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Authors: Mary Kay McComas
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wasn't sure which.
He followed her down the stairs and out of the front door of the gas station to where he'd parked his truck. If her truck were a blueberry buggy, his would have been a sumptuous sapphire carriage—with powder blue custom accents and shiny chrome trim.
"I have a car but . . . not with me. I hope you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind."
"Wait a second, let me get that," he said as she reached out to open the door.
"Look," she said, feeling ridiculous. "I can open doors for myself. You don't have to go to all this rigmarole for a simple dinner. I know you're trying to be nice, but it really isn't necessary."
"Yes, it is."
"No. It isn't."
"Yes, it is," he said again, reaching into the truck and removing another clay pot. "I didn't want you to sit on this. I had to special order it." He held it out to her. "This is for you. The other one was to amuse the kid."
"Thank you," she said, taking the shrubby little plant. The leaves were tiny and intensely green, and there were little blue flowers scattered among them. It smelled wonderful. A sharp, sweet, sort of minty smell. "I don't think I've seen this before. It's very pretty."
"Yes, it is."
"What is it?"
"Rosemary." She looked up and could tell immediately that he wasn't talking about the plant.
"Like rosemary and thyme?"
He nodded. "I looked it up. One of the books said it was native to the Mediterranean. Only the leaves are used for seasoning, you know, but extracts from the flowers are used in medicines and perfumes." He touched one with the tip of his finger. "In Hamlet, Ophelia says, 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.' But in the language of flowers it means fidelity in love. I like both meanings, don't you?"
"Yes. I do," she said, semistunned that he'd gone to such lengths with her name.
"In another book they said it was sometimes called sea-dew, too, and that it's useful in lovemaking. . . ." He frowned in concentration. "That had something to do with Venus, the love goddess, springing from the foam of the sea and the sea-dew helping to express sexual love." He laughed. "The book didn't say whether you were supposed to eat it, rub it on, or shake it at the moon, so I didn't try it. But, all in all, it sounded like a nifty little plant to give to someone named Rosemary."
"It sure does," she said, charmed, "I mean, it is. Thank you. For thinking of it and for . . ." She didn't know what else she wanted to thank him for. Everything, she supposed. For the plant. For looking up the meaning of Rosemary. For asking her out. For putting up with her freakish foibles. For his freakish foibles, too, she supposed, since she was feeling kindly toward him at that moment.
". . . for not giving away the plant's secrets in front of Harley," he said, filling in the blank for her, standing away from the door so she could get in. "He'd have that sucker plucked clean in no time."
She laughed, and he swung the door closed, then she grimaced as if in pain. They hadn't pulled out of the drive and already the date wasn't going well. She was having fun.
"Now, if you don't like the place I've picked out, you let me know," he said, taking Highway 101 north toward Arcata, a twenty-minute drive from Redgrove. "I was amazed at how many nice places there were to choose from around here. Thank God for tourism, or I'd have had to take you to one of those seedy waterfront places I was in this afternoon."
Ah-ha!
"You were down there drinking all afternoon?" she asked with a practiced calm.
Though he didn't look any worse for the wear, it was mildly gratifying to know that she hadn't misjudged him. She'd suspected that first day that he was a heavy drinker, and it certainly explained a great deal of his behavior.
"Not drinking, just looking around."
Oh.
"At what?" she asked, chagrined. "The fishing boats?"
"A few. Mainly I was checking out bars and chowder houses."
"For what?"
"For food and a dance floor."
"You mean you . . ." She turned her head and tried to
He followed her down the stairs and out of the front door of the gas station to where he'd parked his truck. If her truck were a blueberry buggy, his would have been a sumptuous sapphire carriage—with powder blue custom accents and shiny chrome trim.
"I have a car but . . . not with me. I hope you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind."
"Wait a second, let me get that," he said as she reached out to open the door.
"Look," she said, feeling ridiculous. "I can open doors for myself. You don't have to go to all this rigmarole for a simple dinner. I know you're trying to be nice, but it really isn't necessary."
"Yes, it is."
"No. It isn't."
"Yes, it is," he said again, reaching into the truck and removing another clay pot. "I didn't want you to sit on this. I had to special order it." He held it out to her. "This is for you. The other one was to amuse the kid."
"Thank you," she said, taking the shrubby little plant. The leaves were tiny and intensely green, and there were little blue flowers scattered among them. It smelled wonderful. A sharp, sweet, sort of minty smell. "I don't think I've seen this before. It's very pretty."
"Yes, it is."
"What is it?"
"Rosemary." She looked up and could tell immediately that he wasn't talking about the plant.
"Like rosemary and thyme?"
He nodded. "I looked it up. One of the books said it was native to the Mediterranean. Only the leaves are used for seasoning, you know, but extracts from the flowers are used in medicines and perfumes." He touched one with the tip of his finger. "In Hamlet, Ophelia says, 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.' But in the language of flowers it means fidelity in love. I like both meanings, don't you?"
"Yes. I do," she said, semistunned that he'd gone to such lengths with her name.
"In another book they said it was sometimes called sea-dew, too, and that it's useful in lovemaking. . . ." He frowned in concentration. "That had something to do with Venus, the love goddess, springing from the foam of the sea and the sea-dew helping to express sexual love." He laughed. "The book didn't say whether you were supposed to eat it, rub it on, or shake it at the moon, so I didn't try it. But, all in all, it sounded like a nifty little plant to give to someone named Rosemary."
"It sure does," she said, charmed, "I mean, it is. Thank you. For thinking of it and for . . ." She didn't know what else she wanted to thank him for. Everything, she supposed. For the plant. For looking up the meaning of Rosemary. For asking her out. For putting up with her freakish foibles. For his freakish foibles, too, she supposed, since she was feeling kindly toward him at that moment.
". . . for not giving away the plant's secrets in front of Harley," he said, filling in the blank for her, standing away from the door so she could get in. "He'd have that sucker plucked clean in no time."
She laughed, and he swung the door closed, then she grimaced as if in pain. They hadn't pulled out of the drive and already the date wasn't going well. She was having fun.
"Now, if you don't like the place I've picked out, you let me know," he said, taking Highway 101 north toward Arcata, a twenty-minute drive from Redgrove. "I was amazed at how many nice places there were to choose from around here. Thank God for tourism, or I'd have had to take you to one of those seedy waterfront places I was in this afternoon."
Ah-ha!
"You were down there drinking all afternoon?" she asked with a practiced calm.
Though he didn't look any worse for the wear, it was mildly gratifying to know that she hadn't misjudged him. She'd suspected that first day that he was a heavy drinker, and it certainly explained a great deal of his behavior.
"Not drinking, just looking around."
Oh.
"At what?" she asked, chagrined. "The fishing boats?"
"A few. Mainly I was checking out bars and chowder houses."
"For what?"
"For food and a dance floor."
"You mean you . . ." She turned her head and tried to
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