Slow Moon Rising (2 page)

Even from where I stood, I could see the whisper of a cloud
as it filled his eyes. Not entirely obscuring their blue brilliance, but enough to tell me the man's heart had been wounded.

Derrick and Lisa filled me in on Dr. Claybourne's story over steamed garden vegetables and halibut, broiled and seasoned to perfection by Derrick—a master chef. We dined in their private quarters of the inn: a sitting room, kitchen with eating area, bedroom and bath beautifully decorated in seaside blues and greens, yellows and reds.

“He's a widower,” Lisa said.

I stabbed a piece of cauliflower with a silver fork. “Recent?”

Derrick, a handsome, fortysomething man with a remarkable full head of sandy blond hair, stuck the pad of his thumb to his lips to gather some of the seasoning of the fish. “Last year. He came here to get away for a while. To heal, if a man can heal after losing his wife of thirty-five years.” He pointed an index finger first at me, then at Lisa. “Don't you two go cooking up anything for him, you hear me?”

Lisa gave him her best “get over yourself” look. “First, Mr. MacNeil, your words would have a much better chance of warning us if there were not such a delightful twinkle in your eye.”

Derrick rolled his green eyes in protest.

“Second,” Lisa continued, “just how is it that you know so much about Dr. Claybourne?”

Derrick took a long sip of his iced tea. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said after a deep swallow.

“You most assuredly do. You know exactly how long the man was married.”

Derrick's hands shot up as though he were being held at gunpoint. “Can I help it if he told me?”

Lisa's eyes—a matching shade of green to her husband's—narrowed. “What else did he tell you? Spill, Derrick MacNeil, or you may find yourself sleeping on that sofa in there tonight.”

I could only smile at their banter, fully aware of where it was all heading. My sweet friend had always wanted for me what she and Derrick possessed, a loving marriage. Completion in each other. Their love was second only to their devotion to God, in spite of the years of prayer for a baby that never came.

I was not far behind them, however. Only my prayers had been for someone to love me. The way Derrick loved Lisa. The way my brother Jon loved Cheryl. The way our father had loved . . .
her.

Derrick chuckled. “His wife's name was Joan, they have four daughters—all but one grown—and Joan is deceased.”

I blinked. “From?”

He shook his head. “Didn't say.”

Lisa's shoulders dropped. “How sad. For him and for the girls. One still left at home, did you say?”

Derrick nodded. “Yes. But I didn't get her name. Her social. Her blood type or her favorite musical group. Nothing on the other girls, either. Sorry, ladies.” He grinned as he picked up knife and fork and cut his thick slice of tomato into bite-size portions. “Oh,” he added. “One he did mention. She's a doctor, like him.”

“What kind of doctor?” I asked.

Lisa stood, made her way over to the L-shaped kitchenette. “He's a pediatrician. I'm going to put on some hot water for tea. Anise?”

“Do you have any of the herbal raspberry like you had the last time I was here?”

Lisa stared at me as if I had three heads. “Of course.”

I smiled. “Then, yes.”

“Is Dr. Claybourne's daughter a pediatrician as well?” Lisa removed the stainless steel teakettle from a back burner and set about filling it with water.

“I guess so,” Derrick said from beside me. “He said they were in practice together.”

I shrugged. “Well then, that would make sense,” I said, as though I knew what I was talking about. I wiped my mouth with the rose-colored linen napkin that had rested in my lap, laid it beside my plate, and stood. “Let me get the tea set ready.”

“You know where it is,” Lisa said.

Indeed I did. I also knew how special it was to her. The creamy white bone china from England with a spray of yellow daffodils and green ivy had been a gift from her mother-in-law on her wedding day, passed down two generations. I also knew how it must pain her that she had no one to pass such a treasure along to.

“Are you going to service in the morning?” Lisa asked after I'd arranged the tea set on a carrying tray.

“It's a Sunday, isn't it?” I asked with a smile.

She leaned in and whispered, “Good, because Dr. Claybourne asked to go with us.”

“I heard that,” Derrick said.

Oh, dear . . .

Lisa could not have been more obvious the following morning at church. She reminded me of Yenta the matchmaker in
Fiddler on the Roof
.

“Don't sit with your family this morning,” she said through a smile as we walked in the double doorway of the sanctuary. “Sit with us. Balance us out.” She cut her eyes toward Dr. Claybourne.

I blushed; I'm sure I did. But I made my apologies to my brother and his family, then sat with Lisa, Derrick, and Dr. Claybourne.

Matchmaker, matchmaker . . .

