Love Blooms on Main Street

by Olivia Miles

  Ill-suited, she reminded herself. Definitely ill-suited.

  “Oh.” Brett seemed satisfied with her answer but, contrary to what she expected, he made no motion to walk over to join his brother and cousin. Instead, he turned his attention on her, his gaze roaming her face just long enough for her to shift under the intensity. “So, how’s the car running?”

  She grinned. “Better than ever,” she said. She didn’t bother to mention that every time she slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition she thought of him.

  “Good. You get that oil changed?”

  It had been a busy two weeks with three showers and the Fourth of July festival, in addition to the usual anniversaries and birthdays to accommodate, not to mention all the work she had for the hospital benefit, but she nodded with certainty. “Sure did.”

  “Good.” He nodded slowly, as if appraising her, his eyes lazily drifting over her face until they lingered on her mouth.

  She pulled in a sharp breath. The afternoon sun was really beating down and Ivy would kill for a soft breeze right about now, or a cold glass of punch. She set a hand to her head, feeling the onset of fatigue and a twinge of dizziness she knew better than to dismiss.

  When was the last time she had eaten anything? She’d told herself she would stop for lunch once she had done the rounds and made sure everything was in order, but then Henry and Jane had arrived, and Sophie had bounded up, begging for a ride on the pony she insisted was named Marshmallow, and well, how could she miss that?

  “Do you know the time?” she asked Brett. She ran a mental checklist of what she’d seen to eat. Usually she planned her day around these types of things, either by scoping out possible options or bringing something with her instead. But somehow, between the setup, hanging out with Henry and Sophie, and, shamefully, keeping an eye out for Brett, she’d been completely distracted.

  “Just about four,” he replied.

  Ivy’s eyes sprang open. “Four?” She’d missed her second insulin dose. She’d been religious about it, ever since last summer, when she’d attempted to self-medicate by diet alone until she got on a better insurance plan that made the cost of her medication more affordable. Instead, she’d landed in the hospital with medical bills far higher than monthly supplies. And then she’d had no choice but to take help from Henry.

  She wouldn’t be doing that again.

  “I need to…” A wave of nausea stirred in her gut as she greedily eyed a porta-potty. Then she noticed the line for it, and her heart began to beat a little faster.

  She’d make up an excuse. Go back to the shop.

  Her hands were shaking now and she felt herself sway slightly to the side.

  Brett’s hand was on her arm immediately. He squinted at her in concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just… It’s the heat.” She waved her hand through the air and gave a little laugh. It sounded hollow and distant, as if it were coming from somewhere else and not her own body. She was shaking and sweating. She suddenly felt clammy and cold despite the temperature.

  “Here. Sit down. You need some shade.”

  “I need…” Food. Juice. Where was her bag? She didn’t even remember where she’d left it.

  Under the chair for the cake judging contest. Where she had so brilliantly thought it would be tucked away and safe. Now that stand was a football field’s length away from her. She wasn’t going to make it.

  “I need my bag,” she whispered to Brett. “It’s…” But the words weren’t coming out, even as she tried to form them, fighting the numbness of her lips and tongue, and her vision became blurry. She bent over at the waist as her body temperature climbed with heat far hotter than the sun’s rays.

  Brett’s voice was in her ear, urgent and firm. “Where’s your bag?”

  “The cake…” She managed to gesture to the table across the lawn.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of her mother, all the times she’d embarrassed them with her public scenes at these events. It was like the music came to a halt, and there was Debbie, staggering around, talking loud, making a scene. The fantasy would be over. The fun gone. And Henry would take her hand, hold it tight, and silently walk her across the square to their mother. They’d make their way home and sit in that dark, depressing house, knowing that the other kids were still licking ice cream cones and playing ring-toss games and that their parents were probably gathered in small circles, talking in hushed tones about the day’s dramatic turn.

  Ivy didn’t want to be the one they talked about. And she didn’t want the fun to end.

  She wanted to sit on the picnic blanket with Grace and Anna and Jane. She wanted to kick off her shoes and enjoy the day and not have to worry. Or make anyone else worry.

  “I’ll be right back.” She felt Brett stand, heard him say, “Stay here with her,” and heard Sharon Hastings’s voice in her ear as she stroked her head.

  “Heat stroke, poor thing. Good thing my son’s a doctor. He’ll help you.”

  Only it wasn’t heat stroke, and Brett must have known it. Heat stroke was treated with shade and water. And he wasn’t going for those things. He was going for her bag.

  She heard the rustling of fabric, vaguely smelled the sweet, familiar musk, and heard the opening of her bag. Sharon was talking, somewhere in the distance, mentioning water, that she’d be right back, and then there was the sound of a plastic straw being ripped from a juice box, and it was pushed to her face, into her mouth. She took a long sip, Brett patiently talking her through it.

  She blinked, looking up into his eyes. She’d never seen them so sharp. So alert.

  He handed her a bag of fruit snacks, already opened, fed a few into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, and shivered as the world around her became clear again, and Sharon reappeared with a large plastic cup of water.

