Delivered with Love Page 14

  Blake pulled her close, tucking her head securely against his chest. "I know you miss your mom, but missing her is one thing, being obsessed with this letter is another." He let out a frustrated sigh.

  His words stung. He didn't mean it—he couldn't. How could such a caring man be so unkind? Claire bolted upright. "You don't understand me at all." She stood, marched to the dining room table and blew out the candles. "You sound like Haley. 'Move on. Make friends. Go out on dates. Stop being stuck in the past.' Until you're in my shoes, don't judge me."

  "Claire, I didn't mean to hurt you. I think Haley is right. It's time to move on." Blake came up beside her, placed both hands on her arms. "And I want to help you." He leaned in for a kiss.

  Instinctively, Claire's hands shot up to his chest and pushed him away. A memory of her mother and one of her deadbeat boyfriends popped into her head. Claire dropped down on a dining room chair, unable to look Blake in the eye. He was not like those men Mom used to date. When Claire had turned sixteen, her mother swore off men altogether. "Friendship," she had said, "was the only way to go." Heat crept up Claire's neck to her cheeks. "Please leave."

  "Come on, Claire . . ." He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "I said go!" A knot started in her throat and burned its way to her heart.

  Blake walked to the door and turned the handle. "I'll make a reservation at Bella Roma for six o'clock on Saturday." He walked out to the landing and half-closed the door, then stuck his head back in. "Oh, and wear those red stilettos!" He smiled, then closed the door.

  Persistent. Claire exhaled. The man sure was persistent.

  Claire lay in her bed with the comforter drawn up to her chin. The sun's rays shone through the window. She had tossed and turned most of the night, replaying the attempted kiss and the subsequent shove. How humiliating. She covered her eyes with a hand, forcing her thoughts to less embarrassing things.

  Geraldine had called last night to tell her that she and Sandy would pick her up at eleven so she could help them find a "grandmother of the bride" dress for the wedding. Claire looked forward to spending time with Geraldine and Sandy. Michael's wife seemed like a nice woman, someone she'd want to get to know.

  When was the last time she wore a dress? She couldn't remember. Wouldn't Blake be surprised to see her in a dress that matched her heels? That's if she decided to go on their date. Maybe Nancy had one she could borrow; they were about the same size.

  The clock displayed ten o'clock. Way past time to get up. Pushing the blankets aside, Claire stretched, then stood and walked to the mirror. Her long wavy hair was askew, and her nose was pink from the previous day's walk on the beach. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, and dug in her closet for something to wear. She settled on her ivory pants and light blue sweater.

  Once in the kitchen, she put a slice of four-grain bread in the toaster and pulled the honey from the cabinet. After she heated water in a mug, she dropped in a tea bag and brought her small breakfast to the table.

  She ate in a trance without tasting her food. Her evening with Blake had been a disaster—from the meager dinner of cold sandwiches, arguing over the letter, to pushing him away when he tried to kiss her. Claire would be surprised if he showed up to take her to Bella Roma. Did she want him to? Even after the way he dismissed her interest in finding the writer of the letter? He'd been downright rude implying she was obsessed. Was she? She discarded the thought. The smell of her lemon tea brought her comfort as she drew the cup to her lips.

  There was nothing wrong with wanting to meet someone from her mother's past. There had to be one man her mom dated who was decent. How else was she going to believe in love? Or keep the memories of her mother alive? As it was, she could barely remember the sound of her mother's voice. Martin DeWitt, huh? She grabbed the phone book from the cabinet above the table and was thumbing through it when a car horn startled her.

  Sandy. Grabbing her purse, she stuck a piece of gum in her mouth and locked the door behind her.

  "Claire, hi. Come on in." Sandy called from the driver's side window of her Lexus. "I would've come to the door, but we're running late. Julia is waiting for us at the bridal shop."

  Claire opened the door and stepped inside. The tan leather seats smelled new. "I like your car."

  "Thank you. Michael got a great deal from a friend of his. "Sandy pulled out of the driveway and drove down the street. "The car's a few years old, but the previous owner took good care of it."

