don’t go getting ideas. He’s closer to your age, not mine. Heck, I’ll be menopausal like that rottweiler next door and Rhys Atwood will still look like a Playgirl centerfold.” Lavender fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, help. I’m thinking myself into a hot flash already.”
Devan gave up and giggled as she rounded the counter and patted her friend’s back. “I swear it would take a naval fleet for you to suffer seximus maximus, Lav.”
“Ho-ho, you’re one to tease, guess who called before Laureen asking about a certain somebody being at your house last night? Yvonne Ledbetter. Now tell me, Ms. Look Not Want Not, what on earth made you cut the steel corset and finally open your door to a man—Mead Regan no less?”
Devan had made it to the closet where she and Lavender put their purses, personal things, and kept the safe. She’d just come from dropping off Blakeley at day care and was only ten or twelve minutes late. She couldn’t believe so much had happened already. “So Beverly Big Mouth’s speed dial finger strikes again. Incredible. I knew she’d be spreading gossip, but I never thought she would call Yvonne Ledbetter.” Yvonne was Bev’s ex-sister-in-law. Although that marriage ended fifteen years ago, they would as soon toss each other’s car keys in a public commode than be the first to suggest bygones be bygones.
“Ah,” Lavender countered. “But Yvonne’s Charlie is city manager and you said yourself that Mrs. Regan’s car is parked outside of city hall more often than the mayor’s. My guess is that Bev couldn’t resist tempting Yvonne to be the first to pass on the news seeing as I’m your partner and she keeps my mane so marvelous.”
Locking the door again, Devan considered all that could trigger, but the machinations were too much for her tired mind. “There are more dysfunctional people in this town,” she fumed under her breath.
“Don’t make me one of ’em.” Lavender leaned a generous hip against the counter. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Devan owed her friend and business partner an explanation but could only bring herself to share the official version. The full story was too private, as was her history with Mead.
Even so, Lavender’s hazel eyes were twinkling. “I should rename you Sleeping Beauty. You get more male attention saying ‘get gone’ than most of the single girls in this town do primping and preening. If I wasn’t financially bound to you like an umbilical cord, I’d hate you.”
Which was one of the reasons Devan and Lavender got along so fabulously. There wasn’t an ounce of envy between them, and sharing the same birth month, they understood each other like twins, even though they seemed to be personality opposites. “When you run out of gush, let me know,” Devan said with a tolerant smile. Inside, however, she was worrying about how Pamela Regan was going to take this.
Lavender snatched up two faxed orders from the tray. “I’m done because I really should be mad at you. Why didn’t you call and tell me he showed up again?”
“I had to get Blakeley into bed, get a load of laundry in the washer, pay some bills. And I was already exhausted.”
“Okay, but you let him into your house? Didn’t you feel a bit uncertain? I mean, the man was trained to kill people, probably has killed people.”
Devan couldn’t help wincing. “Lav, he was a soldier, what do you expect?”
“And now he’s a human time bomb, what with the lost mind and everything.”
“Memory! He’s lost his memory, not his mind.”
“Well, Bev said he’s on drugs they give psychotics or something.”
“When did Beverly Greenbriar meet Mead and get that information? And I can’t recall her being a friend of Pamela’s.”
“Then tell me. What’s he like now? I saw a photo of him in the paper and he looks kind of gray and grim.”
Devan kept her gaze on the clipboard she’d retrieved from under the counter that contained today’s job sheets. “You would, too, if you’d gone through what he has. He’s a quieter man now, and thoughtful. He was very kind and concerned about Blakeley. And for the record, he looked much better than the day before.”
“Did he now?”
Hearing the note of speculation entering her friend’s voice, Devan knew it was time to run. “I’m getting the guys and going to work.”
“Wait—I’ve got an order for an orchid basket. Will you pick out a pot for me while I go choose a plant? You seem to understand those things so much better than I do. I swear those and African violets are killers for me.”
“Sure. Go. Just tell the guys to finish scarfing down the sausage and biscuits you brought them this morning,” she added, referring to Jorges Luna and the other four young boys they hired for various jobs.
“I know, I know. I’m corrupting them, but the younger ones are so far from home, and look so lonely at times. Back in five.”
Devan shook her head as Lavender dashed through the French doors to the nursery and hothouse beyond. She had earned her spread-the-love attitude honestly from her flower child parents who these days ran an organic vegetable farm in Oregon. An older brother painted set scenery on Broadway—when he wasn’t honing his mime technique at Central Park—and a younger sister worked at a private animal rescue farm in California.
Relieved they’d cleared the subject of Mead, Devan got herself a last cup of coffee from the machine in the workroom and checked their computer to see what else was pending for today. Lavender had already posted three orders for Mrs. Enid Coe at the workstation table. Poor soul was eighty-something and had been a good customer, often scouring the greenhouse looking for African violets and roses out in the nursery. What a shame to think she was in the hospital yet again.
Wanting to send something herself, she was back at the counter filling out an order sheet, and was slow to notice that the shadow falling over the counter was a person and not moving limbs from the trees across the street in the square.
“Hi, can I help—” she blinked “—you.”
Mead stood on the other side of the counter looking tall, freshly shaved and more respectably dressed in a white dress shirt, pressed jeans and a blue windbreaker. “Morning,” he said.
As if that wasn’t surprise enough, out of the corner of her eyes she noticed movement and to her consternation realized two of the morning park bench sitters were on their feet and leaning over their canes and walkers to peer from across the street at them. Closer yet was Judy Melrose from Melrose Insurance next door, who had stopped at the far end of the display window, mostly hidden by the life-size scarecrow, to stare at Mead.
“How did you get here?” Devan didn’t see a car out front—she didn’t know if Mead could even drive yet. “I mean, it’s so early.”
“The sign says you open at eight.”
“True.” Accepting that she was acting like a fool, she took a stabilizing breath and smiled her welcome. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced toward the display cooler. “I wanted to place an order. But that’s a lot of flowers to choose from.”
Devan considered that a
