The Dandelion Page 5

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  I’m pleasantly exhausted after a morning of helping to set up the café and an afternoon of breaking it down again. The “café” is really nothing more than some tables and chairs and a lunch line in the old fellowship hall of the church.

  After Sam left, I helped arrange the chairs that Bobby Jones, the town’s main insurance salesman, brought in to go with the tables the other guy had set up. I helped bring out aluminum trays of food to place on racks over Sterno cans. I helped keep the bread baskets full as men, women and children came in to eat, and then I helped clean up evidence of the café so that a teen group could meet in that very room later this evening. A good day’s work. A hard day’s work, though, for someone with a bum leg. But a gratifying day’s work for anyone.

  The sun is setting over the water and I’m snuggled into an Adirondack chair. The one I chose tonight is nestled in the sand on the beach. Well, “beach” might be an exaggeration. It’s more like a low-lying crescent of shore that someone repurposed into a beach by covering it with a few truckloads of playground sand.

  I’m staring out at the placid water, going back over the details of the day, when I hear the distant thunk of a car door shutting. I sit up, craning my neck around a tree in the yard to see if I have a visitor. A few seconds later, I see Anna Sturgill topping the little knoll in front of the cabin, heading for the front door. I stand up and call to her, waving my arm so she’ll see me down here.

  She turns her head at the sound of her name and searches the area until her eyes fall on me. When she sees me, her face breaks into a pleased smile. It warms my heart. She was like a mother to me for a lot of years, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt any kind of maternal attention.

  My mother would do it if she were capable of it, if she even knew who I was, but she won’t because she doesn’t. If anything, our roles are reversed. I am the one tasked with taking care of her, of making sure that her insurance is up to date, that the nursing home gets its money, that her disability is renewed and that her taxes are filed. There’s a laundry list of details that must be seen to.

  Not that I mind. I don’t mind at all. I’d do anything to take care of my mother. But I’m human. I have moments where I can’t help thinking it would be nice to have someone to take care of me. Just for a little while.

  Mrs. Sturgill isn’t that person, of course. I wouldn’t want her to be. I wouldn’t want that for her. She’s raised her baby already and all her love is needed for her grandchildren. But it’s still nice to see that someone cares. And with her, it’s easy and familiar and comforting. Like an old shoe or a favorite blanket.

  “What are you doing here?” I smile as she comes down the small hill and hugs me with one arm.

  “I don’t have your phone number, which we need to remedy by the way.” She takes out her cell phone and begins to play with the screen, preparing for me to give her my number. “I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in volunteering at the town health fair. I’m in charge of making sure we have all the ancillary staff. You know, the ones who check people in and get them to the right area. There will be three nurses and a doctor there. People can get their blood pressure taken, their blood sugar checked, get advice on changes they need to make to get healthier. Basic stuff, you know the drill. There will be someone there all day to look after the children so parents can get their business taken care of. That’s what I’m needing. A glorified babysitter.” She laughs in a wheezy way that makes her sound like a long time smoker even though she never has been as far as I know. “You busy Wednesday?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Nope. Count me in.”

  I assumed I’d have to really look for things to do, for ways to help people, so far be it for me to decline an opportunity when it falls into my lap.

  She winks. “I thought you might say that. Good girl. Give me your phone number and I’ll send you all the details when it’s nailed down. I’ve still got to get in touch with a couple more people.”

  I give her my number and she puts it into her phone. When she realizes I don’t have mine with me, something she gives me an odd look over, she offers to text me her number. I accept with a polite thank you.

  “Okay, well, I’d better get on home. Laundry won’t do itself, far as I’ve ever known.”

  I nod and she turns to leave. “Mrs. Sturgill?”

  She looks back at me. “Anna. You’re old enough to call me by my first name now.”

  “Anna,” I amend. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “You’re welcome. Something told me you’d be happy to help.”

  I nod and smile. I don’t ask what made her think that. I’m just thankful she did. I need all the help I can get.

  CHAPTER 8

  SAM

  Then

  “Are you ever going to ask me out?”

  I glance up from the book I’m reading to find the chick from my biology class staring down at me. “Excuse me?”

  She smiles.

  And I feel it.

  I actually feel it, which catches me off guard. I haven’t felt a damn thing for a female since Abi drove out of my life and never looked back. That was almost two years ago. “I’ve seen you watching me. I know you’re at least a little bit interested. You are, aren’t you? Interested, I mean.”

  Her hair is long and blonde, her eyes are bright and green, and something in them pulls my lips into an answering smile. She’s right. I have been watching her. She’s beautiful in a pale, angelic way. And she’s always smiling or laughing with someone. Guys, girls, teachers, lab assistants, you name it. Everyone seems to love her. I can sort of see how, too, now that I’m talking to her. Well, now that she’s talking to me. There’s something about her… Something that’s hard to put my finger on and impossible to describe, but there’s definitely something about her.

  “I’d say most men are, aren’t they?” I counter.

  Her smile deepens, making twin dimples in her cheeks. A blush turns them a pretty pink. Her eyes twinkle as she tilts her head to the side, and from there she just watches me. It’s in the silence that a word pops into my head, a word I realize is the perfect way to describe her.

