Secretly Smitten (39 page)

“You designed it?”

“Yep. Griffen Parker built the gazebo for me last year. You remember him—he was your first delivery. He made the one on the town square too.”

Her talents were wasted at the nursery. Couldn’t she see that? “Why don’t you start a landscaping branch off the Red Barn’s business—it’s a natural fit.”

Clare shrugged. “I asked Mr. Lewis about that a long time ago, but he’s not interested in expanding. I barely talked him into staying open year-round.”

“You should start your own business then.”

“I probably will . . . someday.”

He wanted to push, but it was none of his business. Clare was none of his business. Best to keep things simple. He’d be moving along in a matter of weeks.

He was curious about her, though. Curious about the blush Josh had put on her cheeks. Curious about why she worked at a job so close to, but not quite in, her area of giftedness.

Let’s just leave it right there, Foster. We all know what curiosity did to the cat.

Last thing he needed was an attachment to the pretty brunette. She’d already wiggled her way into his affections with her quick blush and penchant for doing things a certain way. He’d even found her little game of twenty questions amusing. It was killing her to not know more, but he’d fended off questions from people far more skilled at interrogation than Clare Thomas.

He wasn’t quite sure why God had sent him here. Clare and her family were already Christians, apparently. But you never knew. Maybe he could help fix the rift between her grandma and aunt somehow.

Out in the garden, Dixie looked at Clare, head tilting, ears popping up as if just realizing they were there. She bounded toward her mistress, brushing plants on her way, then barreled into Clare with her big, furry body.

Caught off balance, Clare bumped into Ethan. She planted her palm on his thigh, steadying herself.

She laughed. “Dixie, down!”

The dog nuzzled her face. She turned toward Ethan to escape the sloppy kisses.

She opened her eyes and the laughter fell away. Blue irises with sparkling flecks of silver. She smelled like honeysuckle and fresh air. She had the perfect nose, a straight line tapering down to a cute nub, and below that a pair of perfectly kissable lips. A shallow dip in the top, full on the bottom.

Clare straightened. She snatched her hand from his leg as if it were a hot plate. “Sorry.”

She pushed Dixie down. The blush bloomed on her cheeks again and she stood abruptly. “You need some manners, little girl.”

Ethan pretended not to notice the breathy sound of her voice, the little wobble as she stood, or the shake in her hand as she reached for the door.

And as he drove back to the nursery, he pretended not to notice that he still felt the imprint of her hand on his leg.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he next Saturday a ruckus from the direction of the garden drew Clare away from the hanging planter arrangements. The voices grew louder as she rounded the tool shed. Thank God there were no customers around.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you steer her wrong.” Grandma’s hands knotted into fists on her narrow hips.

“I think I’d know better than you about
violets
, Rose. They’re my namesake!”

“Everyone knows African violets require a shallow pot.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, that’s who!”

“All right, you two!” Clare frowned at the both of them. “Sit!” She pointed to the park bench gracing the walkway between the cedar and tamarack saplings.

Grandma’s lips thinned.

Aunt Violet’s arms crossed over her ample bosom. Her purple sleeves fluttered in the breeze.

“
Now.
I mean it, you two. I’ve had enough.”

The women sank onto the wooden bench, hugging the ornamental arms at either end. Clare would never disrespect her elders, but someone had to talk some sense into them.

“This has gotten out of hand. You’re sisters. You love each other.”

“Humph,” Grandma said.

“She corrected me in front of a customer.” Aunt Violet pursed her lips, her bright orange-red lipstick puckering like a withered orange.

“Well, you were wrong!”

Clare knelt down between them and took their soft, wrinkled hands in her own. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.”

She’d start with Grandma—the less stubborn of the two. At least, she’d always thought so. Lately she wasn’t so sure.

“Grandma, you know Aunt Violet is sorry. Hasn’t she already said so? She feels terrible, don’t you, Aunt Violet?”

Her aunt looked the other way. “I refuse to say it again.”

“You know how hurt Grandma was. She loved David. It was a shock to learn he’d survived the war, and that you knew and didn’t tell her. You can understand that, right?”

“You’re wasting your time, Clare,” Aunt Violet said. “There’s no pleasing her.”

Grandma scowled at her sister. “You’re all heart, Violet.”

“I told one lie! And I did it for your own good. You were already married.”

Grandma’s blue eyes narrowed. “You wanted David for yourself! He was alive, and you kept it from me all these years! You let me think he was dead!”

Violet sprang to her feet, surprisingly quick for an eightyyear-old woman. “I said I was sorry!”

Grandma stood. “Well, excuse me if it takes more than two minutes to forgive a sixty-year sin committed against me by my own sister!”

Aunt Violet gasped as her penciled brows shot upward.

Grandma spun and walked away, her slim shoulders back.

“Seventy times seven, Rose! Seventy times seven!”

“Aunt Violet . . . ,” Clare chided, touching her aunt’s fleshy arm. “She just needs time. Can’t you be patient with her?”

