Slow Moon Rising

© 2013 by Eva Marie Everson

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4412-4178-8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

“Eva Marie Everson is a talented storyteller with a passion for relationship stories that will touch your heart.”

—
Tracie Peterson
, bestselling and award-winning author of the Land of the Lone Star series and
House of Secrets

Past Praise for Eva Marie Everson

“Everson's work is neatly done and her fans will find value in her presentation of life's lack of tidiness, which reads both realistically and convincingly.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Everson's evocative writing puts the reader in the midst of the gorgeous seaside setting.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Written in an easy-to-read style, including chapters that convey scenarios from the past,
Chasing Sunsets
moves quickly and captures any romantic's attention. Everson knows how to create a well-crafted tale.”

—
Alice Wisler
, author of
A Wedd
ing Invitation

“Eva Marie Everson charms her readers with characters you'd love to have as friends. Then she places them in a setting where you'd love to be.”

—
Novel Reviews

“Eva Marie Everson's latest story shows her versatility as a writer as she pens a contemporary romance with women's fiction undertones.”

—Relz Reviews

Dedicated to

Shellie Arnold

Loyd Boldman

Craig Duddles

Jessica R. Everson

Mark Hancock

Larry J. Leech, II

Edwina Perkins

Linda D. Schoonover

Dan Walsh

and to

Word Weavers International, Inc., Orlando Chapter

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Endorsements

Dedication

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Acknowledgments

For More Information . . .

About the Author

Other Books by Marie Everson

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Back Cover

Anise
July 2000

Some memories come with distinction. Exactness. Moments I recall with precision as to what I was wearing. Where I was standing. The music playing on the radio.

What I was thinking.

The day I met Ross Claybourne is no exception.

I had put in a full day at the Calla Lily, my floral shop. Up until two years ago, when my mother died, the shop had been known as Kelly's Floral Shop, appropriately named for the woman who'd opened it, Gertrude Kelly.

“Gertie” she'd been called by family and friends.

Not by my brother and me, of course. We called her “Mom.”

And Dad . . . well, in the beginning he'd also called her Gertie. But soon after my tenth birthday, he called her “plaintiff.” After that, simply “your mother.” For the life of me, I don't believe I heard him call her by her name ever again.

But that's another story. A sad one. And I tend to stay away from sad stories.

I was making floral arrangements for the Stockford wedding reception, ten to be exact. I'd filled the plastic glasses with wax crystals, covered the wide opening with a circular piece of cardboard, and then hot-glued a mat of duckweed to which I affixed golden-yellow preserved gardenias and freeze-dried orange rose petals.

I placed them in a carrying container, along with yards of white and peach netting, which would be used to form a cloud at their bases. I reached for the on/off knob of the radio; Faith Hill's song “Breathe” wafted from its small speakers. The song expresses passion. Something I'd never really known. Oh, I'd thought I had—once—but then . . .

The phone rang.

I switched off the radio before turning toward the old wooden countertop where the phone rested, the black rotary my mother had installed in the midseventies and I'd not been able to part with.

“The Calla Lily,” I said. “This is Anise.”

“Oh good, Anise. I caught you. I was afraid you'd already headed out to the church.” My caller was Lisa MacNeil, co-owner of Harbour Inn, one of the oldest bed and breakfast inns in New England. She was also my best friend.

I sighed appropriately, knowing Lisa would understand. I had forever decorated for everyone else's weddings. Never my own. Weddings exhausted me more than funerals. At least I
knew
I would get one of those. Some day. “I more or less have everything in the car. One last box to carry out to the van. Cheryl is already there so . . .”

“Are you planning to stay once you get everything set up?” Panic rose in Lisa's voice.

“Goodness no. You know me and weddings.” I allowed a giggle to escape my throat—forced but effective.

“Oh good. Because . . . I need you. Can you bring a fresh arrangement for the front hall after you're done?”

“What happened to the one I brought yesterday?”

