May Day Magic Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Beverly Breton and…

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  May Day Magic

  by

  Beverly Breton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  May Day Magic

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Beverly Breton-Carroll

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Arial Burnz

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2013

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-658-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Beverly Breton and…

  UNDER A HALLOWEEN MOON:

  "Perfect to lift your spirits and make readers happy..."

  ~The Romance Studio

  "This was a short sweet holiday story...a reassuring acknowledgement that magic can be found in the simplest of things."

  ~Night Owl Romance

  SPECS APPEAL:

  "This is my first story by Ms. Breton, but it won't be my last..if you want a little romance that will have you begging or more...then you need to read SPECS APPEAL."

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  "There is nothing like a sweet, funny romance to put a smile on your face, and SPECS APPEAL fits the bill. It is a warm and fuzzy kind of story...I hope to read more by her in the very near future."

  ~Bookwenches

  STARS IN HER EYES:

  "STARS IN HER EYES is a sweet story about beginnings and fate taking over when we need that extra push in the right direction."

  ~You Gotta Read Reviews

  "STARS IN HER EYES is the perfect thing for people on the go who need a little romance break."

  ~The Romance Studio

  "STARS IN HER EYES is wonderful!"

  ~Ashlyn Chase, author

  Dedication

  To flowers and flower lovers everywhere.

  Is there a more wondrous way to say I Love You?

  Chapter One

  Diane Avery placed the palm of her hand against the restless eight-year-old boy’s forehead. Much cooler than when the new French teacher had left her son in the health office. April in Massachusetts meant roller coaster temperatures and bouts of flu for all the school nurses to manage. Diane reached for the book of fractured fairy tales the boy had been reading before he fell asleep. She placed the book back into the basket by the cot.

  Sun streamed in the large-paned windows of the old Emerson Middle School building, leaving bright rectangles on the scuffed wooden floor. Yet the room felt chilly. Diane picked up the fleece blanket at the end of the cot to cover the boy, but stopped when he thrashed his head from side to side and mumbled something that sounded like a plea.

  Watching him, she decided to stay near for a few minutes. Sitting at the end of the cot, she pushed back to lean against the wall. She folded her legs and spread the mint-green fleece over herself, the soothing aroma of her lavender-scented detergent drifting up into her senses.

  Her own lids closed. Long ago, she’d learned to nurture herself. When she divorced five years ago at age thirty-one, she legalized a single-mother lifestyle that was years old, for she’d married a man too focused on his professional life to have time for family.

  She had wanted more. A partner. A lover. A friend.

  The cot jolted against the wall. Diane’s head bobbed, and a noise of surprise sounded in her throat as her eyes flew open. The boy had flung his arm over his head, but he was still deep in dreamland.

  Curling her fingers into the soft blanket, she closed her eyes again. She could take care of herself, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t long for someone else to take care of her. Someone to tuck a cover around her, and join her under the covers. Someone to be her refuge.

  Someone like Marc Stafford.

  A long sigh escaped her. Marc was in the building this afternoon, giving a presentation to eight-graders considering a vocational technical high school. Every cell in her body was awake to his proximity in the guidance area down the hall.

  Like most area residents, she stopped often at Stafford Farms, a popular organic farm, gourmet grocery, and nursery center located on a curving road near the Minuteman Trail connecting to Boston. Marc, who’d been two years ahead of her in school, was not a tall man, maybe five feet ten inches, but fit and vital in the way of a man who worked with the land. Despite his kinetic energy, he had a way of stopping and considering her words before answering that had drawn her from the first time they talked at a PTA meeting.

  Marc had also been married until two years ago when his wife took off with a documentary crew, answering a wanderlust people avowed she always harbored. During the divorce, Marc turned inward but now with the ex remarried and living in another state, and Marc’s son choosing to live with his father, a change had come over Marc. Like sap rising in the maple trees, he returned to life.

  And Diane somersaulted into the throes of a wicked crush that rivaled those suffered by her middle schoolers. Now when she ran into Marc at Stafford Farms, confronted with his lean athletic frame, youthfully mussed dark hair, and considerate manner, she experienced breathing so irregular, she wanted to grab her purchase and flee.

  Picturing him just down the hall again, she felt a lively energy bounce to life inside of her, generated by one fit, brown-eyed proprietor.

  Footsteps sounded on her office floor.

  Marc?

  Her lids snapped up, and her gaze riveted on the doorway.

  The tall, spare Emerson Middle School principal approached Diane, a forbidding set to her mouth.

  Diane scrambled away from the wall to sit upright, grimacing at the twinge in her back. “Sorry, I—” She spun sideways to check her patient.

  He snored evenly, drool sliding out the corner of his mouth.

  “I, ah—-” She stopped again, not sure what she would explain.

  The principal examined the sleeping boy through narrowed eyes. “An elementary student? Isn’t this the middle school health office?”

