“Your eyes still have that sad look about them.” George rested his hat over the handle on his cane. He was waiting for me to finish his Monday-morning bouquet. “The forget-me-nots didn’t cheer you up?”
“They did, George. They cheered me up quite a bit.” I motioned to the bouquet behind me, tucked inside one of my mother’s old vases. They were holding on well. I wrapped his sunflowers in twine. “You know, you’ve never told me how you and Sylvia met.”
His light blue eyes brightened. “Haven’t I?”
I shook my head. George had shared plenty of stories over the years, but their meeting wasn’t one of them.
A dreamy look clouded his expression, like he was traveling back through time. “The first time I saw my Sylvia was in a dance hall before I went off to war. I saw her across the room.” He shook his head and whistled. “I knew at that very moment I’d never be able to love a woman as much I loved that woman right over there.”
The story thawed some of the coldness in my bones. “It was love at first sight, eh?”
“And every sight after.” He smiled at me.
I smiled back. “How were you sure the two of you were going to make it?”
“Oh, I wasn’t.” He scratched the top of his bald, age-spotted head. “Walking across that hall, asking Sylvia for a dance was a risk, especially since my heart was already hers. But that’s what love is—a risk. It’s just a matter of whether or not it’s one we’re willing to take. With Sylvia, I was willing.”
The story left me feeling lighter. Braver. If I was Cinderella, George was my fairy godmother. The thought left me smiling as I handed him the sunflower bouquet. “This one’s on the house today.”
“Oh, now . . .”
I held up my finger. “I don’t want to hear another word. This is on the house, and if you try to argue, no bouquets for a month.”
George chuckled, then took the sunflowers and shuffled out of my shop. I held the door open for him and watched him rap-tap down the street. Once he got into his car, I hurried back inside and pulled up e-mail on my phone. I hardly ever checked it at work. But George’s imparting wisdom had filled me with a sense of urgency that was impossible to resist. I pulled up the message that had been sitting in my draft folder since Saturday night, added a postscript, then clicked Send.
If any man was worth the risk, it was Nate Gallagher.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Mon, Oct 19, 2015 10:34 a.m.
Subject: Hi . . .
Dear Nate,
I’m not sure what you must be thinking. I can imagine, but every time either of us has done that, we’ve both been wrong.
Still, I feel like I need to play out the scenario.
Here we are, having a great time together in the middle of a corn maze, when your sister shows up with her husband and this bomb the size of Hiroshima. I not only know your brother-in-law, I dated him. For four years in college. Then you remember how we met. Outside the church where Chelsea and Matt got married. And then you remember how frantic I was to get away the day we met. And everything probably clicked from there.
I’m sitting here, trying to think what I’d be thinking in your shoes. I guess I’d probably assume that you were still in love with your ex. Why else would you spy? And why would you keep that from me?
Would you believe me if I told you that’s all wrong? Yes, I was spying on their wedding. My stepsisters were actually there—Drizella and Anastasia? You might have even walked with one of them down the aisle. They both look like life-sized Barbie dolls, if that helps jog your memory. I promise, though, I wasn’t spying because I’m still in love with Matt. I got over him years ago. I was spying because . . . I don’t even know. Curiosity? I guess you aren’t the only one with a nosiness problem.
I know you think I have an issue with apologizing, but please allow me to extend one here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for avoiding you when I found out my ex was your new brother-in-law. I’m sorry for lying when I told you that the reason for my silence was due to busyness. I’m sorry for putting you in such an awkward position at the corn maze. I’m sorry for not being able to say any of this in person, on the drive home. And most especially, I’m sorry for making you feel anything less than the wonderful man you are.
Regretfully,
Amelia
PS: I know this is probably a crazy proposition right now. But I’m going to throw it out there anyway. As you know, William gets married on Saturday. I don’t have a date for the wedding. Any chance you’d want to join me? Despite the way it ended, I had a pretty fabulous time with you this weekend.
Leaves crunched beneath my feet as dusk slipped into darkness and the last of the sun sank behind the horizon. Wind blew up the path, rustling the colorful leaves that remained on the trees. It tangled with my hair, sticking wisps against my lips. When I reached the spot, I knelt down and placed the bouquet of forget-me-nots in front of my mother’s tombstone. I peeled the wisps of hair away and blinked at her name etched in stone.