May Day Magic Read online

  Ducking her head, Diane pressed her lips together as heat touched her cheeks. All she could think of was the male nurse character she’d seen in that adult film at one long ago bachelorette party. A grin broke over her face. Marc made one naïve nurse. Medical cabinets were always locked, and the key hung on a long chain around her neck, dangling down between…

  An image of Marc retrieving the key had her blood heating in an instant. No need for that “hot rub” he’d been hawking.

  “What am I missing?” Marc asked.

  A giggle escaped. “You’re trying to help me…but…I’m the nurse!” At the blank look on his face, more silly laughter spilled from Diane, more tears streamed from her eyes.

  Then Marc surrendered with a self-deprecating grin. “You’re not crying from the pain, are you?”

  Diane shook her head, managing a deep breath. “No,” she said. “Not from the pain.”

  His shoulders relaxed.

  The sight of his relief warmed her more than a dozen hot rubs. She wiped her eyes again.

  “But do you think you’re the only one who can help someone feel better?” His tone was soft, gentle.

  Dual sensations swelled inside Diane, under her breastbone, low in her torso.

  Leila’s son muttered something unintelligible.

  In a slow flowing move, Diane drew her shoulder blades together, straightened her back, and turned to look at the boy.

  Marc followed her gaze.

  “His braces are new. He may be having trouble with his s’s.”

  All of a sudden, her eyes sprung wide open.

  The spasm was gone. So was the pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Marc leaned in.

  “Nothing.” She blinked. “Nothing at all. I’m fine now.” She eased into a full twist, to the right, the left. A little sore, but that was it. Amazing.

  Marc ran fingers through his hair, leaving it mussed. He exhaled and stood examining her. “So laughter really is the best medicine?”

  She grinned. “Maybe.” Laughter? Or was Marc the miracle tonic?

  They stood staring at each other.

  Did he have any idea of the spell she fell under when he just smiled? When he concentrated his considering brown gaze on her?

  How exactly did a thirty-six-year-old, divorced, mother-of-two, school nurse let a man know she was interested? Her heart pounding her nervousness in loud beats, she gave him an awkward smile. She was as out of practice with dating as she was choosing a prom dress.

  He stood close enough to touch, and he seemed to be waiting for something.

  She glanced down. Her “Call Me Candy” toes proposed a frivolous, fun-filled life, one that included a man. She didn’t want this intimate moment to disappear, for their next conversation to be at Stafford’s about herb butter or the jumbo strawberries.

  Maybe she could suggest they meet for coffee this weekend. She took a deep breath—and the final bell sounded.

  Her lungs deflated. What was she thinking? On nurse duty with a feverish drooling eight-year-old on the cot a few yards away was not the ideal moment to make her first attempt at romancing a man in over a decade. She glanced over at the boy. He would need time to wake up, and Leila would be along any minute.

  “Time for me to get back to work.” Marc clasped his hands together, and gave her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll just take this out to my truck.” He grabbed the planter.

  She might be clueless, but she was still female, and her intuition screamed she’d just missed her chance. “Thank you, Marc.”

  He could take the planter. And she could pick it up.

  The pot might have held clouds the way he hefted it up to his hipbone.

  “We’ll call when it’s ready.”

  Her gaze followed him as he walked out, his shoulders broad, his jeans riding on those narrow hips.

  Heart rate rising, she shook her head. She’d offered her twelve-year-old daughter advice about boys last week? What a joke.

  Chapter Three

  With a grunt, Marc hoisted the planter into the back of his truck. Fortunately, he hadn’t run in to anyone on the way out. Making sick plant house calls was not something Stafford’s generally did, although he just had.

  He resisted slamming down the pot too hard. The begonias weren’t the target. He hated seeing Diane hurting and not being able to help her. She tugged at him in ways no one had in a very long time. In any number of ways.

  He snorted out a breath. At least his line of work gave him a physical outlet to expend pent-up energies. For the life of him, he couldn’t tell what Diane’s thoughts were about him. They were friends.