  “Leila got called at lunch. He wasn’t feeling well.” Diane paused. “She was distraught about missing this class, so I told her I’d watch him until she was done.”

  Evelyn Hanson nodded, her expression blank.

  “She doesn’t know anyone—” Diane started.

  The principal held up a hand. “I’m not concerned about that.” She folded her arms and regarded Diane.

  Diane ran one hand through her straight chin-length hair. School nurses might not wear uniforms and starched caps anymore, but she still looked professional enough. She’d pressed her oxford shirt and paired it with a pair of fitted black slacks. She had on mascara and blush. Then she remembered, inspired by the season’s warming temperatures, she’d let her daughter polish her toenails. The “Call Me Candy” pink looked so, well, sexy, she slipped on
strappy sandals that morning instead of her regular clogs. Was that what had caught Evelyn’s attention?

  With a casual move, she shifted the folds of the fleece to cover her toes.

  “How is your mother doing with the new hip?” Evelyn interrogated.

  “Hard to say.” Diane shook her head. “The medication manages the pain. But the surgery was two weeks ago, and she still isn’t up much, even with her cane.” She shifted, bracing her back with a hand. “And she’s not driving.”

  “Loss of mobility is very difficult.”

  Diane pressed her lips together, studying a scratch on the floor. “I’m more worried about her loss of interest in everything. Friends. Knitting. Her TV shows.”

  “You’ve been at her apartment nonstop.”

  “She’s my mother. I’m a nurse.” Diane gave the principal a crooked smile and shrugged. “That’s what we do.”

  “Right.” Evelyn stared at Diane.

  Diane steeled herself against a gaze the students knew too well.

  “Make some changes in your own life to adjust to this milestone.”

  “Milestone?” Diane furrowed her brow.

  “Your pillar of stability has become a depressed dependent.”

  Why had Diane respected Evelyn’s frankness?

  Evelyn raised an index finger. ”You could start by not helping everyone who asks. Leila could have taken him home. We’d have managed.”

  The principal walked over to Diane’s planter to groom the brown leaves and dead flowers from the dying begonias.

  Diane grimaced and stood, draping the throw over Leila’s son.

  Evelyn dropped the dead plant material into a nearby wastebasket. It hit the bottom with a dull thud. “If you need anything, Diane, I’m here.”

  Sudden moisture in her eyes, Diane blinked. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  Evelyn gave Diane a long look, and left the office.

  Plucking a tissue from the box, Diane mopped the spittle draining down the side of her young patient’s chin.

  “Hey, Diane.”

  She stilled for a moment, the husky male voice obliterating every other awareness. Wet tissue in hand, she turned.

  Her dark-haired daydream stood leaning against the door jamb of her office. A frisson of response at seeing him live in the flesh leaped through her. “Hey, Marc,” she said in a stage whisper. Raising a hand, she stepped toward her desk. “Come on in.”

  Walking toward her, Marc beamed a smile that spread over her like the new floodlights on the football field. Her pulse kicked up.

  His gaze centered on the sleeping boy, and he stopped.

  “It’s okay.” She gestured him in again and, incapable of concealing her pleasure, shot him a wide smile.

  He stepped closer.

  She caught his irresistible scent—fresh, outdoorsy, a hint of lime. She took another breath, keeping her chest still so he couldn’t tell. If only she had a student file or something to occupy her hands. Was something developing between them? Or was this organic awareness of Marc’s every move simply a reaction to his jaunty new outlook on life? She wished she knew if she had a valid reason to become all thumbs and blushes.

  She leaned against her desk, crossing one pink-polished foot over the other in a pose she hoped looked nonchalant. “How did your program go?” At least, her voice didn’t betray her, sounding level and nurse-competent. After years of doing the presentation, no doubt Marc had it down. His support of the community was a trait she loved about him.

  Loved about him? She swallowed a gulp. OMG! Once again, impersonating a girl in middle school! She blinked, steeling herself not to react to the fracas in her brain.

  He returned her gaze with an easy, white-toothed smile. “Fine.” He clapped his hands together. “Great bunch this year. Makes my job a lot easier.”

  Diane stared for a moment, her head a jumble of incongruent thoughts. Then her addled brain cleared. Of course, by job, he meant his presentation, not running Stafford Farms, and, a bunch of students—not bananas. She bobbed her head for him to continue.

  “How about you?” He dipped his chin toward her. “How are you doing?”

  Was there a note beyond casual consideration in his voice? She glanced away, giddiness in her throat.

  Until she remembered Evelyn took one look at her today, and saw burnt toast. She tipped her head in what she hoped was a perky manner, ignoring the answering pinch in her back. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

  “Looks like you need some new flowers for your office.” He faced the planter on the wide windowsill.