  "How was your evening, Geraldine?" Claire reached forward and touched her shoulder.

  "Fine. Just fine. I should ask the same of you, my dear. How's that handsome man of yours?"

  "Blake is not my man." Claire squirmed in her seat. "But the candles were a nice touch. Thanks for warning him about my cooking."

  "When Blake's kitchen is put back together, I'll teach you a thing or two. A man likes a woman who can cook." Geraldine held up a gnarled finger.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Bridal Veil Fashions. After walking to the back of the store, Claire helped Geraldine sit in a chair as Julia entered the room in her wedding gown. She was stunning. The exquisite beaded bodice hugged her slender figure, and the cathedral train trailed elegantly behind. Claire hoped she'd have the chance someday to have a real wedding, not a rushed ceremony as her sister had had. Claire pushed her envious thoughts away. How could she be jealous of someone she barely knew?

  "Julia, you look beautiful. I don't think you'll need much in the way of alterations." Sandy wiped tears from her cheeks.

  "Mom, don't start crying." Julia fanned her face with a hand. "If you start crying again, I know I will too." Her eyes softened. "You think I look beautiful?"

  "You're gorgeous, honey." Sandy reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes. "Don't you think so, Mom?"

  Geraldine had the cutest grin on her face. "You make a beautiful bride, Julia."

  "Grandma, we need to find you a dress." Julia made quarter turns to accommodate the seamstress.

  "My friend here will help me." Geraldine patted Claire's hand. "Won't you, dear?"

  Claire nodded. "I'd love to."

  "I'm sorry, Claire. You remember my daughter, Julia." Sandy blew her nose. "I don't know why I'm falling apart . . ."

  "Nice to see you again." Claire lifted a hand.

  "Thanks so much for caring for my grandmother. She speaks highly of you."

  Claire's face warmed at the compliment.

  Julia turned for the seamstress once again. "Feel free to find a dress, Grandma. And remember, the bridesmaids are wearing pink."

  Geraldine grabbed both handles of her walker and slowly hoisted herself to standing. "Okay, Claire. Help me find a knockout dress."

  Claire giggled and followed Geraldine to the front of the store. Rows of gowns filled the small room.

  "What size do you wear?" She guessed Geraldine to be less than five feet tall, and not much more than one hundred pounds.

  "Good question. I think I'll have to try them on." Geraldine stopped abruptly and pulled on the skirt of a pale pink dress. "I like this one. Look, it has a lace jacket to match. Help me try this one on, dear. If it's too big, I'll have the seamstress take it in."

  Claire liked Geraldine's no-nonsense approach. She carried the dress and helped Geraldine to the fitting room.

  After disrobing, Geraldine sat down on the seat and stepped into the pink gown. She stood, and Claire zipped the back of the dress. "This one was made for me. Hand me the jacket, dear."

  Claire held up the lace fabric while the elderly woman placed her arms inside the sleeves. "You look beautiful."

  "Aren't you sweet." Geraldine slowly twirled around, then opened the door. "Let's see what Sandy and Julia think."

  Remembering the photo from Geraldine's antique picture frame, Claire could picture Geraldine getting dressed up for a man. She was quite the romantic at heart.

  "Claire, dear?" She interrupted Claire's thoughts. "Ho
w's it going with Blake?" The elderly woman scooted toward her. A smile was plastered across her face.

  "He's taking me out to dinner on Saturday . . . if Nancy or Vivian can stay with you." Her feelings about Blake were a jumbled mess. Did she want the sisters to be available? Her heart skipped a beat.

  "Don't you worry. Perch me in front of a good movie and I won't budge." She motioned to Sandy.

  "Mom, that dress looks nice on you." Sandy eyed her from all directions. "A few alterations are needed, but otherwise it's perfect."

  Geraldine grinned.

  "Mom, remember I'm meeting my friend for lunch. We should get going soon."

  "Oh, that's right. Claire, please help me get changed. "Geraldine shuffled back into the fitting room. "We wouldn't want Sandy to be late. Her friend Debbie DeWitt is always on time."