  Dazzling.

  Sara Graham is dazzling.

  CHAPTER 9

  ABI

  Cookies

  On Tuesday afternoon, Anna called to let me know what time to arrive at the health fair. One person who had said she’d help hadn’t responded, so Anna asked if I could be in childcare from nine to noon. I told her I would do whatever was needed. That’s when she asked if I could work the snack station from noon to four, as they’d decided to do a blood drive at the same time. Of course, I said yes. She said they’d have some pretzels to give out, but that the person who was supposed to bring cookies called out sick, so I told her I’d make some cookies to bring as well. She was thrilled with my easy compliance.

  Several dozen cookies necessitate a trip to the store, of course. Once there, I’ve got my phone open to my list and I’m hurriedly tossing ingredients into my basket when I round the corner at the dairy section and run into Sam Forrester.

  Again.

  I laugh. It’s a breathy sound and I hate how…relieved it sounds, like I’ve been waiting my whole life to come back around to Sam Forrester.

  “Don’t you work?”

  He smiles, a more natural smile than the last few I’ve seen on him. “Not nearly enough, that’s for sure. I, uh, I’m here to get supplies for the health fair tomorrow. One of the coordinators has a list of needful items, and one of them is cookies, so I guess I’ll be doing some baking tonight.”

  “You bake?”

  He shrugs, but his expression boasts a manly sense of pride, which, of course, seems incongruous with baking. But, then again, Sam Forrester always could make just about anything look manly. “When the occasion calls for it.”

  “That’s why I’m here, too. For stuff to make cookies.”

  “For…?”

  “The health fair. I gu
ess we’ll have lots and lots of cookies.”

  He frowns. “Hmmm. That seems odd, doesn’t it? At a health fair?”

  “But we’re talking cookies here. Is there any such thing as too many cookies?” Maybe they’re having cookies at more than one spot. Or maybe Anna Sturgill just got confused. Who knows?

  A high, excited voice cries from somewhere behind Sam. “Cookies!”

  He turns just in time to swing his daughter up into his arms. When he pivots back around toward me, his face is alight with a deep, abiding love, the kind that is specific between a parent and a child.

  I gulp at the thickness in the back of my throat. “Hi, Noelle.”

  “Miss Abigail, we’re making cookies! Cookies!”

  I can’t help laughing. “Has she been sampling sugar somewhere already?”

  Sam’s lips twist up into a wry grin. “Show me your hands, young lady.”

  Noelle grins and shakes her head, blonde curls bobbing.

  “Noelle,” Sam says in a warning tone, but even his daughter isn’t falling for that. It’s nowhere near as intimidating as he intends for it to be. It’s clear this man adores his child. And it’s clear she knows it. “Hands.”

  She brings the one draped over his shoulder to the front and unwinds her tiny fingers, fingers that are clutching the remains of a bite-sized candy bar. Her palm is smeared with chocolate and I can see a smudge of it on her cheek. At least she was smart enough to wipe up before returning to her father. Clever little girl.

  “You already had one of these. Where did you get this?”

  “From my pocket.”

  “How did it get into your pocket?”

  “I put it there when Mr. Hadley gave it to me.”

  “He gave you two?”

  She nods, grinning in glee.

  Sam turns a look of consternation toward me, but Noelle grabs his face with both hands and turns it back to her. I smile at the chocolate streaks I can already see on his cheek. “Daddy, I had to take them.”

  “You had to? And why is that?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “You not taking his chocolate would hurt Mr. Hadley’s feelings?”

  “Yes, it would. He told me so.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “He did. And I believed him.”

  For the first time, I hear a slight speech impediment. She pronounces the word believed like be-wee-ved, making her even cuter, if that’s possible.

  “Be-lieved,” Sam corrects, annunciating.

  “Be-lieved,” she repeats, smiling when she says it correctly. “Do you forgive me?”

  I can see on Sam’s face that his heart is as much putty right now as mine. Do you forgive me? What couldn’t be forgiven a child, especially one this precious?

  His tone is soft and quiet with love when he replies, “There’s nothing to forgive, little bee.”

  Noelle leans in and rubs her nose across his cheek, making a buzzing sound as she does. I wonder at the story behind the exchange. There is something meaningful about it, something just between them and, clearly, it has something to do with a bee.

  “No more before supper. Promise?”

  “Promise,” she agrees, handing over the remains of the sweet in her hand.

  Sam takes it, trying not to get chocolate everywhere as he sets his daughter down. “I guess we’ll be making a stop at the wipes next.”

  I dig into my purse and produce an individually wrapped wet wipe. I hand it to him, which he takes without question. As he opens it, he nods to my purse. “Mother thing?”

  There’s more than just that simple question in his eyes, but I only address the one.

  “Woman thing.”

  “Right. A purse is a mystical place of wonder.”

  He cleans off his hand first. Before he can start on his daughter, I touch my cheek and tell him, “Don’t forget your face.”

  He smiles. I smile back.

