Page 3 of Courage, Dear Heart

He’s tall, six-two or maybe six-three, with a solid, muscular build and broad shoulders. The damp white tee clinging to his skin does nothing to hide his pecs and abs. All that complemented by muscular, runner legs. It’s obvious he jogged here.

When was the last time I found myself drawn to a man? And today of all days? Guilt pierces my chest like the sharpclaws of an invisible beast. Finding another man attractive is not cheating. Grandma used to say,guilt is a monster that devours you from the inside.I know all too well how painful those bites are.

“Come, Daisy.” I place my hand next to her and she climbs on my wrist. I prop her on one of her many perches scattered around the store and return to my customer. “You’re all set. I’ll have the flowers delivered on Monday unless you prefer them to be delivered on a different date.”

His biceps flex when he runs a hand through his damp hair, the overhead lights making the brown look like burnished gold. I resist the urge to fan my face.

“Monday is good.”

I enter delivery instructions into the computer and close the program.

His eyes linger on my face and then flit behind me.

A tug at my wide neck T-shirt makes it slip over my shoulder, along with the strap of my overalls. I look down at Jamie and he pulls at my shirt harder. I take his hand in mine. Why is he acting like this? “What is it, Jamie?”

He points at his mouth and rubs his belly in a clear sign he’s hungry. Bending to meet his eyes, I smile at my child. “I’m almost done. Go wash your hands. I’ll be right there.”

Jamie walks away, his feet shuffling on the floor.

I turn to the man still watching me. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

His eyes are fixed on my exposed shoulder. And on the tattoo there. I pull my shirt and strap up and cover the blue flowers inked on my skin. A smattering of tiny Forget Me-Nots. Twenty-eight, to be exact, andhisinitials.

He blinks, and his gaze finds my face again. Thecharming and friendly smile is back, too. “How old is your little brother?”

“He turned six a couple of weeks ago, and he’s my son, not my brother.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended. I’m tired of people assuming Jamie is my brother and then giving me disapproving looks when I correct them because they assume I had him as a teenager.

His smile falters. He glances at the back of the store as if expecting someone else to show up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make assumptions. You have a beautiful boy. I’m sure you and your husband are very proud of him.”

Husband. The word still hurts. Two years today. There is no husband. Not anymore. “It’s Jamie and me.” Jesus! Why did I say that? I never volunteer that kind of information. It can be dangerous. He’s a stranger. Well, a stranger who’s been buying flowers from me for years, yes, but I don’t know him.

His eyebrows rise. “Well, his father is a fool, then. If you two were mine, I’d never leave you.”

Fire lights up inside of me. It roars and crawls up my chest and throat, but when the words spew out of my mouth, they’re like ice. “My husband isn’t a fool. He’s dead.” Two years today. Two years without my husband, my best friend, the only man I’ve ever been with. But I don’t tell him any of it. I’ll break apart if I say anything else.

He pales. His lips move, but it takes several seconds before he can stammer a response. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean . . .”

He didn’t mean what? To fish for information about my marital status? To try to win me over with a cheap compliment?

I stare at him, my shoulders pulling back. My posture is apicture of control and defiance. But my white-knuckle grip on the edge of the counter betrays me.

I say nothing. My silence is enough of a response. I want him gone. He should leave and yet he doesn’t. His feet are anchored to the floor. Why can’t he just go? Didn’t he hurt me enough?He couldn’t know . . .a voice in my head pleads.

My cold gaze is fixed on him and he’s the first to look away. His chin drops to his chest, and he closes his eyes as if it could erase the last few minutes. It can’t.

He leaves then, without saying another word.

THREE

Jillian

The momenthe leaves and the bell above the door goes silent, I explode into tears. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I cave into myself. The floor meets my knees, and not for the first time, I wish there were no ground. I long for an infinite abyss to swallow me whole and put an end to this never-ending pain. I want to rip the hollow space in my chest where my heart used to be.

But I can’t give in. Jamie needs me, and I don’t want him to see me like this. God knows he’s seen me cry too many times already. I allow myself another ten seconds of weakness and then drag a breath in, and another, and another, until I’m dizzy. I grab a wad of tissues and wipe at my face. Get up and walk to the sink in my working area, then wash my face with cold water. Dry myself and walk to the small kitchen in the back of the store. Plaster a smile on my lips and hope my too perceptive son won’t see the hurt I try so hard to hide.

“Okay, honey. I’m all done with that customer. Whatare you hungry for?”

Jamie peers at me from behind the book he’s reading. He doesn’t respond.

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