Read Online Just Like Heaven by Barbara Bretton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Bretton
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red roses.
“Good,” Janine said. “You’re awake.”
“It’s only five-thirty,” Kate said with a rueful laugh. “Of course I’m awake.”
“Should I give you the standard lecture on resting up while you’re here or would you rather talk about these gorgeous flowers?”
“Definitely the flowers.”
“That’s what I thought.” Janine buried her nose in the abundant blooms and breathed deeply. “We took a vote and decided this batch says a whole lot more than ‘Get well soon.’ ”
Three dozen bloodred roses in a cut crystal vase did make a statement.
“Are you sure they’re for me?” There wasn’t anybody on her romantic horizon and hadn’t been for a long while.
“Honey, who else could they be for? You’ve cornered the flower trade around these parts.” Janine plucked a card from the center of the profusion of roses and handed it to Kate.
Kate read the card and laughed out loud.
Let’s give ’em something to talk about.—PG
“So who is he?” Janine asked as she made room for the roses on the windowsill. “That’s one very major statement the guy is making here.”
“Nothing romantic,” Kate said, laughing at the look of disappointment on the other woman’s face. “Just my friend Paul trying to stir up trouble.”
“Which one is Paul?”
“The one who sent pizzas up to the nurses’ lounge yesterday. I’ve known him since I was five years old.” She slipped the card into the top drawer of the nightstand. “Trust me, there’s nothing romantic going on.” Thirty-six red roses? What were you thinking, Grantham?
“A major hottie sends you a boatload of roses and you’re telling me there’s nothing romantic?”
It did sound ridiculous, but this was Paul they were talking about. He was like her brother.
“We found out a very long time ago that we work better as friends.”
“And he’s not gay?”
“Definitely not gay.”
“Then I’d rethink this if I were you. A man doesn’t send three dozen red roses to a pal. Looks to me like you’re wasting an opportunity.”
Close friendship between a straight man and a straight woman would always be suspect. The hopeless romantics of the world, and there were an awful lot of them, usually hoped for more and were invariably disappointed by people like Kate.
Romantic love wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She had never experienced that rush of excitement at the sound of a man’s voice or the touch of his hand that sent Maeve’s and Gwynn’s blood racing on a regular basis. The romantic gene that defined the other French women had clearly skipped a generation and left her immune.
Janine was halfway out the door when she stopped and turned back. “What’s wrong with me? There’s someone here to see you but he wanted me to make sure you weren’t napping first.”
Her family believed in an open-door policy even when the door in question was locked and bolted. Her friends and co-workers didn’t stand on ceremony either. Only a stranger would worry about whether she was sleeping. Wouldn’t it be terrific if it was the Good Samaritan in the Grateful Dead T-shirt?
Instead, a perfectly pleasant-looking man in a black turtleneck and black slacks smiled at her from the doorway. Doctor? Lawyer? Renegade therapist?
“I’m Father Boyle. I apologize for just dropping by, but Sheila Fennessey said you might want to speak with someone.”
For the second time that day Kate considered making a run for it, but twelve years of Catholic school education were hard to ignore so she stayed put, even though “Catholic” was more of a historical reference point than a current description of her religious beliefs.
“I’m afraid my aunt Sheila sent you out here on a wild-goose chase.” She shook his hand and motioned for him to take a seat. “She probably forgot to tell you that I haven’t been inside a church for anything other than a wedding in at least twenty years.”
“God doesn’t keep a calendar on
“Good,” Janine said. “You’re awake.”
“It’s only five-thirty,” Kate said with a rueful laugh. “Of course I’m awake.”
“Should I give you the standard lecture on resting up while you’re here or would you rather talk about these gorgeous flowers?”
“Definitely the flowers.”
“That’s what I thought.” Janine buried her nose in the abundant blooms and breathed deeply. “We took a vote and decided this batch says a whole lot more than ‘Get well soon.’ ”
Three dozen bloodred roses in a cut crystal vase did make a statement.
“Are you sure they’re for me?” There wasn’t anybody on her romantic horizon and hadn’t been for a long while.
“Honey, who else could they be for? You’ve cornered the flower trade around these parts.” Janine plucked a card from the center of the profusion of roses and handed it to Kate.
Kate read the card and laughed out loud.
Let’s give ’em something to talk about.—PG
“So who is he?” Janine asked as she made room for the roses on the windowsill. “That’s one very major statement the guy is making here.”
“Nothing romantic,” Kate said, laughing at the look of disappointment on the other woman’s face. “Just my friend Paul trying to stir up trouble.”
“Which one is Paul?”
“The one who sent pizzas up to the nurses’ lounge yesterday. I’ve known him since I was five years old.” She slipped the card into the top drawer of the nightstand. “Trust me, there’s nothing romantic going on.” Thirty-six red roses? What were you thinking, Grantham?
“A major hottie sends you a boatload of roses and you’re telling me there’s nothing romantic?”
It did sound ridiculous, but this was Paul they were talking about. He was like her brother.
“We found out a very long time ago that we work better as friends.”
“And he’s not gay?”
“Definitely not gay.”
“Then I’d rethink this if I were you. A man doesn’t send three dozen red roses to a pal. Looks to me like you’re wasting an opportunity.”
Close friendship between a straight man and a straight woman would always be suspect. The hopeless romantics of the world, and there were an awful lot of them, usually hoped for more and were invariably disappointed by people like Kate.
Romantic love wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She had never experienced that rush of excitement at the sound of a man’s voice or the touch of his hand that sent Maeve’s and Gwynn’s blood racing on a regular basis. The romantic gene that defined the other French women had clearly skipped a generation and left her immune.
Janine was halfway out the door when she stopped and turned back. “What’s wrong with me? There’s someone here to see you but he wanted me to make sure you weren’t napping first.”
Her family believed in an open-door policy even when the door in question was locked and bolted. Her friends and co-workers didn’t stand on ceremony either. Only a stranger would worry about whether she was sleeping. Wouldn’t it be terrific if it was the Good Samaritan in the Grateful Dead T-shirt?
Instead, a perfectly pleasant-looking man in a black turtleneck and black slacks smiled at her from the doorway. Doctor? Lawyer? Renegade therapist?
“I’m Father Boyle. I apologize for just dropping by, but Sheila Fennessey said you might want to speak with someone.”
For the second time that day Kate considered making a run for it, but twelve years of Catholic school education were hard to ignore so she stayed put, even though “Catholic” was more of a historical reference point than a current description of her religious beliefs.
“I’m afraid my aunt Sheila sent you out here on a wild-goose chase.” She shook his hand and motioned for him to take a seat. “She probably forgot to tell you that I haven’t been inside a church for anything other than a wedding in at least twenty years.”
“God doesn’t keep a calendar on
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