at the supermarket."
"And he sends you roses for that?"
"No, there's more to it." She laughed, amused that he would make such a grand gesture. There was no denying it. David's flowers impressed her tremendously. Noting the eager expression on Violet's face, and realizing she was not going to be left alone until she had told the whole story, she decided she might as well get it over with.
"They're an apology, of sorts. You know, each time we meet, it gets personal, and we start trading insults."
"This is the guy you told me about, right? The one that thrills your bones?"
"Yes. Let's say that there's some chemistry there—some mutual chemistry—which I don't want, because I don't get involved with our here-today-gone-tomorrow summer workers."
"How do you know that's the case?"
She thought about it. "To be honest, I don't know. I jumped to that conclusion, I guess. He is, after all, a waiter in a seasonal job—not exactly a career move. But on the other hand, I get the feeling that there's a lot more to him than that."
"Somebody whose only job is waiting tables couldn't afford that arrangement. He must have maxed out his credit card, big time. Come on, Lynn. You're being judgmental. If he's rude, he must be reacting to your attitude."
Had she been unfair? Her attraction to him was a given, and he was equally interested. She had no doubt of that. Why else would he be sending her that massive bunch of roses? She was being too hard on him. The flowers were
"Miss Keith," he gasped, "you must have an important admirer. This took all the roses we had in the store. We had to have some sent over from Berryville." With a wave, he returned to the van and drove off.
"What on earth?" Lynn said, as she put her face in the flowers, to inhale their perfume. "Good Heavens. Who would send me something like this?"
The blooms were huge, obviously first quality, and every color. Deep yellow roses with rust-edged petals shared space with pink, white and lavender blossoms; others were dark, velvety red, almost black. The myriad of fragrances rivaled the best Bulgarian Rose Oil. "There must be two dozen roses here in every color there is."
"Six," Violet said, delightedly. "I counted. Who are they from?"
Only one time in Lindsay's life had someone given her flowers—the corsage she wore to her high school prom. Pure feminine pleasure swept through her. She felt cherished. Who could have done this?
"Aren't you going to look for the card?"
"Here it is," a customer volunteered, handing her the white envelope. By now every person in the store had gathered around, curious, because they sensed the drama.
She opened the envelope, glanced at the card, and caught the name at the end of the message. "Oh, for goodness sakes," she said, and dashed to the storeroom in back, where she could read the note in peace.
'Dear Miss Lindsay Keith:
Since my clumsy attempts at apologies have failed dismally, I hope these roses will express the sincerity with which I regret the rudeness I've exhibited on several occasions since first meeting you. I beg your forgiveness and ask one last chance to make amends.
May I escort you to the Chamber of Commerce Dinner Dance a week from tomorrow? Please consider it. I'll call you tonight for your answer.
A hopeful and profoundly contrite,
David Martin.'
A thrill shot through Lynn, turning her insides to mush. He cared this much about how she felt. Oh, my.
Violet barged into the storeroom. "Okay, you've been holding out on me, boss. Who do you know can send you four hundred bucks worth of roses?"
There was no hope of keeping this private. "You know the night Janine, Caro, Mary, and I went to dinner at the Kensington?"
"When you checked out the new waiter, and you thought he might be interested in you? Ohmigod. The waiter sent you these roses?"
"His name is David Martin. I've met him since at the Soup and Bread Supper and again at the supermarket."
"And he sends you roses for that?"
"No, there's more to it." She laughed, amused that he would make such a grand gesture. There was no denying it. David's flowers impressed her tremendously. Noting the eager expression on Violet's face, and realizing she was not going to be left alone until she had told the whole story, she decided she might as well get it over with.
"They're an apology, of sorts. You know, each time we meet, it gets personal, and we start trading insults."
"This is the guy you told me about, right? The one that thrills your bones?"
"Yes. Let's say that there's some chemistry there—some mutual chemistry—which I don't want, because I don't get involved with our here-today-gone-tomorrow summer workers."
"How do you know that's the case?"
She thought about it. "To be honest, I don't know. I jumped to that conclusion, I guess. He is, after all, a waiter in a seasonal job—not exactly a career move. But on the other hand, I get the feeling that there's a lot more to him than that."
"Somebody whose only job is waiting tables couldn't afford that arrangement. He must have maxed out his credit card, big time. Come on, Lynn. You're being judgmental. If he's rude, he must be reacting to your attitude."
Had she been unfair? Her attraction to him was a given, and he was equally interested. She had no doubt of that. Why else would he be sending her that massive bunch of roses? She was being too hard on him. The flowers were
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