Bouquet: Sequel to 'In Full Bloom': The Trilogy of the Rose (Volume 3)

by B. A. Beers

  “Ooh, very good,” he smiled.

  “Why Adam? Why did I give up my son?” she asked.

  “You were protecting him from you,” he answered.

  Sami nodded. “I want to improve my self-worth, Dr. Stevens. I don’t want to continue like this anymore. Please help me,” she asked.

  Mark felt every fiber in his being tingle at her words. Smiling from ear to ear, he offered, “I would be delighted to help you mend; however, I have one small request.”

  Sami laughed lightly. “No, I will not change my ‘catch word’,” she replied, smiling. “I like it!”

  Damn, she is good, he thought, chuckling lightly. “Alright, you win. Tomorrow, we will begin. Tonight, we will celebrate,” he informed her.

  “Celebrate?” she asked, feeling anxious.

  “Yes. I am taking us out to dinner. Linda, call your husband,” he said, pulling into the parking lot of Five Point Clinic.

  “Out?” Sami cried, wide-eyed.

  “Yes. Linda, I am turning her over to you. Go shopping. Get the works,” he directed, placing the truck in park, but not turning off the engine. Opening the door, he stepped out and released the wing door for Linda.

  “I am on it,” Linda laughed.

  “Pass me the box. My homework, while you play,” he stated.

  As Linda gathered the journals back in the box, Mark reached for his wallet and removed his credit card. “It is on me,” he said to Linda, giving her the card in exchange for the box as she stepped out of the truck. “Pick me up around five.”

  “Girls day, love it,” Linda stated, sliding into the driver’s seat.

  Mark moved around to the passenger’s side of the truck and placed the box on the rim of the truck’s bed and opened the door. Reaching into the truck, he cupped Sami’s chin in his hand, seeing her frightened expression.

  “I can’t do this. I am not ready,” she said softly.

  “You are ready,” he replied in the same soft tone. “We are going out on the town tonight and I refuse to take you in a diaper.”

  Sami laughed lightly as her fear disappeared. “I could start a new fashion trend,” she offered.

  Mark released her face and shook his head. “Another time perhaps, but not tonight,” he replied.

  “Okay, Dr. Stevens. I will hold you to that,” she informed him, playfully placing her hand on his chest and pushing him out of the path of the door. “We are on a mission to use your card.”

  Stepping away, he closed the door and retrieved the box, hearing the laughter inside the truck by the two women. He watched as Linda reversed the truck. He focused on Sami’s face and caught her mouth two words in his direction. ‘Thank you.’

  Bowing at the waist, Mark knew in his heart ‘the crying rose’ was now only an exquisite painting.

  ***

  NINETEEN

  The following months were busy ones for Mark, Sami and their support team. With the knowledge of her past and the freedom to speak openly of it, Sami bloomed. As her arm healed, so did her spirit.

  Linda was back fulltime in her life. She and AJ became regular visitors to Sami’s house on Coyote Run. He looked so much like JW, his father, Sami thrived on his attention. It took several weeks, but the boy and his mother closed the gap in their relationship. AJ began spending the weekends at Sami’s, and readily accepted Mark in his and his mother’s lives.

  David’s assistance was so impressive and appreciated; Mark and Jon offered to sponsor his continuing studies in the field of psychology.

  Grandma Jo nurtured her friendship with Sami, even spending her Monday baking days at Sami’s house. Her love of baking sparked a new interest in Sami, and she registered for a community college course in gourmet cooking. The ‘Queen of Volunteers’ continued her activities at the Five Point Clinic, but had cut back on the hours. She was spending more time at Sami’s cabin as she became closer friends with Gus.

  The relationship between Mark and Sami rapidly took on new dynamics. Mark tried to remain the consummate professional during her therapy sessions, but would occasionally be overcome with intimate feelings for his patient. Sami’s feelings for Mark had run the gamut from initial hostility, to respect, to friendship, to the awakening of love. And, that love for Mark deepened quickly; so much so that at the end of February, Sami requested that Jon continue her therapy, as Mark saw to her other needs.

  They married on April 25th of that year. They agreed that on their honeymoon they would pass the tradition of the candid photographs and letters on to a young newlywed couple, relating their story to them.

  Sami felt that for the first time she was completely whole as she sighed and settled into the comfort of Mark’s arms — her brilliant doctor and her wonderful husband.

  ***

  EPILOGUE

  Sami sat in the glider, overlooking the peaceful scene before her. The two small babies wiggled and scurried on the knitted afghan in the middle of the yard, flanked by two, very attentive, Springer Spaniels. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of white and turned to the knitted, fire ‘n’ ice rose-designed afghan, a gift from Grandma Jo. Admiring it, she thought that it certainly was a tribute to Grandma Jo’s talents with knitting needles. Sami shook her head slowly as a smile reached her lips.

  Reassured that the twins, Billy and Stacy, were properly watched, and knowing that AJ was not due home from school for another hour, she opened the new journal in front of her. It was a present from her beloved husband. Picking up the pen, she wrote:

  Volume 1

  Samantha Ann Stevens

  April 25, 2002

  Read on for an excerpt of Secret Writing, which chronicles Dr. Mark Stevens’ passion for assisting damsels in distress.