  Could they be more?

  Dragging the pot into one corner, he secured it with a cord. What was Diane doing, hauling around that heavy urn with a back that was acting up?

  His first instinct was to protect her. But not knowing where he stood with Diane raised another, more unwelcome instinct. An instinct he hoped he’d left behind in the years since his separation from his wife. The instinct to protect himself.

  He stood in the truck cab and brushed his hands clean, looking across the middle school lawn at the neighboring high school grounds.

  The PTA could thank Diane for his zealous support of the artificial turf that now covered the town football field. He was a strong opponent of the heavy irrigation and herbicides living turf would have required. But he was also pretty sure he had rambled on and on, beyond any necessity to further convince the association, caught in Diane’s interested gray-eyed gaze, spellbound by the graceful curve of her neck as she rested her chin on a palm and listened.

  Reminded of how vulnerable she’d appeared today, his initial protective instincts churned back to the forefront. Someone should be holding off the world for her, for a space. Her cot-bound town crier was no middle school student. Someone had asked Diane for help, and as usual, she’d agreed.

  Jumping down from the truck cab, Marc shook his head at the cliché that occurred to him, but what could he do—he spent so much time outside. He would never venture such a cornball thought aloud, especially in front of his teenage son Ian, but Diane reminded him of the sun.

  He could offer back brightness by planting up some yellow and purple pansies. He’d do that for any of the schools in town, right? Seated in his truck, he turned the key. The engine growled to life.

  When he’d seen that pink polish on her toes, his mouth had gone dry. He grabbed the water bottle on his passenger seat, took a long drink, and stepped on the gas.

  ****

  “Why do we have to go to Stafford’s now?” Allen moaned as he slid into the back seat. “I wanted to do something with Brett. Don’t we have all weekend to shop?”

  In her rear view mirror, she saw the tawny crown of his head bent over his cell phone. She’d given in to his pleas for a phone this year so he could check in with her. But the games were what he’d wanted. No matter, she could still check in with him.

  “Mom told you why we’re going.” In front next to Diane, Meggie answered in a superior tone. “She’s picking up her planter, and we’re getting flowers to make a May basket to take Grandma on Sunday.”

  In the first grade, Diane had opened the front door on the first day of May and found a doily basket full of pansies and crocuses hanging on the knob, her name written on a ribbon laced through the frilly edge.

  From then on, every year until the end of elementary school, a May basket magically appeared on the front door knob. No matter how often Diane begged her mother to admit she made the basket, her mother never would. But the flower choices were her mother’s favorites—bi-colored jonquils, purple tulips, and pansies.

  When Diane started the tradition for Meggie’s first-grade May Day, the children’s father had ridiculed it, claiming the flowers a waste of money they didn’t have, and that had been it. Diane had never thought about pursuing the tradition with her own family again.

  Until last night when she landed on a May basket as the perfect get-well surprise for her mother.

  Realizing they’d already completed the drive across town to Stafford’s, Diane put on her blinker and turned into the parking lot. She flushed, remembering Marc’s message on her voicemail. She’d replayed the message more than once, to hear him say her name, announce the planter was done, and that he’d deliver it to school Monday.

  She didn’t want him to have to bring the planter back to school. And she wanted to talk to him somewhere other than her nurse’s office. She could pick up the planter with a cart and Meggie’s help. They’d even managed to get a head start this afternoon. When Meggie was free for the last period, Evelyn had shooed Diane out the door early. Diane stopped home to change into some styled jeans, a fitted tee, and a tweedy-cabled cardigan sweater. They arrived ahead of the Friday after-work rush, increasing her chances of catching Marc with a spare minute or two.

  She steered into a parking space. A flutter kicked up low in her stomach at the thought of him. She turned off the ignition, drawing her brows together. She’d never been this school-girl silly even as a school girl.

  “I’m going to see Shaq,” Allen called out, slamming the car door.