  “Poor thing,” she said, leaning down to hand it to Ivy. Ivy took it with shaking hands. “It’s too hot out today. Every July, I say the same thing. You go take a rest, honey. Brett, get her in the shade.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Brett said. He was still resting on his heels, crouched eye to eye, and the smile that broke his face turned her heart over. “What do you say you and me have an early dinner?”

  Brett’s heart was still pounding when he pushed open the door of Hastings a few minutes later and waited for Ivy to pass. The diner was empty and cool, and he led them to a booth in the corner, where they’d be uninterrupted if things picked up. Brett pulled two menus from their stack behind the metal napkin dispenser and slid one to Ivy.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was small, her gaze fleeting, and her cheeks still far too pale for his liking.

  Brett struggled to control his breath against the pounding in his chest. That had been scary, and unexpected. As a physician, he was prepared to act when the need arose. When he’d first started his residency, he’d idly considered the possibility every time he boarded an airplane or even walked into a restaurant, but it was different to treat a stranger than to see someone you knew struggling.

  He’d experienced that scenario enough for one lifetime.

  Ivy waited until they had placed their orders to say, “So, how’d you know?”

  He raised an eyebrow and studied her across the Formica table. She seemed more resigned than usual, and less spirited. The fire in her eyes was gone. He found himself missing it.

  “I’m a doctor. It’s sort of my business to put symptoms together and come up with a diagnosis.” Usually he got it right. But not always…

  He took a sip of his water and set it back on the table, realizing she was still waiting for a better answer. “I noticed you passed up the cookies at Jane’s house that night. I found it odd, given how much you’d praised them, but then I just figured you were like most girls and were watching your weight.” He caught the spark in her eyes and grinned. “Not that you need to worry about that. You’re just right.”

  “Just right, eh?” She gave a small smile.


  His gaze dropped to the delicate space between her clavicle and lower to the hint of cleavage that skimmed the rim of her dress. “Just right.” He swallowed hard and tore his eyes away.

  Focusing on what he did best, he cleared his throat, determined to keep this professional and to keep his head where it belonged.

  “Then at your shop, I noticed you had a fridge full of juice boxes. Your comment about Sophie didn’t seem to add up, especially when Jane mentioned she only works for you a few hours a week now. While Sophie’s in school. Then today… It’s hot out there, but not hot enough for heat stroke.” He’d known immediately what was happening, seen the warning signs flash across his mind, alerting him to everything that could go wrong if action wasn’t taken.

  He reached for his water, forcing it back.

  “Good thing not everyone shares your knowledge,” Ivy commented ruefully. She took a long sip of water through a straw, her brows pinching pensively. “I suppose I was lucky you came along.”

  “No one else knows then?” Brett frowned. Diabetes wasn’t his specialty, but he’d dealt with his share of cases in the emergency room, and he knew the signs of both hypoglycemia and hyperglycemia… and the consequences.

  “Henry.” Ivy sighed. She poked her ice cubes with her straw. “And Jane.”

  “And?”

  “My mother knew, of course. A few teachers at the school who have since retired.”

  “What about Grace?” She was her best friend, after all. They were inseparable growing up; everyone knew that.

  Ivy shook her head. “Nope. Not Grace. Or Anna. Or their mother. The only reason Jane knows is because…” She trailed off, refusing to look him in the eye.

  He rolled over his palms. “Because?”

  She hesitated. “I… had a similar situation last fall. At Grace’s bridal shower. Jane called Henry and he told her what to tell the paramedics.”

  “Jesus.” Brett blinked hard. If he was understanding her correctly, that meant she could have rolled into his emergency room at some point. The thought of it made his blood run cold.

  It was one thing when a patient on the table was a stranger. It was another when it was someone he cared about. Thoughts of his mother lying in that bed, frail and weak, without a hint of color in her cheeks, made his chest tighten until he struggled for breath. He took a long sip of water, trying to banish the image.

  “It was a rough time. I wasn’t managing my diet properly or my medication. It’s one of the reasons Henry came back to town.”

  “I don’t have to lecture you on how serious this is,” Brett said. He cursed to himself, knowing damn well the risks associated with the disease. Nerve damage, kidney damage, eye damage. He gritted his teeth, hating the thought of Ivy in that position.

  “It was a brief time in my life and I’m not proud of it. I learned my lesson. The hard way, of course.” Her steely gaze held his.

  “Fair enough. I’m not your doctor. I’m just your friend.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Friends, are we?”

  He raked his gaze over her pretty mouth, the flush that was returning to her cheeks, and the cool, clear blue of her eyes. She was pretty, but she was also sweet. And from the jumping jacks that were still playing in his chest over that episode on the lawn, he had a feeling that friend was the furthest thing from the truth. But friend was safe. Friend he could do.

  Their food was up—a burger for him and chicken salad for her—and he doused his fries with ketchup, considering everything she’d said. “When were you diagnosed? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “No. It’s okay.” She picked up her fork and glanced at him. “First grade.”

  Type 1, then. “And why doesn’t anyone else know?”

  “Why should they?” Her tone was sharp, and her mouth pinched as she stabbed at her food before bringing it to her mouth. “Sorry,” Ivy said. “I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. Growing up in this town as a Birch will do that to you.” Her smile was grim, but the apology in her eyes tore at him.