  Mortified that this man oversaw an entire nursery, and she couldn’t even manage one pot of begonias, she strode over to the planter for no reason other than guilt. Glancing down, one hand bracing her spine, she noted that, thanks to Evelyn, the plants now looked merely sickly, not sickly and neglected. “I do. In fact,” she ad libbed, “I’m taking the planter home today so I can replant it.”

  “Why don’t I take it? Tell me what plants you want and we’ll do it up for you.”

  “Oh, ah—” Diane started to refuse his help, but she had to admit, she wasn’t carrying that planter any distance today, not with the way her back was acting up.

  “It’s almost May,” Marc mused, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Isn’t that when you like pansies?”

  Her heart made a little flip. He’d noticed that? “I-I do like pansies.” Her lips spread into a smile. “You wouldn’t mind taking the planter?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Great then,” she said. “That would be great.” Now I’ll just flutter my eyelashes, she thought.

  She huffed out a breath. Standing by and doing nothing went totally against her grain. She pivoted and gripped the planter, but before she could even think about heaving it upward, her back muscles seized in a torso-long rip.

  The edges of her world turned black. “OOooWOOO!” The inhuman noise that sprung from her mouth filled the confines of the large office.

  Marc stepped close. ”Diane! What is it?”

  “Wolves!” Leila’s son burst out from across the room. “Cantyoutellwolves?”

  Marc whipped around to face the cot.

  Diane inhaled a sharp, labored breath, her hands now gripping the planter for support.

  Marc spun back her way. “Stop it!” He placed his own hands on either side of hers, holding the pot in place. “Don’t lift. I’ve got it.”

  “I’m not lifting it right now, believe me.” Diane managed. “My back. A spasm.”

  She gritted her teeth. Jack-knifed over the planter, she stared at her bedraggled begonias and focused on yoga breathing. Into the pain, then out; blow the tension away.

  “Where’s it bothering you?” Behind her now, one hand steady on her waist, Marc began to rub his knuckles down her spine.

  Effervescence flowed from his touch. They’d never been this physically close. He’d never touched her before.

  The spasm released an infinitesimal amount.

  “My son gets muscle cramps.”

  She grimaced, aware he couldn’t see her expression. Here she was, unglued by his touch, while his attention was centered on effective sports massage.

  “Is that any better?” His voice was low, his mouth near her ear. “How’s the pain?”

  His clean, fresh scent filled her senses. The effervescence swooped into private places.

  Chapter Two

  Pain? What pain? All she registered was the man. So close. The exhilarating security of his touch, his strength.

  “Can I help you sit somewhere?”

  The concern in his voice reached her deep inside. She locked her gaze on the dirt in the planter. But maneuvering once her back had seized was painful, and awkward, and nothing she wanted to attempt in front of Marc Stafford.

  “Come on, Diane. I’m not trusting you until you and this planter are in separate corners of the ring.”

  A chortle slipped from Diane. At the unintentional movement, she stiffened a
nd gave another low moan.

  Leila’s son responded with a loud wail.

  Her eyes widened. What was going on with the boy? She couldn’t see him. Oh-so-carefully, she turned her head to look at Marc.

  His deep brown eyes met her gray ones.

  “Is he awake?” she asked in a low voice.

  Marc took a few steps back to get a better vantage point. “I don’t think so. He’s not moving. His eyes are closed.” He faced her. “What’s, ah, the matter with him?”

  “Shave them!” the boy spit out. “S-s-h-ave-our-sheep!”

  With a snort, Marc bit his lip and looked away.

  If the boy was having feverish, fractured-fairy-tale inspired dreams, her howl might have truly frightened him. But what children’s story, however fractured, would revolve around emergency shearing?

  Diane straightened a couple inches, her face crinkling in an involuntary wince. She needed to get to the cot to check on him. “Shave our sheep?” she repeated, to Marc.

  Marc reached out, ready to assist.

  “I’m okay,” she asserted. “But I’m wondering if my patient’s spiked a fever. He’s babbling gibberish.”

  Marc looked down then reached into the pot, crumbling a clump of dirt between his fingers. “Does he, ah, have a speech impediment?” He looked up. “Not sure that was gibberish. I think he may have been sending out an S.O.S.”

  Diane furrowed her forehead.

  “‘Save our sheep’?” Marc offered.

  For a beat, Diane stared at Marc, and then dissolved in giggles.

  Marc burst into deep chuckling.

  Diane fought to keep her torso still, but mirth was the stronger opponent. Her barks of laughter, interspersed with sharp inhales as the pain tweaked from her movements, kept setting off Marc. Which in turn set her off again.

  She held her sides, exerting hard pressure, until they both managed to catch a breath. She blinked, and eased up a hand to wipe her tearing eyes.

  Marc’s forehead creased into a canyon. “Diane, this is crazy. You need something for the pain. What can I get you?” He gestured toward the medical cabinet. “Pain killers? Muscle relaxants? Hot rub?”