A florist should not be that cold-hearted about weddings. A florist depended on weddings for her livelihood. Megan crunched a piece of tablet to oblivion and washed it down with half her tea.
“Megs, I wish Mom and Dad could be at this wedding, too. For all their differences when it came to style and interests, they were very much in love. Can I be honest?”
“Any more honest than that, and we’ll both be bawling,” Megan said, blinking at her tea.
“I don’t give a crap about the flowers,” Julie said, “or only half a crap, but it’s the only thing I could think of to make sure you’d come. My engagement has been sudden and short, and I know you’re busy, but I wanted you here. For my wedding, I wanted my sister here.”
And then they were crying, in a tight, fierce embrace that solved nothing, but acknowledged much. To know Julie missed their parents, to know she still ached at the loss of them, answered a question Megan hadn’t known how to ask.
“Do you recall when you and Mom had that flower fight?” Julie asked.
“Doing the altar flowers? I was seventeen, and I knew everything, and altar flowers were stupid.”
“I was thirteen, and I’d never seen Mom lose her cool that way. It was wonderful.”
They’d hurled half a garden worth of yard flowers at each other on a bright Sunday morning. Daisies, hollyhocks, sprigs of lavender, the occasional thorny rose, a half-dozen late tulips, all over the front of the church.
“It was a mess,” Megan said, “but the altar had never looked or smelled lovelier. I don’t recall what we fought about.” They’d left the flowers where they’d fallen for the service, which people had still mentioned years later, even at the funerals.
“You wanted to go away to school,” Julie said, “to someplace that had a fancy ornamental hort degree. Mom was throwing every argument she could at you—the distance, the expense, the challenge of a big school—and you were batting every one of them aside.”
Sitting in Julie’s kitchen in Perthshire, Megan experienced a queer sense of being seventeen, and passionately convinced that without a degree from the Pennsylvania State University in ornamental horticulture, her life was over.
“Mom was apparently right,” Megan said, finishing her tea. “If all I wanted to do was work with flowers, then a job at a flower shop was the place to start.”
“Mom was full of crap, and Dad used your example to get me to the University of Maryland. Four years after high school graduation, and you were still working at Garner’s Flowers, putting in long hours for low wages, barely making ends meet, and no chance of advancement. Mom backed down, and I got my degree.”
“Dad told you this?” And was this a good thing, or a bad thing, or no thing at all, that indirectly, one sister’s frustration had opened the door for the other sister’s dreams?
“You had moved out two years earlier,” Julie said. “I heard the discussions. I suspect the neighbors heard them too.”
In the time it took Julie to swipe Megan’s mug and take it to the sink, history realigned itself in Megan’s mind.
“I thought I was the trailblazer, the older sibling who had to break Mom and Dad in, so to speak. I never considered you might be the one left behind, guarding the fort.”
“Both jobs are hard,” Julie said. “And you’re oversimplifying. You were the one left behind when I went off to school. More tea?”
“Yes, more tea, please, and if you put sugar in it, I’ll drink it. Otherwise, you’ll tell me what a hypocrite I am for scarfing down this tablet.”
Megan stuck out her tongue, Julie thumbed her nose, and a small, important part of Megan’s heart came right.
“So what about the flowers?” Megan asked. “I’ll need to see your dress, at least, and I should probably take a look at the church, too. Is Niall wearing his kilty-business, and will your dress go with that?”
Julie refilled Megan’s mug with hot water, slapped in a tea bag, and set it on the table along with some honey.
“What does my dress have to do with anything? I thought we’d just raid Declan’s greenhouse, stash some flowers in vases at The Wild Hare, and do the blue-and-white thing.”
“Your dress is the focal point of the entire wedding design, I don’t know what the blue-and-white thing is, and why didn’t you tell me Declan has a greenhouse?”
Julie slid into the next chair and patted Megan’s hand. “Why didn’t Declan tell you?”