  Secret

  Writing

  By

  B. A. Beers

  One

  “Tish, call this number,” Wendy Turner suggested as she pressed a business card in Tish Wilson’s hand. “Over the past couple of weeks, I have noticed that something has been troubling you, and since you won’t talk to me, your best friend, then it has to be awful. I can’t stand to sit back and watch you suffer any longer. You need help.”

  Glancing at the card, Tish recognized the name of Wendy’s psychiatric therapist. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she handed the card back to Wendy. “I don’t need help. I’ll be fine.”

  Wendy slammed the card down hard on the restaurant table and caused not only the silverware to bounce by the force, but it also caught the attention of the occupants at the nearby table. “That’s garbage, and you know it. You’ve been telling me the same thing all week,” she stormed, mad as a wet hen at Tish’s stubbornness in seeking guidance.

  Wendy’s angry outburst ceased Tish’s tears, and she inwardly froze. Keeping her eyes glued on the face directly across from her, she slowly prayed to become invisible.

  Wendy saw Tish’s reaction to her words, and mentally counted to ten slowly to calm her aggressiveness. Now, armed with a more steady composure, Wendy tried again. “For heaven’s sake, Tish, forgive my actions, but hear my words. You need help now.” She slid the card back across the table to Tish. “Keep the card, and think about it at least. You need to rethink your position regarding psychiatric therapists. Believe me, it is the best thing that has ever happened to me. If I hadn’t been seeing him,” she pointed to the card, “that little scene, I just made, would have been a lot worse. You know it as well as I do.”

  Tish blinked her eyes at that little, true confession. A small smile appeared on her face, as she focused her thoughts on Wendy’s words. Looking at the card, she had to admit that this doctor had helped Wendy control her impulsive behavior. Over the twenty or so years that they have been friends, when fate had assigned them as college roommates, Wendy had always been a reactor. She never thought about the consequences of her actions until it was too late. These explosive episodes had resulted in two failed marriages and countless headaches and heartaches for her. Because of her own passive nature
, Tish was the only one who had weathered Wendy’s mood swings. It was not that she hadn’t been hurt emotionally, on occasions, by one of Wendy’s ‘blow-ups’, but their friendship was so tight that mere words or actions couldn’t damage it for too long.

  Tish picked up the card. She remembered that it was at her suggestion to consult a doctor after Dan, Wendy’s ex-husband, left her six months ago. Recalling this, Tish felt ‘goose bumps’ break out over her forearms. Dropping the card, she rubbed her arms gently to disperse the bumps. Now it seemed, with their roles reversed, Wendy was the ‘dealer’. Tish glanced up to view Wendy’s relatively calm face. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” she ventured.

  Wendy was thrilled at Tish’s change of attitude. Years of experience with Tish made her realize that receiving this answer equaled a positive response. “Great! Now, put that card in your purse,” she directed, pointing to the card. As their food arrived, as if on cue, she wanted to add ‘what changed your mind?’, but held back fearing that answer could not benefit either of them.

  Tish picked up the card and carefully placed it in the outside pocket of her purse. An overwhelming feeling of failure consumed her as she patted the side of the purse several times, delaying a glance back at Wendy. Desperately wanting the focus of their conversation away from her, she struggled, in her mind, for a neutral topic. “How’s Stephanie?” she blurted out, knowing that Wendy loved to talk about her only child, who had just turned fifteen last week.

  Wendy picked up on Tish’s feelings, and decided to oblige her friend by dropping the subject. “Boy crazy,” she laughingly responded to the question. “Yesterday, she told me…” Wendy continued. Tish heard Wendy talking, but not one word penetrated her thoughts. While the fork in her right hand absently moved the salad around the plate in front of her, her left hand stayed in contact with the front of her purse.

  ***

  Driving away from the restaurant, Tish was nearly blinded by the river of tears flowing down her face. She recalled her parting moments earlier with Wendy. As they had stood next to her car, Wendy had reached out to her, and she had involuntarily flinched away from her friend’s touch. She knew that Wendy had noticed, but she was unable to help herself. Covering her embarrassment, Tish had quickly turned and gotten into her car, promising to call Wendy soon.

  Spotting a neighborhood park through her tears, she opted to pull off the street. She feared that her inability to operate her car safely could end up hurting someone. It dawned on her that it was not her own safety she was concerned about, it was others’. Maneuvering the car into a parking space just off the entrance, she placed it in park and switched off the motor. She released the seat belt and leaned over, placing her arms crossed on the steering wheel. Leaning her forehead to her arms, she gave herself over to the forthcoming flood of tears.

  All the suppressed emotions, which she had tried to hide these last three weeks, surged to the surface. She needed to shut down her mind, for it was her enemy. It was the reason for her inability to sleep or even concentrate on anything other than these ugly feelings she was having. Needing a tissue to catch the moisture on her face, she sat up and reached for her purse. Forceful withdrawal of the tissue caused the card, which Wendy had given her, to flip into the air. Tish’s eyes followed its course as it appeared to move in slow motion, turning over and over until it landed, face up, on the passenger’s seat. Pressing the tissue under her nose, she pondered the meaning behind this happenstance. “Maybe this is a sign for me to do something,” she muttered to herself. Retrieving the card, she rationalized, as she placed it back in her purse that it wouldn’t hurt to just talk.

