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The moment sat between them, sweet and achy like listening to an old hymn.
"Better grab John now. I need a nap in the worst way," Shelby said, tugging off her apron and folding it. "I'll see you soon."
"Like on your wedding day?"
"Right." Shelby turned to leave, then paused."Oh, and, Abigail, you really shouldn't think in this situation. Just go with it. Give yourself permission to do something for yourself."
10
MONDAY NIGHT, LEIF rang Abigail's doorbell, but there was no answer.
He'd told her he'd pick her up for their date at five-thirty on the dot. He didn't wear a watch, but the clock in his car said five thirty-two so she should be ready to roll.
The door swung open to reveal an older lady who was definitely not Abigail.
"Hey," he said.
''Oh, hello," the lady said, brushing her hands on a spotless apron. "You must be Mr. Marshall. Welcome to Laurel Woods. I'm Alice Ann. I help out the inn's owner. Come inside and we'll get you checked in."
"Uh, thanks, but I'm not Mr. Marshall."
She looked confused, glancing at the clutch of flowers he held in his hand. "Oh, we were expecting Mr. Marshall sometime this evening. Can I help you with something?"
"I'm Leif," he said.
She extended a hand. "The art instructor?"
"Yes."
"Uh, well, Birdie's dining with her father tonight. Did y'all have a lesson or something?"
"No."
"Oh."
For a good ten seconds they stood contemplating each other. Leif cleared his throat. "I believe Mrs. Orgeron is expecting me."
"She is?" Alice Ann stepped aside. "Well, she's out working in the flower beds. You can go on back."
Leif wondered why Abigail hadn't mentioned their date to Alice Ann and why she was working in the flower beds. Maybe she'd lost track of time?
He made his way through the pristine lower floor of Laurel Woods with its polished dark woods, shiny crystal chandeliers, and impressive art. Even though many of the furnishings and the house itself were centuries old, the place had a fresh feel. He stepped out into a square patio surrounded by thorny roses, some pruned, others still leggy and bare. Abigail stood in the middle of a bed working feverishly to hack a sturdy branch.
Her ponytail flipped as she threw her head back. "Damn it to hell."
"Does your father know you use those words?"
Abigail spun, dropping the loppers. "Leif."
"Yeah," he said, dropping his eyes to the tight, stained T-shirt she wore with a pair of faded yoga pants. The ensemble left little to the imagination-something he could appreciate-but between her hair falling in her face and the camouflage Crocs, he was fairly certain she'd forgotten about their plans.
And that hurt.
He'd thought ...well, maybe he'd been totally off on how she felt. The kiss they'd shared Thursday night had advertised an interested woman. But maybe not.
He lowered the clutch of amaryllis he'd bound with red ribbon. "So I guess you forgot about our date."
She shook her head, looking guilty. "No, but I'm guessing you didn't get my message."
