The Virgin's Proposal

“Matt, you’re home!” His mother rounded the corner and entered the garage, a basket of freshly clipped yellow tulips in her hands. Georgianne Webster, her ash-blond hair in slight disarray from her trip to the garden, stood in the shadowed entryway clutching the basket like a lifeline, looking unsure.

“Hello, Mom.” He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a rag. He wiped his hands several times, avoiding her gaze. After eleven years of nothing but letters, he felt self-conscious, clumsy.

“I saw you take the Chevy out earlier,” she said.

“It started right up,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of it and getting the oil changed.”

“I didn’t do that, Matt. Your father did.”

“Oh.” He let that thought digest for a minute. He grabbed the bouquet, thrusting the flowers at her. “These are for you. I know roses are your favorites and because it’s April, yours won’t be blooming for two more months…” he shrugged. “Anyway, I thought they’d cheer you up a little, since you’ve been so worried about Father.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

When the familiar scent of her hit his senses, the full impact of how long he’d been gone slammed into him. He swallowed several times to get rid of the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat before he started acting like a blubbering idiot.

Without thinking, he drew his mother to him. The move popped the tension like a balloon burst by a pin. The basket clattered to the ground and she enfolded him in a fierce hug, not even noticing the flowers crushed between them.

“Oh Matthew, we’ve missed you,” she whispered. Then she leaned back, cupping his face in her soft hands and studying him, as if searching for the Matt she knew. Tears trickled down her cheeks, tiny lines of emotion marring her makeup.

The feeling of home, of belonging, surged through him. That damned lump forced its way back into his throat. “Me too, Mom,” was all he could manage.

“I’m so glad you’re home.” She wiped her eyes and took a half step back. “I guess the flowers got caught up in our reunion.” Her laugh was shaky when she took the bouquet from him and buried her nose in their scent.

“It’s okay, Mom. They’re just roses.”

“No, not just roses. Not when they’re from you.” She added them to the basket, careful not to crush them further. “Remember the time you picked those daisies for me? You were seven, I think. The poor things were drooping like sad little puppies. But I kept them, pressed into the front of my Bible. They’re still there, between Genesis and Exodus.”

He chuckled. “If I remember right, you were pretty mad about those daisies. I’d yanked them out of Mrs. Rollins’s garden and she complained.”

“Eugenia Rollins was a cranky woman who couldn’t appreciate a little boy showing his mother he loved her. I did have to give you a lecture, but your heart was in the right place.”

“I’ll keep that in mind on your birthday.” Matt winked. “I noticed the neighbor’s petunias are blooming.”

“You’re still incorrigible,” she said softly, brushing a hand along his cheek. Her deep-green eyes were misty.

When he was younger, that word had been used to describe him more than once, especially by his father. It had practically become his middle name after he’d kidnapped a cow from Amos’s farm and snuck it into the high school’s gym the night before the Thanksgiving game. And the time he’d been caught driving his father’s car—at fourteen and without a license. Not to mention the long list of smashed mailboxes and broken windows that littered his childhood résumé. But all that was over now.

“I’ve changed, Mom. For the better.” And he had. It had been a long road to get there, but he’d made it, half dragging himself out of the depths of hell and back to the surface.

She searched his gaze, considering, evaluating. “I believe you have. I’m proud of you, Matt. It must have taken a lot of courage and strength, after what you went through.”

Her face softened. In her eyes, he saw sympathy, an echo of his own pain. Images of that last night rocketed through him, fast, furious, hard. With a mental slamming of the door, he sealed that vault of memories. Their reunion was still a fragile thing, vulnerable to the past and he wasn’t ready to face everything. Not yet.

“Will you be here for dinner?” she asked, clearly sensing his need for a change of subject.

“That depends. Are you making meat loaf?”

She laughed again, an easy, light sound. “You could have filet mignon and you’re asking for my meat loaf?”

He shrugged. “I’m a man of simple tastes.”

“All right. But it will have to be turkey meat loaf. It’s healthier for your father.”

Matt groaned. “Turkey is for Thanksgiving, not meat loaf.” He pointed to the bag on the garage floor. “At least I made a pit stop for some good old-fashioned chili before I came home.”

