Slow Moon Rising (6 page)

“All kidding aside,” I said when enough time had passed for pleasantries, “what happened yesterday? And remember, you promised the truth.”

Ross nodded, extended his “scout's oath” hand and fingers again. “I felt guilty.”

“Guilty?”

We'd chosen to sit at one of the small round tables outside. The day was only mildly warm for July. A sweet breeze coasted up from the water, enough to pick up wisps of my hair, forcing them to dance along my cheekbones. Ross admired the colorful avenue of storefronts. His eyes drank in the people passing by; one way on this sidewalk, another way along the opposite side of the street. I waited, knowing that words like
guilty
don't come easily to a man like Dr. Ross Claybourne. He needed a moment to form his thoughts, in spite of having had an entire night and morning to do so.

“I loved Joan. My wife.”

“Of course.”

“But there were . . . issues. The girls . . . they didn't know . . .” His voice trailed. I watched his eyes brim with tears. He must have felt them threatening to destroy some archaic myth of masculinity. His sunglasses were tucked into the front pocket of his shirt; he pulled them out and slipped them on. “Joan,” he continued. “She drank. A lot. Started before we married, but back then I didn't see it as anything but social. She was a good woman. A godly woman.” His jaw jerked toward me, and I imagined that, behind the dark shades, his eyes had just met mine. “Some people would argue that, I know. How can a woman who drinks too much be godly . . . but . . . she was.”

“Some would argue that she couldn't drink at all and be godly.”

“Do you feel that way?”

His words felt like a challenge, one I was up for. “No. I don't.”

His face registered approval. “She was a good wife. Doting mother. She knew she had a problem. She went to rehab several times and even managed not to drink while pregnant. But . . . then she'd say she could handle
just
social drinking and, for some reason, I'd agree. But the next thing I knew, she was stumbling to bed every night and I was making excuses for her the next morning.”

He paused, waiting for me to say something, I suppose. But I had nothing to say. I knew no one with such a problem. The closest I'd seen my parents come to drinking was communion wine.

He took a deep breath, allowed it to slip slowly from his nostrils. “I told the girls their mother had cancer. Joan and I agreed on that. Truth was, she had cirrhosis.” The thumb and index finger of his right hand toyed with each other. “Even with such a diagnosis, she wouldn't stop drinking. Jayme-Leigh knew—being a doctor, she figured it out. She tried to talk to her mother about her drinking. After that, Joan didn't consume as much, but she didn't quit.”

“Gracious.”

“And then she died and I . . . I was both heartbroken and relieved. I didn't have to keep her secret . . .
our
secret . . . anymore.”

I reached across the table, placed my left hand on his right. “Ross, I am so sorry.”

He flipped his hand to hold mine. Took another deep breath. “And,” he said within the exhale, “I told myself I could now concentrate on my practice. On my girls, who'd lost so much with the death of their mother. On my grandchildren.” He looked away again. “Especially on Ami.”

There it was again. Something about Ami. “Because she's the youngest?” I asked, hoping he'd reveal . . . anything.

“Mmm,” he said, which was neither a yes nor a no.

“So where does the guilt come from, Ross? Because you've moved on?”

He chuckled, but not as though he was amused. “No.” He took a few more breaths, these shallow. “I came here because I needed the time away. My daughter Heather said I haven't really mourned.” He tilted his head in acquiescence. “And, she's right. Truth is, though, I cannot figure out what I'm mourning. Joan's passing? Joan's disease? Joan's drinking? What we lost? What we could have had?”

The questions settled around us. The foam atop my half-finished coffee had turned murky and nearly disappeared. I stared at the short mug for a moment, wondering if I should take a sip. Choosing against it. The coffee was probably tepid, anyway. Finally, I said, “You've thought this through, I think.”

“Not really.” Ross took a sip of his coffee, frowned at the cup, and returned it to its saucer on the linen-draped table.

“Yes, you have. To have this many questions, Ross, means you have begun the process.”

He looked directly at me. “Process? Of what?”

