The Admirer's Secret (9 page)

Chapter 19

M
arc waited in his F-150 while it idled, wishing the minutes away. He had gotten there early, as usual. “Fashionably
late” wasn’t part of his vocabulary.

He speculated that all the leaders and active figures were probably already there, chatting in the lobby while waiting for the town meeting to commence. With Sunday’s after-service coffee hour cleaned up by now, Marc anticipated a fully packed recreation room in the town’s local Episcopal church with nearly all the townsfolk present, including the infirm and children. Somehow everyone always made it, and somehow the whole village got involved. Knowing that her mother, along with all the other mothers, was on the board of directors, he was certain she would have been dragged along for the fun. Now he just had to swallow the lump that lodged in his throat every time he thought of seeing her again.

Flurries fell from a dismal sky and Marc audibly begged the clouds to depart. He was tired of the gloom and needed a burst of sunshine to energize him. Relying on less than four hours of sleep, Marc felt like he had barely slept a wink. The clock ticked down the minutes, then hours, while he overanalyzed possible scenarios. Then, like a self-conscious teenager, he had planned out their conversation ahead of time and even rehearsed it this morning in front of his bathroom mirror a time or two:

What are you doing here?
she would probably ask.

His smooth reply would go something like this:
Well, I’ve always had an interest in town politics and like to get involved whenever possible.
Then she’d be impressed with his responsible citizenship and invite him to sit with her. If he managed that all right, perhaps he would ask her to grab lunch afterward. She’d graciously agree and the rest would be easy as he wooed her with his charm.

Or else she would
overlook him from the start and crush his fragile ego.

Mustering his courage,
Marc headed into St. Peter’s Episcopal Church for the town meeting. Since many of the local events were funded by various church organizations, it only made sense to have it there; plus it was the only building that had enough room to comfortably hold the couple-hundred attendees. He pulled open the heavy wooden doors, where greeters guided him down the hallway. His hand self-consciously reached up to smooth the back of his brown, amply-gelled hair; he could feel the cowlick sticking straight up.
Stupid wind.
He shuffled awkwardly into the lobby area waiting to see a familiar face.

St. Peter’s dated back one
hundred and seventy-five years. The ornate interior detail showed its impressive age. Even the pews revealed intense craft in their baroque patterns. It was an aspect of the building that Marc appreciated more than most, being a craftsman hobbyist. Stained glass windows in vibrant colors lined the sanctuary walls, picturing the various aspects of Jesus Christ’s life, his suffering, death, and resurrection. The thorns, the pierced hands, the surrender to God’s punishment of humanity’s sin—it all felt so real as Marc absorbed the vivid scenes. But the window depicting the glorious resurrection, despite the clouded sky, seemed to glow. Marc thought of how until recently he felt so dead and broken, but now it seemed like he was given a second chance at life, at love. The illuminated image held Marc’s attention long enough for him to create a traffic jam of people behind him.

A low “uh-em” snapped Marc back to the present and he followed the crowd pas
t the sanctuary entrance toward the recreation hall. A friendly elderly lady welcomed him enthusiastically as she handed him a meeting outline. He passed through globs of individuals chatting and exchanging small talk. Searching her out among the crowds, he plastered himself against a wall, pretending to be reading the notes.

A cluster of women stuck
like chewed gum to the wall across from him like glue—immobile and chatting up a storm. He recognized several of them—Mrs. Miller. Mrs. Montgomery. Mrs. Carter. He had hoped she’d be with her mom, but she wasn’t. She was probably milling around close by, though.

It wasn’t more than a couple of seconds later when she walked in. It was as if the sunlight chose at that very moment to peek out from behind the clouds and shine brilliantly on her, making her appearance more radiant than he remembered. Of course, it could have been his active imagination, but he loved how she looked no matter what. Catching his breath, he realized he needed to make sure she saw him. Stepping away from the wall, he walked directly into her path.