“Keep that away from your father,” she admonished. “You know he can’t resist chili.” She kissed him on the cheek and started to lead the way into the house.

Matt cleared his throat. “How is Father?”

“He’s recuperating pretty well. He’s stubborn, though, and getting him to change hasn’t been easy.”

I know that firsthand. “Does he know I’m back?”

“Yes.” She didn’t say any more. Her silence about his father’s reaction meant the years of separation hadn’t changed much of anything. She paused at the top of the steps, then turned to him. “Why did you come back? It was more than your father’s heart attack, wasn’t it?”

He hesitated, forming the words in his head, finally giving voice to his own explanation. “To reclaim my life. I hit thirty and realized it was past time I grew up. Then Father got sick. It seemed the perfect time to start over. To come back.”

“It was the right choice,” she said. “It’s not going to be easy, you know. Forgiveness doesn’t come easy for some.”

He knew she was talking about his father and Olivia. Hell, half the town saw him as a callous, irresponsible man who didn’t deserve the life of privilege the Webster name had given him. But what they didn’t know was how that name had made him suffer, and how impossible it had been to forgive himself.

“I didn’t expect it would,” Matt said, wondering if his return would be worth the price he’d be paying.

Katie kicked off her sneakers and placed the grocery bag on the counter. Popsicles went into the freezer, TV dinner was unwrapped and tossed into the microwave, cans were placed alphabetically in the cabinet. Within minutes, she was curled up on her sofa, picking at a plastic plateful of bland manicotti.

She reached for the remote control and flipped through the TV Guide. Two movies she had seen before and some woman-in-jeopardy special on channel seven. Television, or the books for the shop—already pored over a million times. Gee, the real height of excitement in the middle of Indiana, she thought.

She’d spent too much time cooped up here, worried about the shop and depressed about her non-wedding. She imagined herself, twenty years down the road, unkempt hair to her knees, wearing smelly, tattered clothes, muttering about what could have been if she hadn’t been stood up at the altar. If she allowed the old Katie to wallow in self-pity for one minute more, she’d surely turn into Miss Havisham. And deep down inside, that’s exactly what she feared would happen.

Maybe if she got out, networked a little, she could take care of both things at once. She might be dateless, but she was not the hermit Barbara had accused her of being.

Katie dashed into her bedroom, transforming her usual self into what she hoped was someone who looked adventurous. She poufed her hair, painted her lips and slipped into a dress that wasn’t exactly revealing, since her closet didn’t contain anything that wasn’t practical, but at least was more feminine than jeans.

Then she took a long, hard look at herself in the mirror, assessing the changes and resisting the urge to tamp down her hair and wipe off the lipstick. A day ago, a year ago, she would have. Katie had always lived her life plain and quiet. No longer. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and headed for the door before she could change her mind.

It was Friday night and the new Katie Dole was going out. Alone.

Matt sat on one of the silk-upholstered claw-foot chairs at the hand-carved mahogany dining-room table, under an elaborate three-tier crystal chandelier, surrounded by the finest china money could buy.

And wished he was lying on a blanket under the stars, with a cooler packed with fried chicken and sitting beside a beautiful honey-headed woman who really knew how to kiss.

“Hello, Matthew.” His father’s voice brought an abrupt halt to Matt’s reverie.

When he saw him, Matt choked back a gasp. The rugged, hearty Edward he had left behind eleven years ago had been replaced by an old man with pale skin and tired eyes, shuffling across the room in a robe and slippers. Matt couldn’t believe the damage a few clogged arteries had wreaked on a once-imposing, seemingly immortal man. For a second, Matt’s resentment disappeared. He considered walking over to his father and ending the years of animosity with an embrace.

He was halfway out of his seat when his father said, “Have you seen Olivia yet?”

The mention of his ex-wife was like a stab to Matt’s gut and his father knew it. Why had Matt hoped the heart attack and the years apart would make a difference? Nothing inside Edward had changed. Not a single thing. His heart was forged out of the same cold steel that was used to create the buildings he sold.

Edward folded his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, a physical gesture Matt knew meant his father was getting down to business. Matt slowly sipped his water, waiting.