“Getting your answers. You cannot answer questions you don't have.” I smiled weakly. “I know. I've gone through these same questions . . . both when my father chose another family over ours and when Mom died.”

Ross folded his arms over his abdomen.

“But that doesn't get you to the guilt you say you felt yesterday. Are you feeling guilty for even asking these questions?”

“No,” he said, all too quickly.

“What then?”

His hand squeezed mine before traveling up my arm to clasp my elbow. He leaned over the table and spoke softly. Intimately. “For feeling something . . .”

“About?”

“About you.”

Ross was leaving on Wednesday, two days away. Hardly enough time to start, experience, and finish a summer romance. He had called his daughter and practice partner, Jayme-Leigh, told her he was relaxing and enjoying his time and would she hold down the fort another week.

We had nine days.

We decided not to waste a single minute. I turned the shop over to Cheryl so as to spend my days with Ross. He planned every moment without a second of them held from me, although I sensed Lisa's hand in the details. We took biking tours, bird-watching tours, and an aircraft scenic tour in a Cessna 172. We spent hours in the Maine Indian Heritage Museum and Gift Shop and at the Cottage Street Arts Center, where we saw several independent films during the afternoons and live theater at night. We went kayaking and lobster fishing, and took two different tours for seal and whale watching.

Out of all our activities, the one we seemed to enjoy the most was the two-hour windjammer cruise. We took three: a morning tour, an afternoon tour, and—the most romantic—a sunset tour. It was on this tour that Dr. Ross Claybourne
kissed me for the first time. Warm and sweet, like the night. Like the man.

On Sunday night—one week from our first afternoon together—I lay in my bed, sobbing. Earlier that day Jon had expressed such disapproval over my new relationship, I thought he would go after Ross with some made-up legal citation, although I couldn't imagine for what. Ross had taken it all in stride, but I was crushed. I had fallen in love with this man, deeply and passionately in love with this man. I couldn't bear the thought of his leaving, and I couldn't abide my brother's disapproval. He was, after all, my only family left. Truly.

I cried also because we had but three days left with each other. A week earlier they'd felt like a lifetime away, but now they hovered like death's blanket. I wondered if Ross felt the same; if our being together for that many days would only add to his angst rather than heal his grieving heart.

He never once brought up Joan and, for the most part, I didn't sense her ghost between us. How could I? There was no room for her displeasure; there was only space for love.

The following morning we were to meet for breakfast before a seal-watching tour, which we'd already done once and enjoyed immensely. My eyes were swollen from my tearful night; before dressing I applied damp green tea bags over them and lay flat on the bed, ankles crossed, and listened to the Celtic strings of harpist Áine Minogue playing on my CD player. Just as I pulled the nearly dry bags from my face, my cell phone rang. I had placed it next to me on the bed. I grabbed it as though it would get away.

The caller ID showed it was Ross.

“Good morning,” I said, attempting to be cheerful.

“Good morning, my love.”

I melted. “Hello.”

“I need to cancel our breakfast,” he said. “Can we meet at the harbor at the boat dock at nine-forty-five?”

Disappointment washed over me. “Uh . . . sure.” Even an hour and forty-five minutes' loss in time was an hour and forty-five minutes too many.

“I'm sorry. I should have thought of this last night. I . . . I need to run by the Rexall and pick up a prescription I had my pharmacy call in on Saturday.”

Disappointment gave way to concern. “Are you all right?”

“Oh yeah.” He chuckled. “You forget you are dating an old man. Old men have to take medicine on a daily basis.”

I pretended to pout. “You are
not
an old man, Ross Claybourne.”

“You're just saying that because you love me.” He paused. “You
do
love me, don't you?”

I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply through my nostrils. “Most desperately.” I wanted to say more, to tell him that I couldn't bear his leaving on Wednesday. I wanted to beg him as I sat upon my bed to never leave me. To forget Florida and move to Maine. But that would have been selfish on my part. He had a practice to return to. Daughters. Grandchildren. Friends and colleagues. One day, I imagined, he'd tell them about this old maid he'd once made happy while in Maine, even if only for a few days.