Megan stuck her nose in the air, a perfect imitation of Mrs. Panachuk, whom they’d both had for third grade.
“Mr. MacPherson and I had other matters to discuss.”
Julie nearly snorked her tea, Megan dropped two pieces of tablet directly into her mug, and when Niall and Declan got back to the house, the giggling still hadn’t stopped.
Chapter Four
* * *
Megan Leonard was a workhorse, bringing to any activity the same intensity that she brought to lovemaking. When Declan told her he’d spend the day building chutes to organize the shearing, she’d strapped on a tool belt, pulled on work gloves, and driven him to distraction one cross panel at a time.
When she’d asked to see his greenhouse, she’d examined every flat of every species, making suggestions about light and watering that were backed up with her experience and with the occasional reference to a horticultural text.
And God help him, she could cook, clean, and transfer the check register entries into the accounting software, all with a brisk “I use the same program,” or “I like to stay busy,” and a kiss and a squeeze.
Declan was growing to love those squeezes, and would miss them badly.
“Something wrong?” he asked, settling beside her on a bench outside the greenhouse.
Megan kept glaring at her phone. “Mr. Loan Officer From Hell is texting me: Call me when you get a minute. It’s after business hours where he is.”
“No rest for the wicked. When the bank is calling me, it’s seldom with good news.”
Was never with good news. Now, they called to pester Declan to meet with an investment adviser, though Declan’s only investment would be in Niall’s golf course.
Megan passed him a water bottle and opened one for herself, though Declan hadn’t realized he was thirsty until she’d put the bottle in his hand.
“I want this loan, Declan. I want a big enough operation that no one thing—not a blight on pansies, a shift in wedding fashions, a leak in the roof, a dead cooler—can put me out of action. There really is a niche that’s small enough to be nimble and big enough to be resilient.”
Declan’s farm thrived in that niche. He draped an arm around Megan’s shoulders, though moving peat had left his fingernails dirty.
“You’re resilient,” he whispered. “Also passionate.”
“MacPherson, the things you say.”
More was left unsaid, if Megan only knew it. Declan was a lot more productive when she was around. He laughed more, he took more breaks, and he slept better.
He remembered what a pleasure it was to be a man in good health, too.
“Call your loan officer. I’ll find Mary, and then we can argue about dinner.”
Declan believed in eating what he grew. Megan believed in putting cheese on everything, and also that abomination against the natural order, Tabasco sauce.
She hit a few keys on her phone. “Hey, Mike. Megan here. What’s up?”
Declan patted her knee, just because he could. She had cute knees. He knew better than to tell her that outside the bedroom. She liked his knees, too, and had told him—
“Every day this week?” she said, swatting at Declan’s hand. “You’re sure? You didn’t just assume based on a drive-by?”
Something was wrong in Maryland, and Declan wanted to snatch her phone and pitch it into the runoff barrel at the corner of the greenhouse.
“No, thank you. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Could be Dixie has a cold, or Tony’s car broke down. I’ll deal with it, and yes, we’re still on for the twen
tieth, nine sharp.”
The twentieth was less than a week away, and Megan’s casual reference to a meeting somewhere in the wilds of rural Maryland made her departure real in a way that her suitcase stashed at the foot of Declan’s bed didn’t.
“Trouble?” he asked, when Megan ended the call.
“For the past week, my store has opened late. Not a few minutes late, an hour or more each day. Mike noticed because it’s on his regular walk to work, and he was telling me simply as a courtesy to make sure nothing’s wrong, not because it affects the loan.”
A loan officer from hell with a conscience, then. Declan closed his hand over Megan’s, phone and all.
“What will you do about it, Meggie?”
“I will call my help, and if they’re not dead of some rare allergic reaction to peonies, then I will ream them out for betraying my trust, violating Starfleet orders, jeopardizing my standing with the bank, and very likely losing me business.”
How well Declan knew this feeling, of carefully balancing every apple in the cart, then turning his back for one instant and having the entire lot come tumbling down because some bird had decided to perch atop the heap.