Even as we sang hymns of worship, my mind danced with a tune from the film.
He's handsome, he's young! All right, he's sixty-two.

When the service was over, the congregation spilled out onto the sidewalk that stretched along one side of Main Street. Lisa immediately requested I join them for lunch at a nearby café and that Dr. Claybourne do the same. If I hadn't blushed before, I know I did then. I could feel the heat rising from my chest, spreading up my throat and across my fair cheeks.

With absolute charm, Dr. Claybourne said, “I appreciate the offer, Lisa. But I think I'm going to walk a little.” He looked down the sidewalk, toward our small town. “The weather here is so nice.” He glanced at me. “We have rather humid summers in Orlando.”

I nodded once.

“Perhaps then,” Lisa said, “Anise can give you a tour.”

Derrick audibly sighed. “Lisa . . .” Then to Dr. Claybourne. “I'm sorry, Dr. Claybourne. I'm afraid my wife . . .”

But Ross Claybourne threw back his head and laughed, just enough to put us all at ease.

“I'm sure my brother and his family—” I started to say, just as Dr. Claybourne said, “Well, if she doesn't mind—”

“But if you need to be with your family . . .” he continued.

“Don't be silly,” Lisa answered for me. “She's always hanging out over there. She's due a break.”

“Lisa.” I feigned shock. But to Dr. Claybourne, I said, “It
is
a nice day for walking. Let me tell my brother and sister-in-law I won't be joining them today.”

Dr. Claybourne waited while I told Cheryl of my plans. “Who is this man?” she wanted to know, her sea-blue eyes narrowing toward him as she slipped sunglasses over her ears and up to the bridge of her nose.

“He's staying out at the inn. I met him last night and . . . it's a very long story, Cheryl. I'll fill you in tomorrow, I promise.”

Just then my brother Jon joined us. Younger by six years but nearly identical in looks to me. Both tall. Slender. Dark blond hair, fair skin, and gray eyes. There was never any doubt we were Chris Kelly's children. The only question was whether or not he regarded himself as our father.

“What's going on here?” Jon asked. Four-year-old Aleya and eight-year-old Adam were right behind him. They wrapped themselves around my legs and waist.

I placed a hand on their heads before pulling lollypops from my shoulder purse and handing one to each. “Just like I promised.” I looked to my brother. “I'm going to lunch with a new friend.” I turned, looked over my shoulder at where Dr. Claybourne stood with Lisa and Derrick.

Jon grimaced. “The old guy?”

“Jon,” Cheryl said. “I'm sure he's a nice man.”

“A nice man, a good catch. True?” I said.

Cheryl smirked. We shared a love of classic movies. “True.”

I placed my hand on Jon's arm. “I'll be fine, brother.”

“I can run a background check if you'd like.”

“Stop being a police officer and just be my brother.”

He gave me a long look, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I
was
being a brother. If I were being a police officer, I'd arrest him . . . for something.”

I laughed lightly, said good-bye, and returned to the three waiting for me under the shade of a bushy maple.

“Well,” Lisa said. “We're going to leave you two to your walk.” She linked her arm with her husband's.

“Dr. Claybourne,” Derrick said, extending his hand for a shake, “for what we are putting you through, I am sincerely sorry.”

Dr. Claybourne shook his hand and laughed just as easily as he had earlier. After Lisa and Derrick walked away, I turned to my “date” and said, “The village green is just down this way. We can walk the sidewalk toward town, then cut over to the harbor if you'd like.”

“Sounds nice,” he said.

Dr. Claybourne took his proper place, walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Our pace was slow. We said nothing. I was grateful I'd worn flats and a soft, all-cotton madras skirt that fell just below my knees. Once we came to the harbor, the cotton and rayon cap-sleeved top I'd chosen would also serve me well against the afternoon sun.

I felt odd. Out of place. I didn't know this man, really. Didn't know him at all. And yet I felt . . . something. Familiarity? As though we'd known each other all our lives, I thought, but had run out of things to say. But then, he said, “So you work in a floral shop?”

I clasped my hands in front of me. “I own it, actually.”

“Own it? How nice.”

“It was my mother's . . . until she died two years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'd always worked
with
her, and because my brother . . .” I looked at the man walking beside me. “You saw him at the church. Jon, my brother, is a police officer and . . .” I chuckled. “Well, he wouldn't be caught dead with his hands in potting soil or arranging flowers.”

“Too much of a man's man?”

“Something like that.”

I pointed to our left where a sidewalk met the one we were on; it wove through the village green. “This is a pleasant walkway,” I said.

“I'll follow your lead.”