  Claire was close behind. Her mind raced. "Did you say DeWitt?" her palms were suddenly moist. "Any relation to Martin DeWitt?"

  23

  Michael drove his BMW into the parking lot in front of Pacific Coast Manor. He hadn't seen his friend Martin in three years. He pushed his guilt to the back of his mind as he slid out of the seat and locked the door.

  He hoped Martin's brain stem injury didn't keep him from remembering the good times. Knots formed in his stomach as he approached the double doors. He wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks and hesitated before going in. Before he could change his mind, he stepped through the doorway.

  "Can you tell me the number for Martin DeWitt's room?" He leaned his arm on the front counter.

  The young secretary looked him over. "I can ring his room to see if he's up to visitors." She fiddled with her shirt collar. "Your name?"

  "Michael Thompson," he answered. "A friend from high school."

  The woman nodded and punched in a series of numbers on the telephone.

  Michael looked around the room. A couple of chairs flanked a potted ficus tree. A coffee table perched in front of the chairs held various magazines. The place seemed neat and clean.

  "He'll see you now. Room 131." The secretary gave a curt smile. "To your left, and down the hall. You can't miss it." Her fingers flew over the keyboard sounding like raindrops on a windowpane.

  "Thank you."

  The antiseptic smell filled his nostrils the moment he stepped into the hallway. An elderly woman pushed a walker as a nurse stayed close to her side. The place was quiet, except for the squeak of a lunch cart. He continued down the hall.

  Michael froze the minute he located Room 131. Was this a mistake? Why'd he come? It was Sandy's idea. She had suggested he visit his high school friend today while she went out to lunch with Debbie. He had a feeling Sandy wanted his relationship with God to get back on track. Martin's faith never wavered.

  He peeked inside the doorway. A curtain draped the opening so he couldn't see inside. The last thing he wanted to do was startle his old friend. He'd have to make his presence known. "Here goes," he muttered under his breath.

  "Martin?" Michael pulled the curtain back a few inches. "Are you there, Buddy?" The endearing name slipped off his tongue. The sight of Martin in a wheelchair made him cringe. Even now years after the car accident, the thought of a man in his fifties wasting away caused him heartache. He had to give Debbie credit for sticking by a man who could never walk again, much less anything else.

  He approached with cautious steps. Would Martin be worse? By the blank look on his face, Michael wondered if he remembered him.

  "What are you doing here?" Martin's words slurred together like a man who's had too much to drink. "Your wife make you come?" He blinked as if in slow motion.

  Got me there. "I wanted to see you." Michael pulled up a chair and sat mere inches from his high school chum. "I know it's been a while." He might as well acknowledge the obvious.

  "I've been here." Martin's brows furrowed.

  "Our wives are having lunch today." Michael attempted to avoid the jab.

  "I know. They have lunch every Thursday." Sweat trickled down Martin's forehead; the exertion from a simple conversation was apparently too much for a man in his situation.

  Michael jumped up from his seat, walked to the window, and slid it open. "Our wives have become close friends." Debbie had approached Sandy twenty-five years ago when Michael and Sandy were having marriage problems. Sandy had been amazed at the timing of their friendship. Michael knew better. "Look, Martin, we've got to get past this wedge that's grown between us. It's gone on too long."

  Martin looked past him toward the open window. The wind pushed the vertical blinds back and forth, casting shadows on the wall and floor. He seemed to be fascinated with the movement. "It's up to you." The words burst from his lips.

  "Yes. It's my fault." Michael sat back down in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together, causing his knuckles to turn white. "How can I make it up to you?" He glanced down at the floor.

  "Not me. Sandy."

  A nurse walked in. "Time for physical therapy."

  A sense of relief washed over Martin's face. Michael sensed his friend was eager to get away from him. The thought soured Michael's stomach. If he'd come to visit him more often, Martin would believe he cared for him. The thought jarred Michael. Of course, that's it.

  He glanced at his watch and noted the time. Martin had physical therapy at 12:30. Next time he'd come a little earlier. Michael stood and placed a hand on Martin's shoulder. "I'll come again next Thursday, I promise."

