What Should Have Been

“Too much honesty, huh?” He shrugged. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got.”

“You were always honest,” she said gently.

She saw him look at her hand, realized he was looking at her ring. Self-conscious again, she quickly stuck her hand into her suede jacket’s pocket.

“Was I? No one has told me that. Thank you.”

Melting under his steady inspection, she tried to lighten the moment. “I’m not saying you were a saint—”

“Oh, my mother has pointed that out to me,” he noted dryly.

“—But you never pretended to be anything you weren’t.”

“That’s good to know.”

His gaze roamed slowly over her face and his eyes warmed. He’d done that before, once relentlessly, and she couldn’t help remembering what had followed.

“Can I ask you another question?”

Suddenly she felt like a minnow on a hook. “I guess.”

“That baseball bat you had yesterday…do you play?”

She laughed, thinking self-deprecatingly, That’ll teach you.

“No, it was Jay’s. My husband’s. He coached Little League when he wasn’t busy taking over his parents’ three dry-cleaning stores.”

“He died.”

Devan wondered how he knew? Had he asked Pamela? Of course, he must have; hadn’t she told him to? “Yes. It was one of those freak things, an aneurysm.

“I’m sorry I can’t say more, but I don’t remember him.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“Would I have liked him? I mean, could we have been friends?”

Although the five o’clock shadow that had made him appear more threatening yesterday was gone, Devan couldn’t imagine two more different people. Jay had dressed in a tailored shirt and slacks no matter where he was except for the ballpark, and had shaved twice a day whether he needed to or not. He’d never missed church or Sunday dinner with his parents.

In contrast, Mead ignored social dictums and charmed his way out of faux pas. He had apologized to her once and smiled so beautifully, she suspected he wasn’t being quite truthful. By his own admission, it had been years since he’d been to church, and while he was cited as a good soldier, she knew he had never been a diplomat. Add to that knowledge of what he wanted from a woman—and it wasn’t compassion—she couldn’t see them as having more than three words to say to each other except by accident.

“No, I doubt you would have been,” she replied.

A flickering up the street caught her attention and she realized it was a flashlight. Of course, it was the usual time for Beverly Greenbrier to walk Jacque Blacque, her obnoxious standard poodle who had a rude fixation on the azalea bushes circling her mailbox and framing one side of the driveway. The second dose of emotional abuse was that Bev was a career gossip ranking right up there with Pamela Regan.

“Oh, God. Let’s go inside,” she said to Mead.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, glancing around.

“A neighbor down the street is heading this way. She’s too nosy not to stop and ply us both with questions, and she’ll spend half of tomorrow on the phone sharing every word she gets out of us.” Not waiting for him to reply, she led the way inside. Once in her living room, Devan gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I can make you a cup of coffee.” Inwardly she groaned over her inane redundancy.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mead replied, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll just let myself out the back.”

“You might want to wait a minute. She’ll go around the corner and up the alley. I’m not kidding—she’s as relentless as she is annoying.”

“Maybe we should get away from all windows?”

He was teasing her, but she didn’t mind that. She thought it was silly herself; however, he didn’t understand the South and Southern women anymore.

“Huh. This is more like it.”

She noticed he was looking around. “Pardon?”

“I like your house. I’m having trouble adjusting to my mother’s.”

“You said that before about the mansion…to her.”

“Did I?”

“She was devastated.”

“Somehow I doubt it.”

Already cited as a monument to taste and quality, Pamela’s house was a testament to the fortune she had spent after Mead Sr.’s death, trying to make it Texas’s answer to the Biltmore Mansion. Glancing around, Devan was pleased that he approved of her far more modest home. No more than an eighth the size of the Regan mansion, the brick ranch was furnished with plush, inviting couches and chairs in sage and ivory. Across the room, a huge armoire encased the TV and stereo system. The cedar coffee table was large enough for someone to rest his feet on and still have room for assorted magazines, as well as Blakeley’s coloring books and crayons. In the center a crystal bowl held the potpourri that filled the air with a fine pumpkin-cinnamon spice. It was only as she turned back to him that she realized Mead was studying the family photo of her, Jay and Blakeley on a side table.

“Your daughter favors you.”

Devan thought so, too; they shared the same surprisingly abundant blond hair, same blue eyes and fair skin that somehow managed to tan easily in the summer. She was grateful, however, that her daughter had inherited her father’s voice. Jay had been a soloist in the church choir. “Her name is Blakeley.”

“How is she coping—and you, for that matter? I mean, without having her dad around.”

“It’s sad but no longer painful. And as strange as it might sound, I’m somewhat relieved for Blakeley because she was almost too young to remember him. We live close to Jay’s parents, though, and that gives her a grandfather and a connection to the paternal side of her family.”

“What about your parents?”

