Page 58 of Every Rose

Chapter Nineteen

Rose took a few minutes between patients to check her messages the next day. Nothing from Matt, but then she imagined he had quite a bit of cleaning up to do before he let her into his place the following day. She contemplated messaging him and inviting him to her place tonight. She knew from his schedule that he finished at five. How much cleaning up time could he need? Maybe she’d wait and if he didn’t message her later she’d text him.

Her nurse came in between patients carrying a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. Roses, lilies, something yellow, and that ferny green stuff from the florist. “These just came for you,” Deirdre said. “You sure made somebody happy.”

She tried to imagine who’d sent her flowers. It wasn’t her birthday, she hadn’t delivered a baby, saved a life or done anything remarkable enough for a floral arrangement this incredible. It flashed through her mind that they might be from Matt and the thought died on the vine. Somehow, she didn’t see Matt as the extravagant floral bouquet type.

“Wow.” She took the small white envelope that was attached, opened it and quickly scanned the note on the card.

It was from Peter Buckingham. The note said, With Fond Regards. What on earth?

She then checked her emails. Flipped through routine messages, deleted some junk she’d never have time to read, and came upon an email that almost made her drop her phone.

Peter had also emailed her. The message read:

Dear Rose,

He was always a little formal.

I’m in Seattle for a few days and I thought I’d fly to Portland in the morning. Would you like to have lunch with me?

Always, Peter.

Her heart began to pound and she was taken back to those wonderful days when he’d wined and dined her, when they’d attended charity balls and she’d actually had a reason to buy some of the gowns she always loved but never had any place to wear.

She began to parse out the message like a high school girl with a note from a guy she likes. “I thought I’d fly down to Portland.” What did that mean, exactly? He already had business here and would be in the area? They’d grab a burger or a sandwich and catch up like old friends? Or was he flying down especially to see her? But then why the short notice? Did he remember that she avoided patients on Friday afternoons so she could catch up on paperwork? Which she could as easily do over the weekend? And ‘always’ Peter. What did that mean? Always what? Love always? Peter will always be my name?

More to the point, should she go?

But from the moment she’d finished the email she knew she’d go. The biggest question in her mind was why he suddenly wanted to have lunch with her when they hadn’t been in touch in almost a year, and, of course, what should she wear?

When Peter called her later in the day she was expecting it. After the initial greetings, he said, “I hope you can come to lunch tomorrow. Dreadful short notice, for which I apologize, but tomorrow’s the only day I’ve got and I had to lie and make you an important client to get even that much time off.” Well, at least she wasn’t a last minute add-on to his schedule because something else had fallen through.

“No. It’s fine. I’d love to have lunch with you. Do you want me to book something?”

“I took the liberty of booking a table. He named the most trendy and probably most expensive restaurant in Portland. She felt a flutter against her ankles, like the sway of a silk ball gown. “I like a man who thinks of everything.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you there at one o’clock.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

And then she did nothing of the sort. She fussed and wondered, and re-read his note and tried to find meaning between the lines. Matt texted her around nine that night:

Exhausted from housework, but not too tired. You?

She texted back,

Catching up on paperwork. See you tomorrow night.

It was true, she was catching up on paperwork, but that was because she was taking tomorrow afternoon off. She suffered a pang, a sharp sear of betrayal. But it was only lunch with an old friend. Wasn’t it?

It’s just lunch, Rose reminded herself as she changed her outfit for the third time. She was going for elegant but casual. She put away the Chanel suit. It was too Ladies who Lunch. She didn’t know what had possessed her to buy the damn thing in the first place. In the end she wore a simple green sheath dress with a chunky gold necklace Peter had bought her and a pair of Prada heels. Not many men could appreciate a designer shoe. Peter Buckingham was one of those few.

She told herself it was only a casual lunch, though the sight of his flowers broadcast a different message.

She walked into the restaurant at precisely one and found Peter already arrived. He must have passed the hostess a photo of her or something for the young woman took one look at her and said, “Right this way, Sir Peter is waiting.”

The second he spotted her he stood, stepped forward and kissed her discreetly. “Lovely to see you,” he murmured, before they both sat at what had to be the best table in the house.

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