Just as he did so, he was bumped from behind, the collision jamming his body against a small table adjacent to the wall. The impact spewed a pile of meeting agendas in a wide circle around him. Marc reflexively bent down to collect them. A fragrant someone next to him began gathering the fallen papers with him.
Strawberries
. The scent was enticingly familiar. He turned to look without being too obvious or overeager.

“Hey there! Surprise seeing you here,” he feigned in the most surprised voice he could muster.

“Marc! What a surprise! I had no idea you’d be here today. Do you always come to these meetings, or did I just get lucky?” She flashed a warm smile that turned his knees to Jell-O.

Now to recite the lines he practic
ed: “You know… just passing by…” What was it he had rehearsed? Definitely not that. It flowed so much easier when he was talking to his reflection.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to call you.” Her hand made contact with his shoulder.

He stood dumbfounded, still clutching the pile of papers while a small huddle of attendees waited awkwardly for him to pass the notes out. Realizing they thought he was one of the ushers, he quickly handed out a couple sheets and put the rest back on the table. He totally forgot what they were talking about.

“Oh, yeah, um, me too. I mean, I was going to call you too.”

“You were?”

“Well, yeah, but I guess I never got around to it.” Lie. He had tried but chickened o
ut. “I’ve just been really busy…”
Abandon ship!
He might as well have shot himself in the foot after that.

“Oh, okay.” Her smile faded.

Neither said anything for a moment. He’d come this far; he couldn’t crash and burn now.

“You can sit with me if you want,” he blurted out.

“Well, my mom is saving me a seat, so I really should sit with her,” she offered with an apologetic frown.

An intercom interrupted them, announcing that they had five minutes before the meeting started.

“Guess I’ll talk to you later then,” she added. 

He nodded yes, then gave a half-hearted wave as they headed in different directions—her to her seat, him to the
restroom to berate himself privately. The single stall was occupied, so Marc waited by the lone sink staring himself down in the mirror. He splashed water on his face and scolded himself in a series of mumbles for his idiocy. He asked for a chance to see her, got it, then let it slip through his fingers. So typical.

The flush behind him spurred Marc to exit.
The last thing he needed was to be spotted talking crazily to himself. He debated whether he should abandon the meeting but knew she would easily notice if he went MIA. Besides, maybe he’d get a chance to rectify himself. Decision made.

He entered the recreation hall and headed toward a section of empty chairs in the back corner. The meeting had already begun, so he hastily plopped into the first available seat and pretended to pay attention while searching her out. His line of vision found her stoically seated to his left and
from the corner of his eye he held fast to her. She appeared oblivious to his gaze.

The meeting seemed endlessly torturous as Marc awaited the closing remarks. Small interruptions stole his focus on several occasions—a loud cough in the corner, a crying baby, and George Turner’s crooked hairpiece. The guy was completely bald, and anything would have looked better than the cheap toupee resting sideways on his scalp. But no one ever said anything to the ninety-two-year-old, figuring he earned the right to look however he pleased, checkered pants and all. Marc wondered if he’d someday be so confident in his fashion senselessness at that age.

When the last speaker dismissed the meeting attendees, Marc cast one final glance to where she had been seated, but her chair was empty. When did she leave? And why so quickly? Was she intentionally avoiding him? His eyes searched the faces, then scanned the back entrance, but she was gone. Marc surmised there was nothing to do but shrug it off and go home.

Chapter 20

H
aley kept her eye on Marc while the meeting concluded. She had been counting down the minutes, wishing time would fast-forward.

If s
he were a little child she would have been dragged kicking and screaming to these boring meetings. But as an adult she held her tongue to appease her mother for the two hours they discussed the same issues over and over: addressing upcoming town events, announcing new members of the council, assigning various duties for the Ice Festival, blah blah blah. But she’d had a hunch—well, more than a hunch—that Marc would be here today. Even so, she’d save the details of their “coincidental” run-in for when they shared “when we first met” stories with their future grandkids… or at least until after they had a couple dates under their belts.