“My mother died the year I got engaged. My father hadn’t been in our lives for a long time.” He hadn’t been the stick-to-it kind and had walked away from them before Devan turned thirteen. She was forgetting what he looked like, too, but there were times she felt his itch for adventure, for passion.

That’s the last thing you need to think about.

She gestured to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

“I’d better not,” he replied. “I may get too comfortable and forget that my mother is due home soon.”

Devan couldn’t help touching her fingers to her lips. “You couldn’t sound less like yourself, Mead. It’s…strange.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I guess it’s ten times harder on you.”

“No, I mean tell me about me. Us. What were we, Devan, really? I sense something.”

What could she say? Confess that he’d been the man to jump-start her heart, that he had been the one—not her fiancé—to release that passion she’d been keeping locked tightly inside her? No, in this case, his lost memory was a blessing.

“It was a long time ago,” she replied.

“Not that long. You’re quite young and, at the risk of frightening you again, dare I say lovely. And despite what I see in the mirror, I’m not a total relic. How long could it have been?”

“I’d rather hear about you. What was recuperation like?”

“Six weeks in intensive care. Two—no, three operations. Another few months in the hospital. More in some clinic where people taught me what arms and legs were supposed to do, followed by even more time with a barrage of head doctors.” Mead took a step closer to her. “What do you see when you look at me? Frankenstein’s monster?”

Mesmerized by his voice as she was by his dark brown eyes, she admitted, “Hardly. But you look terribly sad…and you were never that. No Regrets Regan is how you referred to yourself.”

“We were lovers.”

His words held such conviction, Devan’s throat locked trapping her with her own mixed emotions. “No,” she rasped. She glanced down the hall, worried that Blakeley would hear some of this.

“The truth, Devan.”

“Mead…it was one night.”

“For some people that can be enough. If it’s all they’re given.” He shook his head, his gaze once again moving over every inch of her face. “I wish I could remember. I’ve been trying every minute since yesterday. How did we part?”

“You went away. Exactly as you said you would.”

“Did I say goodbye?”

Dear God, he was torturing her. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Did I break your heart?”

“You couldn’t, you never asked for it.”

Mead’s eyes narrowed. “I was going to come back to you.”

The air left her lungs in a brief, mirthless laugh. “Ah…no. Promises and commitment weren’t for you.”

“Then I was an ass.”

In her weakest moments, Devan had imagined having this conversation. But that was restricted to late at night, on the worst nights when she lay alone and lonely in her bed; when her memories refused to let her sleep and her body ached with the need for someone as hungry as she.

As she saw curiosity become desire in Mead’s eyes, she realized he had seen that…and was going to kiss her. Yes, her soul whispered.

Just as he started to reach for her, someone knocked at the storm door. Startled back to reality, Devan launched herself across the room. Her heart pounded anew as she recognized Officer Billy Denny on the front stoop.

“Mrs. Anderson,” he said as she opened the door. His gaze shifted to Mead. “Everything all right?”

“Why, yes, Officer Denny. Is there a problem?”

“Well, your neighbor saw a stranger outside of your house and when she saw him follow you inside, she was concerned you were in danger. She’d heard about the trouble in the park.”

Devan glanced around him and saw Bev Greenbriar stretching to see what was going on. The old busybody, she fumed to herself; she knew perfectly well who Mead was, and by morning this was going to be all over town.

“That’s very kind of her,” she said with a forced smile. “But as you can see, everything is fine. Mr. Regan was just apologizing again for yesterday and checking to see if Blakeley is okay.”

“Fine. Would you like a lift home, sir?” the young cop asked. “I’d feel better if you’d allow me. We had a rabies incident today, and you’d best not take any chances that some infected critter might cross your path or something in the park.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Mead replied. At the door, he met Devan’s apprehensive gaze. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

“It was good of you to stop by,” she said with equal formality.

As soon as he was outside and he and Officer Denny were heading to the car, Devan locked the storm door and shut and locked the inner one. She didn’t want to take any chance that Bev would have the nerve to charge up here to fish more information out of her, while rude Jacque defiled their pumpkin display.

But as she leaned back against hardwood, she knew that wasn’t why her heart was pounding, or why her face was feverishly hot.

Touching her fingertips to her lips she closed her eyes. What had she almost done?

Exactly what she’d promised herself she would never do again.

Chapter Four

“I promise, Laureen, I’ll talk to him about starting his motorcycle under your bedroom window and waking you and the birds.” Lavender rolled her eyes as Devan entered Dreamscapes. “Okay. I’ve got customers, hon, gotta go now. Make love not war. ’Byee.”

Hanging up the phone, thirty-four-year-old Lavender Smart swept her wild mane of flaming red hair and purple extensions from her face and noisily purged the air from her lungs. “Is it happy hour yet?”