Now it was Lisa's turn to sigh. “An unsupervised child just
had
to inspect it.”

This time my laughter was real. “I think I have something here that will suffice. I'll be there around . . . five?” I reached for a pad and pencil to make myself a note.

“Perfect. Dinner afterward with Derrick and me? At the inn, on us?”

I paused. Saturday evenings were nearly always spent with my brother Jon and his wife—and my assistant—Cheryl and their family. My
not
being there would hardly be a tragedy. And, since I'd sometimes rather spend an evening with Lisa and Derrick, I decided to take her up on it. “Sounds good,” I said. “I could use some Lisa and Derrick time.”

“See you when you get here.”

I delivered the remainder of the flowers and other arrangements to the Chapel of Saint Mark and found Cheryl already busy at work. I watched her with amazement. What she'd managed to accomplish in the short time she'd been there was nothing short of miraculous. White linen cloths and runners the color of burnt sunset had been laid over the tables. The chairs had been swathed in white and tied off with ribbon matching the runners. Peach-colored napkins had been fanned at each place setting, the silver and the crystal arranged. The
reception hall looked ready for the one hundred guests who would celebrate in just a few hours, though I knew we had a few touches left to arrange, including the bride and groom's table.

As soon as Cheryl spotted me, she met me at the first table I'd come to, which had been set up as a place for staging our boxes and containers. “Before I forget,” I said, “I have to go out to the inn this afternoon to replace the front hall arrangement. Lisa has asked me to stay for dinner. I hope that's not an inconvenience.”

Cheryl—a tall, willowy redhead—pretended to pout, but I knew her better than to take it to heart. “Well, I can't say I blame you. Although little Aleya will be devastated.”

“Tell her I'll see her tomorrow and I'll bring her a lollypop.”

Cheryl brightened. “Well, with news like that, I can guarantee you she'll get over the devastation.”

We reached into the box with the floral table arrangements simultaneously, our chatter complete and work about to begin. “Go ahead and start the bride and groom's table,” I said. “I'll get to work on these centerpieces.”

“Will do,” Cheryl said.

She walked away, leaving me alone with my work, and my gratitude that I had somewhere else to be.

A few hours later, my Land Rover rambled toward the seashore and the inn. My windows were down; a cross breeze of thick air ruffled my recently ordered linen cropped pants and a long-sleeved linen tunic. Though the summer sun warmed our eastern Maine town during the day, I tended to get cold
in the evenings when the wind blew in from the surrounding hillsides, skipping across Seaside Pointe's shoreline. Because the inn was only a stone's throw from both, I slid a long, narrow scarf that I kept in the car's front passenger seat around my neck as soon as I pulled into the personnel parking area behind the grand inn.

The back of Harbour Inn rose regally before me. With the evening still early, faint light poured from nearly every one of the twenty windows stretched across the second and third floors. The first-floor windows were dark, save those of the inn's restaurant at the right-hand corner.

I slipped out of my car, closing the door quietly behind me. Such peace as was felt in the gentle rustling of the shrubs, the lapping of water, and the salty-sweet air should not, in my opinion, be disturbed. I opened the back door, pulled the container holding the front hall arrangement—a summer collection of apricots and greens—toward me, and closed the door with a click. With the vase held tight against my body, I mounted the seventeen steps leading to the wide porch. A quick glance upward showed that the porch lights—though few—had already been turned on in anticipation of night's fall.

Lisa purposefully kept the lighting muted. Too much, she said, deterred from the romantic feel of sitting in the rockers in the evening, listening to the quiet sounds of the sea, the music from the restaurant.

With it not being quite sunset, the flap-flap of the American flag—proudly displayed at the left side of the house—greeted me. I watched it as I climbed, proud of all it meant, paying no attention to where I was going. I'd gone up these steps a
thousand times or more. I knew each one. Just how high to step. Just when I had reached the landing.

But this evening's ascent was complicated by one of the inn's guests coming down. Rather quickly. Looking out toward the harbor rather than to where he was going. We crashed into each other without warning; the vase slipped from my grip, falling to the step at my feet, then tumbling down those behind me.