  “It was embarrassing, at best,” she continued. “Anywhere I went, I felt like everyone was watching me, knowing my story, that I was the girl with no dad and a drunk mom. I hated feeling that way. All I wanted was to fit in.”

  “That’s all any kid wants,” he said softly. He could feel her pain. He knew it himself. Wouldn’t he have loved to have been like the other boys, going to baseball games with their dads, tossing the ball around in the backyard?

  He punched some fries into the ketchup. He would have loved that a lot. Instead, he’d had to stand on the outskirts and watch and be reminded of what might have been.

  “The diabetes just felt like one more thing that made me different. So I didn’t offer it up.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, but it still made him sad to think of her not having a support system in place. She was feisty, and fiery, and fiercely independent. He’d come to admire those traits in her. But the reason behind them was hard to think about. “But we’re all adults now. No one associates you with that time in your life, from what I can tell. I certainly don’t. And as for your disease, I’m sure your friends would want to help.”

  “See, that’s just the problem,” Ivy insisted. “Ever since Jane found out, she treats me differently. She watches what I eat. She limits what she eats in front of me for fear of hurting my feelings or something.” Ivy shook her head. “I feel bad. You’re missing the festival because of me.”

  He grinned. “I didn’t really want to go to that thing anyway, so in a way, you did me a favor.”

  “I guess we’re even now,” she said. “I should have repaid you something for your help with my car.”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t say we were even…” He rubbed his jaw, happy to have a reason to lighten the subject. He didn’t want to think of Ivy as sick or struggling. He didn’t want to worry about another person, especially not her. She didn’t deserve it. But then, who did? “Those decorations at the festival. You really did all that?”

  She nodded.

  “I never really thought of decorations for the fundraiser, but I’m guessing most people like that sort of thing.” When he caught the tilt of her head, he said, “Hey, right brain, left brain.”

  “Man brain,” Ivy replied, but she grinned.

  Brett’s laugh felt a little hollow. She saw him as a flirt, a cad, no doubt, someone who picked up women and then walked away.

  And he couldn’t argue with that assessment, much as he hated the thought of his image through her eyes. He’d told himself that he was playing fair, that they were grown women and he wasn’t the one getting their hopes up, but maybe he had it all wrong. And maybe Ivy had it all right. Maybe he was a jerk.

  He thought of his father, the way he’d treated Brett’s mother. He respected women more than his old man had. Respected them enough not to get emotionally involved with them if he was only going to let them down in the end.

  And he respected Ivy more than any other woman he’d met in a long time. Respected the way she ran a business, the way she stood up for herself, the way she held her head high and didn’t let rough times define her, the way he possibly had.

  He swallowed hard. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman in a long time—if ever. Which was why he never should have kissed her. And why, now more than ever, he could never do it again.

  He took a bite of his burger, tasting nothing, and washed it down with his water, eying Ivy over the rim of his glass. She was pretty, beautiful, really, and far too good for him. She deserved a good man, a strong man, someone who would be there when the times got rough. That couldn’t be him. Much as it saddened him, he knew it just couldn’t.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Petals on Main looked quiet, and the store windows gave no hint of life behind the black-painted panes. Brett felt his heart skip a beat as he crossed Main Street. It was past noon—he’d waited this long on purpose, knowing that many shops in Briar Creek got a late start on Sundays.

&n
bsp; The petal-shaped sign on the door neatly read closed, and panic shot through him until he noticed the schedule of hours at the bottom corner. Of course. She was closed on Sunday. Just as she had been when he’d come to help with the car.

  All at once, concern was replaced with something worse: disappointment. He pushed it back, telling himself it had no right to be there, that seeing her should be no different than seeing one of the Madisons. Nice girls, girls he’d grown up with, gone to school with, socialized with in groups. Nothing more than that. Except that he hadn’t kissed any of the Madisons. And he’d never felt that spark for any of them, either.

  Never felt that spark with anyone, he realized.

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned on his heel, away from the shop and all reminders of Ivy. Sweeping his eyes down Main Street, he considered his options. A coffee at Hastings or the bookstore. An afternoon drink at the pub. A long, lonely afternoon in front of the television back at the carriage house.

  None of it appealed to him. In Baltimore, he never felt stir-crazy like this. He was working more, and on his days off, he enjoyed his downtime, with friends and the casual date. But there would be no casual dating in Briar Creek. Or with any of the women who worked at the hospital—he wasn’t that stupid.

  And for once the thought of a casual date, company for the sake of company, with no substance, left him cold.

  He turned back to take another glance in the window of the flower shop. The sign was handmade and hung from a green ribbon that matched the awning over the shop. The doormat bore the age-old saying “Bloom where you are planted.”

  Brett felt his lips thin. So much for that.

  When he was in Baltimore, he could focus on work. He was distracted from the reminder of everything he’d left behind and the sacrifices he’d made—most of the time. He still struggled to look his mother in the eye, despite the time he was spending with her, hoping it would make up for the past, and his gut churned each time she mentioned this or that friend who had been so good to her when she was going through treatment.