“I can’t believe you’re taking her side.” Violet huffed off in the opposite direction, slamming the nursery’s back door.

Clare let out a loud growl. “Why can’t everyone just get along?”

A noise by the shed caught her attention. Ethan came out with a shovel, shutting the door behind him, a sheepish look on his handsome face.

She arched a brow. “Hiding?”

Ethan shrugged. “Went in for a shovel and got stuck.”

“You could’ve come to my rescue, you know,” Clare said.

“And get in the middle of that? No thanks.” He approached with that slow swagger of his.

She stuffed her hands in her overall pockets. Ever since she’d touched Ethan the week before, she didn’t quite trust herself. She found herself thinking about the strength of his thigh at the most inopportune moments. Like now. She cleared her throat.

“At least you tried.” Standing in the shade of the shed, his eyes were deep brown, nearly black. He had a fringe of lashes that could make a woman jealous.

“For all the good it did. What’s it going to take? They’ve never argued like this. They’ve always been so close.”

He leaned on the shovel. “Maybe if you could get your grandma’s beau to come back, it would fix things.”

“No. He already refused—doesn’t want to come between them, although it’s a bit late for that. Besides, that would only make it worse. Stir up old feelings.”

“Or it could give your grandma and this guy another chance.”

“And what if Aunt Violet still cared for him? What if David developed feelings for her? It could be disastrous.”

If she could just get Grandma to forgive Violet, it would be over. But first she’d have to get Violet to exhibit an ounce of remorse. She thought about Violet’s stubborn scowl. Fat chance.

She stared at the nursery door her aunt had disappeared through. “I just want things to go back to normal. Back to the way they used to be before those dog tags were ever found.”

Maybe her mom was right. Maybe some secrets were meant to stay that way. She sure wished this one had remained buried.

“That’s not possible,” Ethan said.

“It is if they can forgive and forget.”

“In my experience when something major happens, things change. Either you let God use the circumstances to change you, or you become bitter. Your relatives are firmly grounded. I’m sure they’ll come around, but their relationship might be different.”

Clare squirmed. She didn’t want things to be different. She liked their family dynamics. At least, she
had
. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“It’ll be all right. Just give it time.” And then he was gone with his shovel to dig up two sugar maples for the Bourne family.

Clare returned to the hanging planter, adding yellow petunias to the purple violas. Everything was changing. Not only Grandma and Rose, but her sisters and her mother—her best friends. They were all in relationships, headed toward marriage, and where did that leave her? They wouldn’t have time for her anymore.

Their Memorial Day picnic the week before had felt odd. Grandma and Aunt Violet had refused to attend, and Mom and her sisters were all paired up, leaving Clare and Aunt Petunia the odd ones out.

And now they’d decided to start bringing their men to Sunday dinner. The girl time she looked forward to was about to be flooded with testosterone. Clare half wished she’d come down sick again before tomorrow. Three couples . . . and her. She didn’t fit into her own family anymore.

Too bad she wasn’t still dating Josh. At least he’d have filled the chair next to her.

Outside, Ethan began whistling a tune while he dug up the trees. The melodic notes of an old hymn.

You
could
always
ask
him, Clare.

Yeah, right. She snorted. Her cheeks grew warm at the thought. Flirting was one thing, asking him out was another. First, she was his boss. Awkward. Second, he wasn’t the mingling type. Despite her best efforts to draw him out, she could count the things she knew about him on one hand. Though her sisters would no doubt have better luck at that. No one was better at prying than Zoe. It went with her job, Clare supposed.

Hmm. She was actually entertaining the idea. Which only attested to the sheer dread she felt about being a fifth wheel.

Unfortunately, getting him there would mean asking him, a task that was only slightly less uncomfortable than, say, an FBI interrogation. After all, what was in it for him? Sure, he turned that crooked little smile on her here and there, but she had no grand notions the man was interested in her. Sensible Clare. Boring Clare.

The thought deflated her like a pricked balloon. She patted down the soil around the flowers. She was being ridiculous. She only wanted to fill a chair at a family dinner, not propose marriage.

Food!

He was a bachelor. Heaven knew when he’d last had a home-cooked meal. Grandma said food was the way to a man’s heart. Well, she didn’t want his heart, but she’d take his company.

Having decided to take the plunge, she waited for the right time. It came late in the day after the sun had sunk behind Sugarcreek Mountain, inviting twilight to come sit a spell.

While Ethan was returning tools to the shed, Clare gathered her courage around her like a shawl.
Be
casual. Indifferent.

He snapped the lock on the door and turned with a parting smile. “All locked up. See you Monday, boss.” Then he was walking toward the parking lot.

“Wait!”

He turned.

Waiting. Just as she asked.

Clare’s mind went blank. Why hadn’t she planned this out? Because she was trying to be more spontaneous, that’s why.

See
where
that
gets
you, Clare?
Standing
ankle-deep in a puddle of awkward silence.

“Uh . . .”

His brows inched higher.

“You like home-cooked food?”

Stupid. Of course he likes home-cooked food. Come on, Clare.