  He swipes at his cheek and then bends to clean his daughter’s hand. The scene plays out like every woman over thirty’s biggest fantasy (or at least one of them)—big, beautiful man taking care of his gorgeous little girl, diligently tending to what’s his. One hundred percent man, but also one hundred percent father.

  I can’t help thinking that Sam Forrester’s wife is a very lucky woman. And so is his daughter.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get this shopping done or else we won’t have a mountain of cookies tomorrow at the health fair. And what would a health fair be without a kick to the blood sugar?”

  I grin. “One that no one would come to, probably. This is the south after all. Home of all things sweet and deep fried.”

  “Why do you think I have a successful medical practice?”

  Sam winks at me, grabs his daughter and hoists her up into the front of the cart. “Tell Miss Abigail you’ll see her tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Miss Abigail.”

  “Call me ‘Abi’,” I tell her. “See you tomorrow, Noelle.”

  She waves and I watch her father push her around to the next aisle. Just before she disappears, Noelle puts her palm to her mouth and blows me a kiss. I catch it and tuck it against my chest. The last thing I see is her grin and then she’s gone.

  Out of sight is not out of mind, though. I don’t stop thinking about either of them. Not for a long time.

  CHAPTER 10

  SAM

  Zero Chance

  Now

  Abigail Simmons.

  After all this time, she’s back. She’s all grown up, now a beautiful woman rather than a beautiful girl. In some ways, it feels like she never left. And that bothers me.

  I thought I’d given every piece of myself to my wife. I sure as hell tried. I had myself convinced she was the love of my life, the one and only. I certainly wanted her to be. And I do love her. So much it hurts sometimes.

  But then there’s Abi.

  Abigail Simmons.

  Seeing her again, I realize I only thought I’d gotten her out of my blood. It seems I never did. I guess some part of me knew there was zero chance of that. From the first time I kissed Abi, sitting in the back of her dad’s old pick-up truck, there was zero chance I’d ever stop loving her.

  For a while, I wondered at least once a day if she ever stopped loving me.

  Now, after seeing her back here in Molly’s Knob, I know there was zero chance of that either.

  CHAPTER 11

  ABI

  Fair

  Evidently, the health fair is as much a social event as a healthful one. People started arriving at ten minutes to nine and some of them are still milling around at noon when I’m relieved of my childcare post to go and man the snack table where they’re taking blood.

  I see that all but one platter of my cookies are gone and it becomes clear to me why Anna asked more than one person to bring cookies. Within minutes, I see people who aren’t giving blood taking a cookie or two and making their way to friends nearby. Some of them have been here for hours, standing around and chatting. It doesn’t help that Anna brought two stainless coffee urns that appear to be bottomless.

  I’m just about to hunt her down and ask about Sam’s cookies when I hear what’s becoming a welcome and familiar little voice.

  “Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail!”

  Through the crowd, I can see Noelle making her way between people, one hand extended as she drags someone along behind her. I follow the thin hand up a thin arm to a woman’s face. This must be Mrs. Samuel Forrester. Sara, the saint.

  She’s beautiful. Not that I expected anything less. Sam is a gorgeous man. Smart. Successful. Charming. He probably had his pick once he hit college.

  And this is the one he chose.

  Sara Forrester. She’s blonde, her hair every bit as pale as her daughter’s, and her skin is like translucent porcelain, only a shade or two darker. Her eyes are a deep green and they dominate her thin face. Her very thin face.

  “Hi,” I say when I’m worried I’
ve been staring. “You must be Noelle’s mom. I’m Abigail. Abi. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” she replies, her voice a whisper. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Noe can’t stop talking about the woman with eyes the same color as her favorite doll’s dress.”

  I laugh, noting the nickname with a pang of envy. Noe, pronounced like “know” with a long E sound at the end. It seems that mother and daughter have as good a relationship as father and daughter do. Fitting. And perfect.

  Of course.

  I smile. Although it stings a little in a way I’d rather not think about, I’m happy for Sam. He deserves all this goodness.

  “I’m famous, huh?”

  “You are. I’m Sara Forrester, by the way. Sam’s wife.”

  As she smiles, I wonder about her clarification. I wonder if it’s habit to introduce herself as Sam’s wife (since most people probably know him), or if it’s pride.

  I decide it doesn’t matter. Either one would be understandable.

  “I figured. Noelle looks just like you.”

  Sara glances down at her beaming daughter, satisfaction evident in every sharp angle of her face. “That’s the best compliment you could ever give me.”

  “Tell her what we brought, Mommy,” Noelle pleads, tugging gently on her mother’s hand.

  “More cookies,” Sara supplies.

  “Cookies!” Noelle is ready for another sugar high, no doubt.

  “More cookies? Did you help make them?”

  Her eyes are wide with enthusiasm as she nods. “Yes. I handed Daddy the eggs and helped him stir.”

  “You did? What a great helper you must be.”

  “I am, I am!”

  “And modest, too,” Sara quips lovingly. “Sam is bringing the cookies. Noelle just wanted to help put them out. Do you mind?”

  “No, of course not. I can always use a good helper.”

  Noelle releases her mother’s hand and comes around the table to stand beside me. She’s nearly a foot taller than the tabletop, and I wonder if I’ve underestimated her age.