Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson Page A

minutes’ loss in time was an hour and forty-five minutes too many.
    â€œI’m sorry. I should have thought of this last night. I . . . I need to run by the Rexall and pick up a prescription I had my pharmacy call in on Saturday.”
    Disappointment gave way to concern. “Are you all right?”
    â€œOh yeah.” He chuckled. “You forget you are dating an old man. Old men have to take medicine on a daily basis.”
    I pretended to pout. “You are not an old man, Ross Claybourne.”
    â€œYou’re just saying that because you love me.” He paused. “You do love me, don’t you?”
    I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply through my nostrils. “Most desperately.” I wanted to say more, to tell him that I couldn’t bear his leaving on Wednesday. I wanted to beg him as I sat upon my bed to never leave me. To forget Florida and move to Maine. But that would have been selfish on my part. He had a practice to return to. Daughters. Grandchildren. Friends and colleagues. One day, I imagined, he’d tell them about this old maid he’d once made happy while in Maine, even if only for a few days.
    â€œI love you too.” He chuckled again. “Most desperately.”
    â€œYou’re poking fun.”
    â€œNo, I’m not. I mean it. I’ll see you soon. Good-bye, sweetheart.”
    An old fear swept through me. What if Ross, like Garrett, had no intention of being there this one time? What if he had an airline ticket already tucked into his pocket? His bags packed? What if, in some ego-driven desire, he wanted to picture me, standing there on the dock, wide-brimmed hat in my hand, waiting for him to come? But, like Garrett, he’d never show. What if everything he’d said had been a lie and there was already a special someone in Orlando who’d captured his heart after Joan died? What if this were nothing more than a summer romance?
    I dressed in a pair of long linen shorts and a sleeveless matching top with a pair of thong sandals while dread cloaked my heart. I drove to the harbor in despair. But anguish fled as soon as my feet stepped onto the boardwalk and I saw him, waiting near the boat. For me.
    He waved. I waved back. And when I reached him, he kissed me as though there was no one else in the world but the two of us. Never had been. Never could be.
    During the three-hour tour along Maine’s picturesque shoreline, we stopped in the blue-gray waters for lunch, served by the cook on the tall ship. We dined on lobster soup, homemade bread, and blackberry pie. Ross and I whispered thoughts and stole kisses between bites. When we’d had our fill of food and our plates and bowls had been taken away, we settled on one of the highly waxed wooden benches near the bow. I snuggled into Ross’s arms, my back curved perfectly to meet the muscles of his broad chest. The sun was warm—hot nearly—but it felt good against my skin. I stretched my long legs, which had tanned over the week, and pointed my toes. Ross kissed the tip of my ear, sendinggoose bumps along my arms and legs. I showed him and he laughed.
    An hour and a half later, we returned to the dock. Elation pulsed through my veins. The sea air, the wind and waves had always done that to me. But experiencing them with Ross was a tonic unlike anything I’d ever experienced. He’d seemed genuinely interested in the captain’s dialogue about the marine life, the various ports and barrier islands, and the birds who call Maine their home. As he listened, he’d whisper into my ear about how this or that reminded him of Cedar Key. “CK,” he often called her. Stepping back onto land with him, I wanted to see this Florida gulf shore paradise more than ever, and I wondered if I might be bold enough to broach the subject before he left for home.
    Ross took my hand, said we were going now to get ice cream. I reminded him we’d just had blackberry