sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”
“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.
With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.
Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason
Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip.
Who the heck was Mason?
8
“I’ m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.
“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”
“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”
Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.
“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”
Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”
Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”
“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?
“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”
Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”
“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.
Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”
“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.
“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?
Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.
She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.
The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet.
“Wednesday,” he promised.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”
“After noon?”
“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.
Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the
“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.
With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.
Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason
Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip.
Who the heck was Mason?
8
“I’ m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.
“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”
“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”
Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.
“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”
Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”
Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”
“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?
“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”
Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”
“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.
Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”
“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.
“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?
Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.
She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.
The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet.
“Wednesday,” he promised.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”
“After noon?”
“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.
Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the
Similar Books
