A Loving Man. Cait London
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to men, she wasn’t intimidated. Perhaps the handyman had been bruised by life, or had a serious health problem. She was very good at getting men to relate to her; once she understood his problem, perhaps they could develop a smooth working relationship. She decided to push right past his bad mood before she fired a man she badly needed. “Are you going fishing with us tonight, or not?”
He nodded grimly, his big body rigid. Waves of temper poured off him, and she had no time for dealing with that. “Well, let’s start you on paint mixing then. It’s all done by formula. Here’s the chart of the amounts of dry powder that you mix into the basic formula. You use this—” she held up a rubber mallet “—to close it and shake—” She indicated a machine. “Make certain you seal it and clamp it good, because it’s a big mess for you to clean up, if you don’t. Oh, stop sulking and scowling. You’ll scare away my customers. You really need to lighten up, Bruce.”
By three o’clock, Rose craved a refreshing nap that she wasn’t going to get. Business was really good, and her new handyman was efficient at mixing paint. Though he didn’t speak, he seemed to be making an effort to be charming, smiling at the customers. He wasn’t that hard looking when he smiled and the women seemed to like him, discussing their decorator plans with him and considering his pointing finger on the samples. In fact, he had made several good sales, selling the carpet remnants from past years. He carried purchases out for customers and Rose decided to trust him with making a delivery to Ella Parsons. “Hey, Bruce. Here’s the map to Ella Parsons. She lives a distance out in the country, so try to help her with whatever she needs doing and get back here to help me close up, okay?”
He took the map she had drawn, folded it neatly and slid it into his back pocket. He crossed his arms and considered her intently. His dark gaze roamed her face, her throat and slowly moved down her body. That close examination caused Rose to shiver. Ned’s cousin didn’t need words to express a male attraction to her. She flipped over the thought; perhaps he was just shy and looking for a friend. She knew how to be a man’s friend, if not his love.
In the next minute, a rush of customers consumed her. Her new employee efficiently mixed paint and when the rush slowed, loaded Granger’s delivery truck. Alone and tending the customers, Rose worked furiously. During spring and fall seasonal rushes, every minute counted.
Just minutes from closing time, a thin, clean, but poorly dressed young man entered the store. When she went to help him, he signed with his hands. Not understanding his meaning, Rose offered him a pad and pencil.
“I’m Bruce Long, Ned’s cousin,” he wrote. “Woke up feeling bad. Had car trouble. Sorry to be late.”
Rose stood absolutely still, her mind replaying the day’s scenarios. Whoever the stranger was who had worked all day, he wasn’t Bruce. “Come back early Monday, okay?” she asked, hurriedly pushing him out of the door.
She rushed to the telephone beside the cash register and dialed Ella Parsons. The man she had mistaken for Bruce Long could be a murderer, a thief, and she’d sent him directly to a dear elderly woman. Fear tore through Rose as she worried about Ella’s safety. “Ella? Did you get your delivery?”
“I did, dear. Everything is in perfect order, and so is that nice Mr. Donatien. We had the nicest chat. He cooked a lovely dinner for Edward and me, and we dined together. He’s coming back with his mother in the morning for fresh eggs and milk. She wants some good cream cows and my Edward is going to help find someone with cows to spare. I love a man who treats his mother well like Mr. Donatien. He clearly loves her and his daughter. Not every man would give up a fancy business office and a secretary waiting on his every command to give his family the country life they want. He’s on his way back to your store now, I think. Lovely man, Mr. Donatien.”
“Oh, he is, is he?” Rose asked very slowly and gripped the counter until her fingers ached. She had a few things to say to Stefan Donatien, and none of them were sweet.
Two
Stefan parked the delivery truck in the lot beside Granger’s store. He carefully retrieved the two pink plastic flamingos from the passenger side of the truck. He held the yard ornaments carefully, a welcome gift from Ella Parsons, who said that everyone who was anyone in Waterville had pink flamingos in their yards. At five o’clock, the store would soon be closing, and he had had an interesting, stress-relieving day. He’d put the blistering argument with Estelle back into perspective—she was becoming her own person and it was normal girl-to-woman development to test herself against life—and her father. He loved her and she loved him, and once they were through this Louie-phase, life would be much simpler.
His mother was delighted with Waterville. The small town reminded her of her youth in France. The farm was as quaint as the town, the milk cows perfect for the cheese and butter Yvette longed to make. She loved feeding her baby chicks and planning her vegetable garden. In the pasture next to his farm, Estelle was already riding horses with a girl her age.
His women also loved the contents of the old farmhouse. It was filled with ordinary, mismatched furniture, far from that of Stefan’s penthouse. The Smiths were ready to travel full-time in their camper and didn’t want the old furniture that so enchanted Stefan’s mother and daughter.
He smiled, cruising along in the mellow and happy lane, certain the Donatiens’ lives would settle happily.
Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the street and danced along the flower beds resting on the sidewalk in front of the stores. Next door, the barber was just locking his front door. Waterville was quiet and peaceful and perfect, the spit and whittle men’s bench vacated until Monday.
Stefan entered the front of the store with a sense of well-being. Around the towering stack of gallon paint cans, he spotted an angry Rose. She stalked right toward him, and on her way, reached for a softball from the counter and hurled it at him. He caught it in one hand, while protectively cradling the pink flamingos with the other arm. She came to stand in front of him, her hands braced on her waist, her legs apart as if readying for a fight. Her blue eyes lasered at him, and her freckles seemed to shift on her face as if waiting to attack him. In his good mood, Stefan smiled slightly at the thought of a “Rose” freckle attack. He realized instantly that humor had not been a part of his life for some time.
“You’re grinning. Some big joke, huh? You are not Bruce Long,” Rose stated tightly.
Stefan turned the Open sign to Closed. He wanted this conversation to be private. Rose looked as if she might erupt. “I did not say that I was.”
“You cooked for Ella…put wine in her spaghetti sauce. You gave her tips on the presentation of green beans, not snapped, but whole…. Everyone here snaps green beans. They usually cook green beans with bacon, and maybe onion instead of steaming them…sometimes with new potatoes. You’ll have everyone canning their June beans upright in the jars…and every once in a while, I get to sit on someone’s front porch and snap beans. I enjoy that—and you’re messing with Waterville tradition.”
“The presentation of the meal is ultimate. We dined together. The Parsons are quite charming, and I was quite hungry—my stomach could not bear your infamous hot dogs,” Stefan returned, watching in fascination as Rose tore the rubber band confining her ponytail away. A sleek curtain of burnished reddish brown hair fell to her shoulders. He longed to crush it in his hands, to lift it to the sunlight and to study the fascinating color and texture. It would feel like silk, alive with warmth from Rose. He breathed unsteadily as an image flashed through his mind—that of Rose’s hair dragging along his bare skin, the sensual sweep of the rich reddish-brown strands across his cheek.
Stefan held still, shocked by the turn of his thoughts; he had not been so susceptible since he was in his teens. Perhaps it was spring, the flowers, the lack of Louie— “Hello, Rose,” he said gently, loving the sound on his tongue.
She reminded him of a flower, as fresh as dewdrops glistening in the dawn.
“You’ve got an accent. That’s why you didn’t talk. And I fell for it,” Rose-the-flower stated darkly. “Very funny.”
He