The Soul of the Rose by Ruth Trippy Page B

he’d looked forward to his return trip, the reason he’d been so lighthearted with Mother.
    There! He saw her cherry red scarf and hat wrapping her against the cold, her blond hair peeping from beneath. Suddenly, he felt shy like a schoolboy. Would she think him too forward saving this seat, inviting her to sit next to him? He would take care to keep things as natural as possible. But this was a little tricky. She had not the least idea he was on this train, could not know how carefully he’d planned his return from Boston to coincide with her leaving her hometown.
    The train ground to a halt.
    She was hugging and kissing her mother and father, bending over a young sister, then saying goodbye to her brothers. What a charming family picture. Suddenly, he wondered what it would be like to have younger brothers and sisters—he leaned over to see better—was it just one little sister in the group?
    He wasn’t that old. His bushy hair and beard only made him look that way. But that was all changing. In Boston, he had gone to a good barber and asked for the latest cut. And been fitted by the family tailor with a new broadcloth suit. Mother said he looked dapper. His mouth twitched at that. Interesting word for her to use, and she so particular. The last evening she’d asked the maid to get her jewelry box, and from it had presented him his father’s signet ring. He looked down at his hand, at the ring’s raised gold L in its center. His chest expanded with confidence. He would act offhand about seeing Miss Thatcher, maybe even act surprised. And he would just happen to have a seat free next to his. Maybe that’s the way he should handle it.
    He leaned nearer the window, wanting to make sure which door she entered. A young man had broken away from the group and was escorting her to the train steps. Beneath his hat, his hair showed dark auburn. Did any other family member have hair that dark? The young man gazed down at Miss Thatcher, but not like a brother. Edward’s pulse jumped. Confound it!
    As the young man preceded Miss Thatcher up the steps of the railway car, and held out a hand to assist her, she looked at him laughing, then stepped up as well. She was so full of life. Edward’s breath arrested a moment.
    The couple entered Edward’s car, Miss Thatcher starting down the aisle with the young man in her wake. He held her valise with a proprietary air. Edward rose and his eyes sought hers, curious to see her reaction on first seeing him. She scanned the car for a seat, then saw him. She startled. Was it a glad light in her eyes?
    “Mr. Lyons!”
    “Hello, Miss Thatcher.” He waited for her to approach then gestured toward the space next to him at the window.
    “What a surprise to see you. Here of all places.” She stopped in front of him. “I—” She was obviously wondering if she should accept the seat. She turned to her companion. “Jack, this is Mr. Edward Lyons, who attends the book discussions at the bookstore where I work.” She turned again to him. “Mr. Lyons, Jack Milford, an old friend from my hometown.”
    Jack held out his hand first. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
    “Likewise.” Edward knew the “sir” was the required form of address, but somehow the way the young man said it made him feel old. The whippersnapper. “I can place Miss Thatcher’s valise overhead,” Edward offered.
    She nodded her acquiescence.
    “Thank you, but I can do that for Celia.”
    He called her Celia . Edward stepped aside as Jack stretched up to stow the valise. “Nice of you to help, young man. We’re glad to have Miss Thatcher return; we certainly appreciate the book discussions she’s begun. I wouldn’t miss one.” Had he said that with enough of a proprietary air?
    “Book discussions? When I come to visit—” Jack looked at Celia with a decided air, “—you can let me know when you’ll be having one.”
    “Jack, that would be lovely. I didn’t know you’d be interested.”
    “Well, you