  “Figures,” Meggie responded as Allen bounded off across the pavement ahead of her. “One giant pig to another.”

  Approaching a stack of shopping baskets, Allen feinted to the left, pretending to bounce a basketball, then arced his imaginary shot into the top basket. “Two points!” he cheered, and skipped off down the path to the animal barn.

  “I want to go see the baby rabbits, Mom.” Thirteen-year-old Meggie turned sedately down the barn path after her traipsing nine-year-old brother.

  “Bring Allen and meet me inside in a few minutes,” Diane called. She turned into the doorway of the greenhouse nearby, looking for the scented geraniums she loved. At home were one cinnamon-scented and one strawberry-scented geranium, both from Stafford’s. Maybe she’d buy another one for a May basket for Meggie.

  As she stepped into the hothouse, the warm fecund air enfolded her. She stood still, every cell reveling in an atmosphere that sang—Spring!

  Winter had been long. Grandma Joyce fell just after Christmas, and then had not recovered as expected. When the doctors finally diagnosed a hairline fracture, they’d suggested hip surgery, which had gone well. Yet her mother remained depressed in a way Diane had never seen.

  As April sunbeams filtered through the greenhouse windows, happier memories flooded through Diane. Skipping around the yard with her mother to discover the first crocus, conferring together on where to plant pansies, and observing May Day—one of their favorite traditions.

  Diane moseyed along the greenhouse aisle, checking out the different plants on both sides, until, deep in the greenhouse, she discovered the scented geraniums.

  She rubbed a finger across the leaf of one next to the aisle, and a lemony scent filled the air. “Aaahh.” Her breath came out as a happy hum. Leaning forward, she rubbed the leaf again, closing her eyes to inhale the evocative citrusy scent.

  Chapter Four

  Hearing the soft suggestive sigh, Marc started. He hadn’t seen anyone in the greenhouse. He straightened over the pots of basil he’d been examining.

  The Friday rush could be a skirmish, depending upon the season and what fresh produce people were stampeding after. The staff understood his disappearance from two o’clock to three o’clock every Friday was no accident. The scents and quiet in the herb greenhouse were particularly calming, and his department and floor managers could handle business in his absence. They’d been with him for years. He liked to think they were family at Stafford’s, a family who’d kept him going when his own home life unraveled.

  Turning toward the sound, he took a few quiet steps on the packed dirt, and looked through the taller plants lining the middle bench.

  In the sunlight coming through the glass, Diane Avery curved over a plant. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes curling against cheeks sporting a faint blush, her features in blissful repose.

  His pulse quickened. He stared, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to pull away his gaze.

  A contented smile curved her lips.

  Marc’s body tightened, and he dragged away his gaze to stare down at the ground. But his will power lasted all of about three seconds before he raised his head and, spellbound again, looked back through the leaves. The moments passed, Marc hardly breathing, time suspended.

  When Diane started to raise her head, before she could open her eyes, he melted back toward the far corner of the greenhouse. He stood still, listening to figure out if she was coming around the aisle or still near the geraniums. Hearing nothing—he pictured her blissfully inhaling another geranium scent—he slipped out through the back door.

  Letting out a relieved exhale, before he could get his focus back on what he was doing, the toe of his boot clipped a stack of plastic pots lined up against the outside wall. The plastic clattered against the greenhouse wall, and Marc swore under his breath.

  ****

  Diane jumped, startled by the commotion, and peered around her. No one else had been in the greenhouse. She stood listening a moment longer, but the humid earthy air was still again. Just her and the quiet, comforting peace of the plants.

  Goodness, she’d been in the greenhouse for some time. She walked back along the growing tables and down the walkway in to the large barn-styled building where Stafford’s showcased the produce and gourmet food selections. Scanning the bakery area, one of Allen’s regular stops, she didn’t see his blue fleece or Meggie’s white hooded sweatshirt. Then she looked across the large produce section, and spotted her children.