  With this decision made, she felt her mind ease a bit; however, her physical status screamed at her as a violent headache assaulted her, the result of her crying. A suffocating feeling suddenly forced her to open the car’s door. The hot, humid, windless air of this August afternoon in Phoenix, AZ, known as the ‘Valley of the Sun’, did little to relieve the suffocating hold on her. Panicking, she stepped out onto the equally hot asphalt of the parking area, gasping for a breath of air.

  Tish quickly scanned the park, realizing she wasn’t able to focus due to the blurring effect of the headache. Removing her sunglasses, she tried again. The sun’s brightness reflected off everything around, and caused the headache to worsen. Closing her eyes against the visual assault, she replaced the sunglasses. As she held onto the door handle for dear life, she tried to mentally visualize the layout of the park, trying to recall the scene before she had given in to the crying earlier. Remembering nothing, she let her anger consume her. The heat of the sun sizzled the top of her head. She had to do something. Peeking out from half closed eyes, she glimpsed a dark area about thirty feet straight ahead of her. Shade, she thought greedily. Leaning back inside the now stifling hot interior of the car, she yanked the keys from the ignition and stepped back a few feet before standing up. Slamming the car door, she walked toward the dark area she had found.

  Walking was difficult for her, as the pain in her head increased with each step. She felt she had to reach the shade quickly. As she approached the ‘shade’, she realized that it was a building. Must be the park’s restrooms, she mused. She gauged the distance by reaching out her hand toward the building like a blind person. Her fingers touched the side of the hot building, but instead of pulling her hand away from the surface, she planted it firmly on the side. The contact gave comfort to her tortured mind. She moved along the surface slowly as she searched for the door to enter the haven it offered against the sun. Under her hand, the rough brick surface gave way to a smooth texture of a door. Before pushing the door, she concentrated on searching for the sign plate, indicating the correct door. The ‘Women’ plaque came into focus for just a second. Even pushing with all her might, she wasn’t able to open the door. Tears swelled again at the injustice she felt. “No,” she choked, “why me?”

  Tish felt like banging her fist on the locked door, but knew it wouldn’t help her or the pounding headache. Defeated, she rested her forehead against the door and listened for any noise around her. She was able to identify the traffic on the nearby street, but no voices could be heard. There was no one around to help her. Despair descended on her.

  The perspiration on her forehead caused it to slide downward on the door. Pushing her body away from the door, she became aware of her fluid loss, which was now evident from the wet condition of her clothing. Survival instinct kicked into high gear. She needed water now. The years of playing golf during her youth had instilled an everlasting knowledge of the potential danger of sunstroke. Glancing around, she was still not able to focus on anything. The sweat, pouring down her forehead, stung her eyes, complicating her already blurred vision.

  Bringing her right hand up to her face, she wiped her forehead and tried to clear her vision by rubbing her eyes. As she reopened her eyes, she caught sight of the door’s handle about twelve inches in front of her. Reaching out, she grabbed the handle and pulled hard. The door swung open! Overcome with relief, she entered the room and headed toward the sink across the room. Turning the ‘cold’ faucet handle wide open, she quickly cupped her hands under the flowing water, and grimaced. The water temperature was extremely warm, but at least, she thought, it was water. Lowering her head closer to the sink, she covered her face with the life-giving fluid. She didn’t care that the extra over splash was covering her hair and her clothes. Cupping water with her hands to her lips, she drank to quench the thirst. Repeating these steps several times, she started to recover slowly. Her head still pounded, but the water, even though it wasn’t cold, added the needed moisture to her parched water level. Lifting her head, she still kept her wrist under the flow of water to cool her body temperature.

  Gradually, her headache decreased and her eyesight cleared. Studying her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she appeared exactly like she felt. Her shoulder-length, light brown hair was a mess, and soaked around the fringe of her face. Bringing her hands up, she ran her fin
gers through the hair and took it away from her face. Now, with the hair pulled back severely, she could clearly see the grey hairs, which had taken over her widow’s peak and temple areas. Where had the time gone? Who is this old, puffy-faced woman in the mirror? This past December, she had celebrated her forty-third birthday, but, looking deeply into the mirror, she saw the image of a much older woman. Her blue/green eyes held no more sparkle. They were dull, and at that moment, surrounded by huge, black rings due to the ill-fated mistake of wearing mascara to her luncheon.

  Turning off the water, she headed to one of the door-less stalls behind her. Reaching into the stall, she withdrew several sheets of the sandpaper-textured, toilet paper. Back at the mirror, she blotted the areas around her eyes hoping to remove some of the residue of black. After several moments, she became aware the mission was a failure. Dropping the paper into the wastebasket, she felt the growing tide of despair again building within her, causing her to place her hands on the edge of the sink for support.