Devan gave her a droll look as she shifted the thigh-high rabbit yard ornament by the door to keep it open. “Please. Not only is it barely past eight in the morning, but half this town is Baptist. Keep it down.” However, she’d recognized the name of her partner’s neighbor, Laureen Moyers. “Is Rhys in trouble again?”

“Heck, yeah. How can she complain about having a cop right next door adding to her personal security?” Lavender finished tying a green Dreamscapes apron over her jeans and favorite kitten T-shirt with the slogan, I Am Leo, Hear Me Roar.

“Oh, I imagine it has something to do with your active love life and her comatose one.” Devan recalled that fifty-something-year-old Mrs. Moyers was a widow three times over and only months after moving in and getting to know her highly critical neighbor, Lavender had had the poor judgment to suggest to her that each spouse had seen their demise as the preferred escape from the woman. Ever since that Laureen had taken exception to whomever Lavender invited to share her bed with…and there had been several invitees. To Lavender the opposite sex was like a candy store: too many choices to settle on just one.

“Well, she better get over it. Is it his fault that he’s on the early shift?”

Passing a display of gifts, Devan shifted a ceramic box adorned with pansies that looked too close to the edge of the table. “You don’t think he’s pushing her buttons?”

“Of course he is ’cuz he’s caught her peeking into the bathroom window whenever he’s showering, and in the kitchen window when he’s grabbing a beer after we’ve given the mattress a little workout. Mr. Cute Butt just figures she wants to get another look at him as he heads to the station.”

Never knowing what will come out of Lavender’s mouth, Devan gnawed on her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. “It sounds like you and Mount Vance’s newest uniform are made for each other.”

“Now 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 compliment. “We’re fortunate to still be the only florist in town and that brings us considerable business from the outer areas of the county.” Struggling to ignore the commotion as Judy was joined by one of her office staff, Devan added, “Did you have something in mind? A certain flower, style, price range?”

He remained silent for several more seconds before asking, “What would you choose?”

She and Lavender were often asked for their advice—or were left to their own discrimination. “It all depends on the occasion and what you’re trying to say.” She grew hesitant. “This isn’t for a funeral, is it? You didn’t get a bad phone call last night? Your mother didn’t get ill on another rubber chicken dinner?”

“Well, she did eat out, but all seems okay so far.”

Clearing her throat, Devan tried to restrain an outright grin. “Then this is a birthday, anniversary, thank you or…just because gift?”

“Is it possible to…blend the latter two?”

“Sure, and how nice.” It was good to see him again and Devan hoped this meant his mother wasn’t upset that he’d stopped by last night. Or was this some last gesture before the ax fell? “That leaves you with lots of choices, in fact just about anything will work aside from calla lilies—although, personally, I adore them for elegant evening centerpieces.”

“You do?”

“Aside from just loving white flowers, they’re graceful yet surprisingly sturdy.” She gestured toward the long-stemmed beauties in the lower bucket. “If you’re sending these to a lady, white embodies everything—beauty, spirituality, nature at her most gentle. Whatever the flower—gladiola, carnation, rose—okay daisy is a bit impish—but the rest are saying a dozen things with each blossom via their purity.” Remembering that Lavender would be back in a moment, she cleared her throat and resumed her hastier sales pitch. “But those yellow roses are particularly vibrant this week, and so are the coral ones. On the other hand, we can do a sparkling bouquet with multiple seasonal colors. Your choice—I promise Dreamscapes never disappoints.”

Mead studied the cooler once again. “I guess the white roses are the way to go.”

Pleasure warred with regret as Devan reached for the order pad. She’d loved looking at them since they arrived yesterday afternoon and hoped whoever received them would appreciate how special they were—as was the person taking such care in choosing them. As she filled in his name, she said, “Lucky whomever. Okay, how many?”

“All of them.”

A muted cough drew Devan’s attention outside again. In the doorway stood Barry Sweat, Precinct 2 Constable in Franklin County. The one and only time he’d been into the shop had been to buy three carnations for his third wife for Valentine’s Day. Devan wanted to go out and suggest he pay more attention to the potholes over by their neighborhood than to eavesdropping. Instead she leaned across the counter to keep her voice low. “Mead, there are three dozen.”

“That’s what I figure.”

She didn’t doubt he could afford them but didn’t want to be seen as taking advantage. On the other hand, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she would stop being the morning entertainment. “Just checking. Do you want us to bill you? Your mother has an account.”

Mead pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take care of it.”

Expecting a credit card, Devan was surprised to see him pull out cash. “Fine. Now where do we deliver?”

“Three twenty-seven Circle.”

The seven ended up looking like one of those tin curlicue wind-catchers, and for good reason. The address was hers. Almost. Looking up, she met his calm scrutiny. “Do you mean Lane?”

“Is it Lane? Lane.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded, not believing this was happening.