“I love you too.” He chuckled again. “Most desperately.”

“You're poking fun.”

“No, I'm not. I mean it. I'll see you soon. Good-bye, sweetheart.”

An old fear swept through me. What if Ross, like Garrett, had no intention of being there this one time? What if he had an airline ticket already tucked into his pocket? His bags packed? What if, in some ego-driven desire, he wanted to picture me, standing there on the dock, wide-brimmed hat in my hand, waiting for him to come? But, like Garrett, he'd never show. What if everything he'd said had been a lie and there was already a special someone in Orlando who'd captured his heart after Joan died? What if this were nothing more than a summer romance?

I dressed in a pair of long linen shorts and a sleeveless matching top with a pair of thong sandals while dread cloaked my heart. I drove to the harbor in despair. But anguish fled as soon as my feet stepped onto the boardwalk and I saw him, waiting near the boat. For me.

He waved. I waved back. And when I reached him, he kissed me as though there was no one else in the world but the two of us. Never had been. Never could be.

During the three-hour tour along Maine's picturesque shoreline, we stopped in the blue-gray waters for lunch, served by the cook on the tall ship. We dined on lobster soup, homemade bread, and blackberry pie. Ross and I whispered thoughts and stole kisses between bites. When we'd had our fill of food and our plates and bowls had been taken away, we settled on one of the highly waxed wooden benches near the bow. I snuggled into Ross's arms, my back curved perfectly to meet the muscles of his broad chest. The sun was warm—hot nearly—but it felt good against my skin. I stretched my long legs, which had tanned over the week, and pointed my toes. Ross kissed the tip of my ear, sending
goose bumps along my arms and legs. I showed him and he laughed.

An hour and a half later, we returned to the dock. Elation pulsed through my veins. The sea air, the wind and waves had always done that to me. But experiencing them with Ross was a tonic unlike anything I'd ever experienced. He'd seemed genuinely interested in the captain's dialogue about the marine life, the various ports and barrier islands, and the birds who call Maine their home. As he listened, he'd whisper into my ear about how this or that reminded him of Cedar Key. “CK,” he often called her. Stepping back onto land with him, I wanted to see this Florida gulf shore paradise more than ever, and I wondered if I might be bold enough to broach the subject before he left for home.

Ross took my hand, said we were going now to get ice cream. I reminded him we'd just had blackberry pie.

“But we didn't have ice cream,” he said.

“Ross Claybourne, I do believe Mr. Horner will be able to retire from his ice cream stand with what we've bought this week alone.”

Ross smiled at me. “I like ice cream. I like eating ice cream with you. So sue me.”

I patted my tummy. “I'm going to gain ten pounds before this week is over, if I haven't already. I need to call our family attorney. Maybe I can sue you for alienation of a waistline.”

He squeezed my hand as we moved along the boardwalk, pulled me closer to him, and said, “Ready to get rid of me so you can diet?”

I stopped, forced my tears not to surface, and said, “Never. I'd gladly wear twenty extra pounds if it meant your being here.”

His smile was faint but warm. Loving. “Bless you for that.”

We moved on, toward the ice cream stand, where only a handful of people stood in line. I spied Mr. Horner behind the window, beaming as he watched us approach. I suspected the older man had enjoyed witnessing love bloom between Ross and me this week. Mason Horner had been a lifelong friend of my father and, when Dad left, had felt some sort of paternal obligation to Jon and me. He and his wife often expressed concern that I had never married, that I'd be alone—like Mom—until my dying day. They'd not wanted that for me, they said. So to see me with Ross had to have held some semblance of hope for them.

“Strawberry and Moose Tracks,” Mr. Horner said before we had a chance to order.

Ross winked at me. “What would you like to do this evening?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know . . . anything, really.” I turned to watch Mr. Horner, but Ross turned my face toward him, his finger against my chin. “How about dinner at the inn?”

“Lisa would love that, wouldn't she?” I started to look again at Mr. Horner, wanting to see—as I'd always done—just how high he'd stack the scoops. I was the proverbial kid in an ice cream parlor.