  Martin turned away. "No promises."

  "I will, you'll see."

  The nurse unlocked the brakes, grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, and pushed him out of the room.

  Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. A headache was forming. He'd tried to prepare himself for such a meeting, but the reality was like a knife to his heart. If only he could reverse time. He'd change so much about the past—and maybe a little about the present too.

  Geraldine's stunned expression told Claire all she needed to know. Debbie DeWitt was related to Martin. She had to find out how. "Is Debbie Martin's wife?" Claire slipped the lace jacket off Geraldine's shoulders.

  "Why, yes. How did you know?" Geraldine pointed to the back of her dress. The zipper was well hidden.

  "Haley sent me Mom's journal. She mentioned Martin's name. So, when you said Sandy was meeting Debbie DeWitt, I guessed."

  "I can change the rest by myself, dear." Geraldine pushed Claire out the door and locked the dressing room behind her.

  Interesting. She had a feeling the older woman knew more than she was letting on. She had avoided the conversation on more than one occasion. And they all pertained to her mother.

  "Julia left to go back to work. You ladies ready?" Sandy approached.

  "Almost, dear," Geraldine's voice piped in.

  "I'll drop you both off at home before I meet Debbie for lunch. We're going to Gayle's Bakery and Rosticceria." Her voice oozed with enthusiasm. "Say, why don't I call Debbie and tell her you and Claire will be joining us? I know you'd love this place, Mom—"

  "That's sweet of you, dear, but I'd like to go home. I need a nap." Claire heard Geraldine shuffling around in the fitting room. "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but the bed in your guest room is a little lumpy."

  Claire stifled a laugh.

  Geraldine stepped out.

  "Well, then, why don't you take a nap . . ." Sandy tapped her chin with a manicured fingernail. "And Claire can join Debbie and me."

  What would it be like to meet Martin's wife? Claire smiled. But one look into Geraldine's eyes told her she'd better return home. She didn't want to upset her employer. "Maybe another time. I'd like to get Geraldine settled. I have plenty of food in the refrigerator. Blake keeps us well stocked." Her stomach fluttered at the mention of Blake's name. "Can we have a rain check?"

  "Most certainly. I meet Debbie for lunch every Thursday, so we can plan it another time." Sandy held her hand out to carry Geraldine's gown to the cash reg
ister.

  Once home, Claire helped Geraldine settle into bed for a nap. Then she reached for her mother's journal and situated herself in the recliner in the family room.

  Since that first mention of Martin DeWitt, her mother wrote about teenage life as a senior at San Diego High. But mostly she wrote about boys—those who were cute and athletic, the ones she liked, and the one who took her to the prom. Michael's name wasn't mentioned once. In fact, Martin was referred to only a handful of times. Carrying on a long-distance romance would have been difficult for a teenager.

  Her thoughts turned toward the letter. Claire couldn't identify her feelings. Was she disappointed? Relieved? Maybe Blake was right and she was obsessed with it. The caring look in Blake's eyes last night made her shudder. She couldn't believe she had pushed him away. Claire set the journal on the coffee table, stood and paced the floor. Was it time to let go of the past? She fingered one of the red candles left on the dining room table. Why had Blake tried to kiss her? To help her move on with her life?

  Claire inhaled, then let out an exaggerated sigh. She didn't have much practice with men. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time a man had kissed her.

  She heard footsteps on the front porch. Then, as quickly as they came, they disappeared. Claire rushed to the kitchen window and looked out. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Blake walking toward his house in his police uniform. She continued watching him. He slid inside his white truck and drove down the street. Why did he come to her door? Claire raced to the door and opened it. A long-stemmed red rose stood in a tall, thin vase. Claire reached for the vase and brought it inside before reading the note that was attached.

  To the Lady in Red,

  Until Saturday night.

  Yours, Blake

  Goosebumps ran up and down her arms. Right there and then, she decided she'd go to Bella Roma.

  And forget about the letter. At least for now.

  24