“How long have these people worked for you?” Declan asked.
“Tony was my first employee, and Dixie has been with me nearly three years. They’re in love, but they don’t know it, and between them, they’re a good team. I can split them up, and have two shops with at least one strong player in each one.”
In love, and they didn’t know. Declan was in love and he knew it.
“Maybe they have a reason for what they’ve done. Ask questions before you read them the riot act. Try to listen before you hurl your thunderbolts.”
She slumped against him. “Does it ever get to you, Declan? The relentlessness of running your own business? You have such a diverse operation—the local goods shop in town, the sheep, the hives, the cows, the vegetables and fruit. And it’s profitable.”
“We try everything,” Declan said, though who was we? He and Mary? He and the sheep? “Wool, organic produce, a few flowers, honey, jam, berries, the dairy, and if something doesn’t work out, it goes by the wayside.”
And a piece of his optimism often went with it.
“You’ve given me ideas,” Megan said, though she wasn’t making a prurient observation, more’s the pity. “Dixie has been telling me for years that herbs will result in impulse buys at the register, which is exactly what you need when people already have their wallets out. Tony wants to do flower arranging classes, and Dixie is big fan of flower books. I don’t suppose it would hurt to experiment.”
Declan experimented with a kiss, but Megan was distracted.
“Call your people,” he said, rising. “Get to the bottom of whatever’s going on, but if you want to leave Scotland early, I will not drive you to the airport.”
Even if Megan didn’t leave until the appointed day and time, Declan wasn’t sure he could bear to drive her to the airport.
***
Birds pecked at the seeds littering the walkway outside The Wild Hare, Mary nibbled the grass springing up between the granite stones, and the last of the wedding guests were either walking home in the late afternoon sunlight, or climbing into their cars with final farewells shouted among them.
“That went well,” Megan said, though where relief at having the wedding over with should have been, she felt only sadness.
“Your flowers were beautiful,” Declan said, kissing her fingers. “You’re beautiful.”
The entire wedding had been a bouquet of plaids and swinging pleats, but of all the braw, bonnie laddies in their kilted finery, Declan had been the most attractive. He didn’t look the part, because for him, the kilt wasn’t a costume. He lived the reality, and loved the life he’d built in the process.
“I’m tired,” Megan said, tucking an arm around his waist as they wandered toward his Land Rover. “You have to be exhausted too.”
His arm settled around her shoulders, a familiar comfort she’d miss terribly. “We can take a nap before I have to do the evening feeding, if you like.”
Declan was a farmer. Twice a day, come rain, shine, snow, or pneumonia, he took care of his stock or paid somebody else to do it. Megan had spent enough time with him to know the rest of the pattern: What should have been an hour among the livestock could become two, and then three, because this one had worried the gate latches loose, that one looked under the weather.
Running a flower shop was the same. After closing time, the cooler needed tidying, the invoices had to be organized, the shelves dusted, and pretty soon, the last check of the day before lights out turned into burning midnight oil.
For which not one of her customers or employees had ever thanked her.
“I’d like a nap,” Megan said. “I need to put these in water, too.” She flourished the bouquet Julie had fired at her. Yes, the bride had turned her back to pitch the bouquet, but Julie had also apparently seen that Megan had positioned herself near the door, and aimed the flowers squarely in her sister’s direction.
Mary hopped up into the Land Rover and settled on the seat. Three other guests had brought lambs to the wedding reception, and they’d drop them off at Declan’s for safekeeping until the bride and groom returned from a honeymoon on the Isle of Skye.
“Did you eat anything?” Declan asked as he started the engine.
“Not much. What I had was good. The band was interesting.”
“The band was half-drunk before the photographer left,” Declan said. “Hamish got out the good stuff, and there will be some sore heads tomorrow morning.”
Sore heids. How Megan would miss the very sound of his voice.
“Do me a favor, Declan.”