Before the meeting ended, she had walked around to the other side of the room to avoid the mad rush of people pouring through the aisles, inevitably spilling her and Marc in different directions. It was after one o’clock when the meeting was over, and a steady chatter of lunch invitations began to fill the large room. She slid through the rows of chairs until she found his. He was facing the other direction, craning his neck. She reached over and grabbed his elbow gently.

“Hey, you,” she ventured.

Marc spun around and replied with a toothy smile. “Hey!”

“What did you think of the meeting?”

“Informative. Though, I have to admit I was a little distracted by George’s hair.”

Haley nervously chuckled at his observation, sensing he had made a joke. In all truth, she hadn’t heard a word he said. She was too busy planning out what to say next.
Stay cool,
she reminded herself.

“Yeah, they just nominated me to take pictures for the Ice Festival. You going?”
Keep the conversation going.

“I try to make it every year on opening night. That’s when they have the biggest bonfire. I guess
there’s a bit of pyromaniac in me.” He smiled at her and her stomach clenched.

So he would be at the Ice Festival. Now
that
was good information to know. It gave her an idea. “Well, maybe we can meet up there.”

“Sure. Do you usually go?”

“Not really. It’s been years since I last went.”

The Ice Festival was exactly that—an event
highlighting ice decorations and all things winter, things Haley could easily do without. Sculptors chiseled out large blocks of ice from the nearby Lake Chautauqua to create giant, ornate structures, which were placed strategically off the shore of the frozen lake. Since Lake Chautauqua wasn’t nearly the size of Lake Erie, early February temperature lows guaranteed parts of it would be frozen enough for the ice sculptors to cut blocks of ice out of it.

Haley rarely frequented Chautauqua anymore—the
novelty of boating had long since worn off for her—and the nearby town was usually vacant this time of year, for most of its residents were well-off vacationers who migrated south for the winter. Chautauqua provided a milder summer escape from the humid Florida heat, as well as a perfect family vacation. Rustic hotels lined with rocking chair porches, boating excursions, and the ferry were just a few of the attractions that the picturesque village offered. She could remember a time when her father took her driving through perfectly manicured neighborhoods—another popular attraction for visitors, as the historical homes each demonstrated articulate design and beauty not found in modern home constructions. For six months out of the year Chautauqua resembled a wintry ghost town, but during the Ice Festival it came to life.

As the ushers were starting to gently nudge everyone out of the hall, Haley felt time’s prodding to make a move. “So I was thinking, we really should make a point to get together before then. I owe you something more than a bottle of water, right?”

Marc chuckled. “That’d be nice.”

The male-female dating debate ping-ponged in her head over how aggressive was too aggressive. If she didn’t ask, she’d never forgive herself. “You hungry?” She noticed him absently glance behind her before answering.

“You mean right now?”

“Yeah, unless you—”

“No, no. You wanna grab a bite?”

“Sure!” she answered
with a little too much enthusiasm. There it was again—that swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

“Got any preference of where?”

As she was thinking about all the preferably romantic restaurants in the vicinity, her eyes caught her mother’s beckoning gesture from across the room. Gabrielle’s exaggerated wave gave Haley an idea. “Hey—would you want to join my mom and me at her house? I’m sure she’d love to have you over. And she’s a great cook.”

Though being alone with Marc was preferred, if anyone could charm a man, it was Haley’s mother. Gabrielle was irresistible in every sense of the word.
When she hosted meals, she considered them family, if only for the afternoon. And she had an incredible knack for talking favors out of nearly anyone; before you knew it, you had agreed to her request but felt like
she
was doing
you
a service. It was that same charismatic appeal that drew people to her, and Haley hoped she could win a date using some of that on Marc.

“Uh-oh. You and your mom—a double-threat!” he teased while his hand touched her lower back
to guide her along the stream of people leaving. The pressure of his fingers against her flesh sent a chill up her spine.

“I swear we’ll be good. She’s got a couple of her committee friends joining us, but I get lost in their talk about all the planning and boring stuff. It’d be great to have you as a buffer.”

“A buffer! Is that all I’m good for?”

“Actually, yes.”

“At least you’re honest. You lead the way, and I’ll follow.”