“Look at me,” Ross whispered.

Goose bumps returned; I shyly allowed my eyes to meet his.

“I love you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

“I know that.”

“What are we going to do come Thursday, Miss Kelly?”

I blinked, sorry he'd brought it up. “Maybe, if we close our eyes real tight, Thursday won't come.”

“Strawberry and Moose Tracks,” Mr. Horner said from behind the opened window. He stretched the waffle cones—piled high with three scoops each—across the white linoleum counter. I took them both while Ross paid.

“Thank you, Mason,” Ross said. “Oh, and can I have a small cup of water, please?”

“Mason,” I said as we walked toward the picnic benches with our delights. “To me, he'll always be Mr. Horner, but to you, he's Mason.”

“That's what you get, young lady, when you take to dating old men.”

“Old
er,
Ross Claybourne. Not old.”

After sitting on a bench, he raised his cone to me in a mock toast. “To us.”

I tipped my cone to meet his. “You got Moose Tracks on my strawberry,” I said, after we'd pulled them apart.

“Consider it fertilizer.”

We laughed and bit into our ice cream. For several minutes, said nothing. Just licking and biting and watching the sun dance over the water and listening to the gulls call overhead, the gentle murmur of locals and tourists. Wishing as hard as I could wish that these moments could be frozen in time, or dripped into bottles to be opened on lonelier, colder days.

I had managed to nibble and lick my way to the bottom scoop. I paused to watch a small flock of sandpipers in flight, hovering close to the shoreline just beyond the fencing. They sang
twee-wee-wee, twee-wee-wee
. I took another bite of ice cream, raking my teeth across something hard. Thinking it to be a frozen berry, I peered down, ready to pluck it and pop
it into my mouth. Instead, the top of a scintillating diamond ring stared up at me.

Breathless, I looked from the cone to the man sitting beside me, smiling. Winking. He pulled the ring from the ice cream, swished it in the untouched cup of water, and held it toward me, thick fingers wrapped around its delicacy. Fire from the sun caught in its facets, sending a rainbow of color toward me. Blue eyes met mine as he began the words I could tell he'd rehearsed for hours. “There are those who will say I've lost my mind. How can I, after only a week of knowing you, ask you to be my wife? I've wondered the same thing, to be honest with you.” He sighed. “Rarely is a man blessed with such a love as I had with Joan—even with all its flaws. To be blessed twice in a lifetime is nearly more than I could have ever imagined or even prayed for.

“Anise, you've brought me more life, more laughter, and more happiness in one week than I've felt in a very long time. Longer than most would ever realize or accept. I felt myself falling in love with you that first Sunday. I tried to talk myself out of it and I failed. I've failed miserably. Last night I decided to give up. Give in to this feeling. I drove to the jeweler this morning, bought this ring—I'll buy another one if you don't like it—and roped the delighted Mason Horner in on my plot.”

I giggled. Looked over my shoulder at the man who clasped his hands together in happiness and then brought them close to his heart.

“So, Miss Kelly,” Ross continued, bringing me back to the moment, “if you can love this old
er
man in the coming years with half the passion you have this past week, I will be the
most fortunate of men. And, if you can forgive me for asking you to marry me with a proposal that includes the name of my late wife, I will be most blessed indeed.”

He blinked.

“You're crying,” he said, brushing my tears with the pad of his thumb. “I can only hope those are tears of joy.”

I nodded.

“We'll be up against a lot, Anise. I know that. But I love you. And right now, that's all that matters. If you're willing, we'll tackle the rest together.” He slipped the ring onto my waiting finger. “If you'll say yes.”

“Yes.”

Again his eyes met mine. We sealed the moment with kisses sweetened with the flavor of ice cream and salted by my tears. “You're right,” I whispered as I kissed the side of his mouth. “We'll be up against a lot. Your girls won't know what hit them and my brother is probably going to call the FBI. But I'm up for the challenge, Ross Claybourne, because, silly as it sounds after only a week, I love you so much I could die. And, quite frankly, I'd rather survive the coming storms with you than not experience them and be without you.”