As we stepped into the heavily shaded areas of the footpath—lined with lush green grass, clusters of shrubs and flowers, park benches, and the occasional kerosene oil replica
street lamp—the temperature seemed to cool considerably. I crossed my arms, wishing I'd brought a light sweater.

“This place . . . the whole town . . . it's so relaxing.”

I smiled. “We call them villages.”

“Villages. Well, it reminds me of a place near my home. Winter Park.”

“You're from Orlando.”

He glanced over at me but only for a moment. I could tell his eyes were drinking in the experience of the green, even looking beyond to the rows of storefronts up ahead where Main Street bustled. “Lisa tell you?”

“No. You did. Earlier. You said your summers were humid there.”

“So I did.” He chuckled. “Yes. Actually I live in a community called Windermere.” His gaze shifted from the setting around us to his feet. “So then, what
has
Lisa told you about me since our impromptu meeting of last night?”

I took in a deep breath. “Only that your wife died last year. I'm sorry for your loss.”

“My Joan. Yes.”

“And Derrick mentioned that you were married a long time.”

“Right at thirty-five years.” His eyes remained focused on his shoes, or so it seemed.

“How simply horrible for you.” I spoke sincerely but didn't want to linger on death and dying. I'd had my own to deal with. Even after two years, it was difficult to discuss the loss of my mother. I couldn't imagine being married to someone for so long, sharing so much, and then having to let go. If the man wanted to relax, this was no way to begin. “I understand, as well, that you have daughters?”

We neared a white-latticed gazebo with a drinking fountain out front. I pointed to it and he looked up. I was in need of a drink and thought perhaps Ross would enjoy sitting under the canopy. We veered to the left, stepped across the thick carpet of grass. I took a drink from the cement and stainless fountain; Ross did the same.

“Would you like to sit for a while? Since no one else is here?” An odd coincidence, but a pleasant surprise.

“That would be nice.”

We sat on the far side of the gazebo so as to watch the strollers, the runners, the bikers. To our left, two twentysomething-year-old men tossed a Frisbee. They threw hard, leaping high with the catch. Beyond a track of trees—the red maples, the elms, the weeping willows, and the oaks—our village boasted a variety of colors along the storefronts, each one painted to reflect the personality of the owner and the variety of life here in Seaside Pointe. Quiet. Hardworking. Unobtrusive. Yet, with vistas, as far as I was concerned, one could find nowhere else in the world.

“To answer your earlier question,” Ross said from where he sat to the left of me. “I have four daughters. Yes.” He leaned his elbows against the low railing behind us, bowing his chest. I couldn't help but notice that, for a man of his age, he appeared—at least underneath his shirt—to be well built. Muscular. Not like a bodybuilder. Just . . . maintained.

I crossed my legs, slipped my hands underneath my thighs. “Tell me about them.”

“Kimberly is the oldest. Then there's Jayme-Leigh. She's a doctor, like me.”

“I understand you are a pediatrician. Is she as well?”

Ross chuckled again. “Yes. Yes, she is. One day she'll take over the practice, I'm sure. She's a fine doctor. Just getting started, of course, but she's good with the little ones.”

“Does she have any of her own?”

Ross shook his head. “No. She and her husband, Isaac . . . I think they are choosing to remain childless.” He looked me directly in the eyes. “Not that they've discussed it with me, but . . . you know . . . it's a feeling ol' Pop gets in his gut. Joan, she thought the same thing. I asked her once if Jayme-Leigh ever discussed it with her.” He smiled. “She said, ‘No, hon. You know how our second born is. She's hardly one to share.'”

I took in a breath and sighed so deeply my shoulders dropped. “If I had married, I cannot imagine
not
having children.”

Ross shifted, bringing his right knee to rest between us on the bench. Now, only his right forearm remained on the railing. I watched him, watched his face soften as though he were deeply interested in me. In my life. The blue in his eyes intensified. “You've never been married?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He blinked. “I have to say, Anise, that I'm truly surprised to hear that. If you don't mind my saying so.”

So was everyone in my family, not that I would say so to this man who was still a stranger to me. My family, my friends. Everyone and no one. Everyone was shocked and no one could understand it. Least of all me. “Thank you. I'm sure you mean that as a compliment.”

“I mean it as an insult to the men of this . . .
village
. What are they, blind? You're a beautiful young woman. Surely suitors have stood in line from your front door, across your porch, and down the steps to the sidewalk.”

I laughed out loud at the sheer poetry of his words. His eyes smiled, but his face remained somber.

“So answer a question for me, then, Miss Kelly.”

“What's that?”

“How is it that you have remained single so long?”