  In front of the floral cooler, they bent over a bucket of flowers, in serious discussion.

  Diane’s stomach somersaulted. The man helping them was Marc. She arrived behind them just in time to hear Allen pronounce, with the aplomb of a state fair judge, “The flowers on the bottom of the stem look old.”

  “Allen!” Her voice sounded too loud.

  Her children started over the delphiniums, and then turned to look at her.

  Marc considered the delphiniums another moment then raised his gaze, an indefinable emotion in his eyes.

  “What?” Allen asked, raising his shoulders. “We’re choosing flowers. Isn’t that what we came here for?”

  Diane groaned internally. Marc had raised a child, too, but Ian was a senior in high school. Did he remember how “natural” kids could be?

  “Honey.” Diane softened her tone. “How about if we make selections without complaining about the flowers we don’t choose?”

  “Yeah,” Meggie agreed, nodding as she stared at her brother. “This is Mr. Stafford’s place, you know.”

  Diane put an arm around Allen’s shoulders, not wanting him to be embarrassed by his sister’s remark, even if her point had been spot on. She flashed Marc an apologetic look.

  Marc observed her for a long moment then returned his attention to the delphinium. “The bottom blooms on delphiniums tend to look a little withered. That’s how they grow. This is an important purchase.” He weighted each word. “A May basket for grandmother. You want to be happy with your choice.”

  Allen shot his sister a satisfied smile.

  Diane dissolved into mush. “That’s true,” she concurred, her voice soft.

  A slow crooked smile lit Marc’s face.

  How could one man look so good in a green Stafford-logo tee-shirt, blue jeans, and worn leather work boots? Diane stood entranced.

  “Let’s look at those.” Allen pointed to another bucket in the cooler, one full of lemon-colored snapdragons.

  Marc lifted out the bucket Allen indicated. His strong hands coaxed and teased one of the fullest stalks up and away from the entanglement of the others. He hadn’t broken even one of the small hanging blossoms.

  She blinked her attention away from Marc’s able fingers, and back to the errand. Could those snapdragons really be four feet tall? Forget the dainty doilies she’d purchased, she and Meggie would need a tablecloth to create Grandma Joyce’s May basket if they let Allen choose the flowers. She hated to dampen her son’s enthusiasm now that he was on board, but they needed smaller flowers.

  Why didn’t Meggie jump in to set her little brother straight again? She turned to her daughter.

  Maybe because Meggie was no longer paying attention to flowers. Her hands stuffed deep into her sweatshirt pocket, her long straight hair falling forward over her pretty, almost-elfin face, Diane’s daughter appeared to be memorizing the messages on the Mylar balloons displayed on a stand nearby. Her daughter glanced toward the bakery counter. Diane followed her look.

  Three seventh grade boys from her middle school jostled each other in front of the bakery case, goofing around, laughing in a rambunctious manner. Cuffing his friend’s head, the middle boy turned around and looked across the store toward Meggie.

  Diane’s attention intensified. Drew Garretson? Blinking, she stared back at Meggie, who was now texting. Diane huffed out a long breath. She wasn’t sure she was ready for real girl-boy stuff involving her daughter.

  Allen pointed to a giant sunflower. “Those look cool.” Yup, perfect for a prop in a production of Gulliver’s Travels, Diane thought, as a fatigued heaviness settled behind her eyes. She must not have explained the project well or Allen had not been giving her his full attention—or both. She took a deep breath and prepared to redirect him.

  Marc watched her for a moment. “Sunflowers are cool, aren’t they, Allen?” He acknowledged with a nod. “But they’re on the large side and heavy, too, see?” He handed one to Diane’s son. “I’ve heard of May baskets, but never actually seen one. What exactly does a May basket look like?”

  Diane jumped at the opening. “They are traditionally made to hang on a door knob. We make ours out of doilies rolled into a cone with a ribbon tied on for a handle. They are usually on the smaller side…”