As though in slow motion, I turned and watched as it shattered. The small amount of water I'd placed in the bottom splashed against the white boards while colors of green and apricot sprayed the brick landing. Too late, I reached for it. As dizziness washed over me, a strong arm wrapped around my waist while a hand gripped an upper arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh no!”

Our words were spoken together; mine but a whisper, his a deep baritone. I looked from the disaster below to celestial blue eyes etched by laugh lines. “I . . .” I righted myself, gripping the clean-white board railing to my right. My assailant's hands fell away. Just as easily, they returned to slip under my left elbow, to guide me the remaining two steps to the landing.

“I am
so
sorry,” the man said, though rumblings of laughter echoed within the words.

I shook my head as I studied him. An older man. Well-built. His white hair neatly trimmed and receding. Clear skin. Handsome to a fault and with an easy smile, nearly irresistible. Nearly. “You don't sound sorry.”

Peals of laughter escaped him. He pressed a hand against his chest as he said, “No, really. Really. I am.” He looked
toward the busted vase and dying flowers. “That could have been a real accident.”

I planted my hands firmly on my waist; the linen tunic billowed like a puffy cloud. “That
was
an accident. What could have possibly made it more real?”

The man took a breath before extending his hand. In frustration, I stepped backward, nearly losing my balance again. Instead of shaking the man's hand, I reached for it in desperation, lest I topple and lie among the tossed flowers. I felt a jerk, my body slammed against his—rock solid and smelling of expensive aftershave—my arms locked around his neck as he took several steps backward.

Just then, Lisa barreled out a back door. “What in the world.”

Now it was my turn to laugh . . . so hard, I had to find one of the rockers to sit, the man not far behind me. Together we rocked and hooted—I still have no idea why—while Lisa stood at the top step, looking to the ground, shaking her head. When we finally sobered and I had wiped the tears from my cheeks, Lisa turned to us and said, “I take it you've met.”

When the man stood, I noticed his attire. Pressed slacks. Blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and cuffs, which were rolled to the elbows. Casual confidence exuded from every pore of his being, even as he, again, extended his hand. “Ross Claybourne,” he said. “Nice to bump into you. Twice.”

I laughed again, this time more subdued. I slipped my hand into his. It was warm. Soft for a man's. “Anise Kelly.”

Lisa joined us, pointing toward the railing and the scene below. “I take it that was the floral arrangement for the front hall.”

I leaned back, crossing my legs. “I'm afraid so.”

Ross Claybourne shook his head. “My fault entirely. If you'll let Lisa here know about the cost to replace it, I'll be more than happy to pay.”

“Don't be silly,” I said. “I wasn't watching where I was going either.” I stood. “Lisa, I'll run back to the shop, get another arrangement, and be back within forty-five minutes.”

Lisa waved her hands toward us, as if to say “Pshaw.” The overhead light shimmered within her dark blonde curls—cut short and framing her face—as they bounced in the fair breeze. “No, no. Just come in and we'll have dinner. I'll send Derrick down to salvage the flowers while I find a vase somewhere.” She looked to the man standing nearby. “Dr. Claybourne, were you planning to go out for dinner or will you join us in the restaurant tonight?”

His gaze slid to the harbor, then to the hills, before resting on the two of us. “I hadn't really decided yet. I just thought to get some fresh air first.” He nodded at me. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kelly.”

I swallowed. “Miss.”

A blush rose from the collar of his shirt to his cheeks. “I apologize. Miss Kelly.” He nodded at Lisa. “Enjoy your dinner, ladies,” he said, then skipped down the stairs, stopping halfway. By now Lisa and I had stepped to the railing and peered down. His attention returned to us. “I'm more than happy to pick up the damage. The least I can do.”

“Don't you dare, Dr. Claybourne,” Lisa said. “We have staff for that, and you're here for a much-needed break, remember?”