town where she’d grown up. The tiny little house tipped toward the bayou was quaint and pretty but a bit run-down and old.
Callie gave him another scrutinizing look then shrugged. “It’s near the restaurant and it keeps her close to our grandmother. Alma and Grand-mère were close. We are all close.”
She went to the rear of the big open floral shop and brought back a brightly painted pot holding one fat bulb with rich green shoots poking out of the moist, dark dirt. “Besides, why do you care all of a sudden?”
The Blanchard sisters were direct and they stuck together like a flock of geese. Could get just as mad as a fighting goose, too. He’d need to remember that.
“I don’t know,” he said, opting for honesty. Because even though his heart was tugging toward Alma and all that entailed, he wasn’t so sure of himself regarding how to go about achieving that particular goal. This turnaround was recent and still a bit shaky. He was still adrift but trying to find his way. “I guess…I just think it’s time.”
“Well, amen to that,” Callie said, giving him a card to go with the iris. “Do you want to write something? And are you going to deliver this, or should I?”
“I want you to deliver it,” he said, squinting while he tried to recall a verse. “I want her to be surprised. I’ll check in with her later.”
“This might get interesting,” Callie said. Then she leaned across the counter. “Just don’t hurt her, Julien. That wouldn’t be good.”
She gave him a lift of her arched brows to back up that statement.
“I don’t plan on hurting her. Not anymore.”
He paid Callie and stood there, staring at the little square of creamy paper, while Callie waited on another customer.
Then he grinned and wrote what he wanted to say. In big, bold, black letters.
* * *
“Je voudrais sortir avec toi.”
The card read “I would like to go out with you.”
Alma said it out loud again in French, the words playing a pretty tune off her tongue.
She stared at the single iris, knowing it would bloom a beautiful violet-blue one day.
Winnie came to stand beside her and both women stared at the blue and green-colored pot sitting on the counter.
Winnie read the card. “He wants to take you out on a date.”
“I get that,” Alma said, shaking her head. “What are we, fifteen again?”
“Maybe he wants things to be the way they were when you were fifteen.”
“Things can never be that way again,” Alma said, her eyes still on the bulb. The tender shoots of green were piercing the earth, breaking through to grow and form a beautiful flower.
One of her favorites. Maybe because she’d had to do the same, pierce through and grow up. Too quickly. Maybe she was just a late bloomer in the love department.
Or maybe she was too afraid to let go and go out on a real date with Julien. If she did that, she’d be crossing a line they’d long ago drawn in the sand. She’d always been caught between her feelings for Julien and her need to spread her wings and fly out of the nest. Her former feelings for Julien, she thought, correcting herself. And, maybe, her former need to fly away. Her life had become so routine, Alma wasn’t sure she could change it now.
But flowers. And not just any flowers. A bulb that, once planted, would take root and spread across her garden to bloom for years to come. Was Julien sending her a message?
She had a sick feeling that her sister had betrayed her by working with the enemy. But was Julien her enemy? Or was he trying to make amends after all this time. But why now?
“Are you gonna plant it?” Winnie asked, her smile as knowing as a cat’s. “Or let it die a slow death in that pot?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Alma took the iris and set it away from the cash register. She’d display it for all to see and then she’d decide what to do about the flower. And about Julien’s request.
* * *
He was waiting for her after work.
“Hello.”
Alma looked down at him, taking in the way he hovered there on the bottom step. “How long have you been out here?”
“Not long. Just got here. And right on time.”
Not used to having him around so much, Alma glanced behind her to make sure everyone had left. Then she turned and hurried down the steps. “It’s late, Julien. Go home and get some rest.”
He gave her a look similar to the one he’d had right before he’d kissed her. “I’m not tired.”
“Well, I am.”
He fell in beside her as she walked the short distance to the little white cottage sitting like a dollhouse underneath an ancient cypress tree. The house was precariously close to the dark waters of the bayou. Alma often spotted alligators and snakes in the water just a few feet from her back dock. But tonight she feared the most dangerous predator was walking on two feet beside her.
“I’ll make you a nice cup of herbal tea,” he said, not skipping a beat. “And my mama made tea cakes this afternoon.” He pulled a bag around. “Fresh outta the oven.”
Alma loved Mrs. LeBlanc’s tea cakes.
“We used to eat those after school,” she said before she could catch herself.
“Oui, that we did. It’ll be like old times.”
His triumphant tone nettled at her like a thorny bush. Grabbing the bag, she turned at the door. “But we’ve both changed since then, haven’t we? I have to go.”
“Alma?”
“Thank you, Julien. For the iris and for the tea cakes. I can make my own tea. Good night.”
Alma closed the door and bolted it both against her racing heart and Julien’s crestfallen expression.
* * *
That had not gone the way he’d planned.
Julien stood there, his hands on his hips, the scent of her soap-clean lotion still swirling around his nose.
The iris should have done it. The tea cakes should have sealed the deal. She was obviously playing hard to get. He’d just have to keep trying.
He was about to call it a night when he heard the cottage door opening back up. Alma poked her head out. “I just have one question,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Why are you doing this now? Why now after all these years?”
He didn’t