He kept driving, straight through the village, past the cemetery, on through the fields. “Anything, Meggie. Name it.”
“Don’t give Mary to Niall and Julie. Give them some other lamb. Mary is yours.”
Declan turned the Land Rover down his lane, the dry cows watching from their pasture as he drove by.
“I can do that. She’ll soon be too big to be a pet, though. She’ll discover boys, and then she’ll forget me.”
“You’re hilarious, MacPherson,” Megan said, petting Mary’s wooly head. “I’ll miss you something awful. If I’m not supposed to say that, I’m sorry. I’m not myself today.”
Julie had looked so happy, and Niall was a great guy. Scotland was wonderful, Julie’s decision to leave the legal career behind was terrific, and Megan had all she could do not to throw the damned bouquet to the heifers.
Declan parked the Rover, and Mary hopped out to touch noses through the fence with a heifer.
Declan paused on the doorstep and looped his arms around Megan’s shoulders.
“Do you ever think about ten years from now, Meggie? What then? Will you have three flower shops? Four? Will they make you happy?”
“I’m happy now,” she said, mashing her face against Declan’s wool jacket. “But I’ll miss you. Will you come visit me?”
He didn’t move away, but his posture changed, became that implacable, impervious Scottish oak Megan had met two weeks ago, for all his hands in her hair remained gentle.
“I don’t want to settle for a few visits, until you meet somebody else, and then your e-mails will get shorter and shorter, and Niall will have to get me drunk before he tells me you’re marrying another man.”
Or would Julie casually let slip at a Christmas visit that Declan had married somebody else, a woman who’d been raised on a beautiful Scottish farm, and then Megan was the one getting drunk?
“Declan, I don’t even date. I don’t know how to date. All I know how to do is make something pretty with flowers and run my business.”
“You think that’s all you’re good for?” he asked, as if this were an odd notion, having no basis in fact.
“I started working in a flower shop right out of high school, Declan. I’m not trained to do anything else, just as you’
re not trained to be anything but a farmer, and a farmer right here on this beautiful patch of Scotland.”
They were arguing, with Mary and the heifers looking on, and old Hughey sprawled on the porch step. Megan tucked herself closer, because she could not bear to look Declan in the eye.
“Weddings make everybody crazy, Declan. I’m around weddings all the time, and a sort of mass hysteria sets in. You begin to think babies are cute, and being single is hard, and settling down is the next right thing to do. That’s what all the ritual and birdseed are supposed to make us think, but it’s not that simple when you’ve built yourself a good life.”
Declan held her, though Megan could feel his heart beating, could feel emotion in him to which he’d give no voice. He wouldn’t beg her to stay, and for that she was grateful.
“Let’s get out of our fancy clothes,” Declan said, kissing her nose. “Somebody said something about a nap.”
“Hughey’s having a nap,” Megan said, letting her arms fall from Declan’s waist. Hughey remained unmoving on the warm stones, his skinny length displayed to the afternoon sun, dead to the—oh, no.
Declan picked the cat up, its neck unnaturally loose. “Poor old bugger’s gone. Just took one last nap and that’s that. There are worse ways to go, eh, old friend?”
Megan sat down on the steps, abruptly furious with the cat and with Scotland. The cat had picked the worst possible time to abandon Declan. Scotland, which had long ago occupied a place near the Appalachian Mountains, had had the effrontery to wander the width of the Atlantic Ocean and end up thousands of miles from Maryland. Bad timing all around.
“I hate weddings,” Megan said, “but I loathe funerals.”
“I loved Hughey,” Declan said, sitting beside her, the cat cradled in his arms. “I’ll plant him with the heifers. They were friends, and I’ve some other cats and dogs put to bed with a shovel in that pasture.”
Mary came along, sniffed at the cat, then butted at Megan’s hand.
“If you want to go upstairs and change, Megan, I’ll tend to Hughey. Won’t take me but a moment.”
Must Love Scotland (Highland Holidays) Page 16