Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson Page B

pie.
    â€œBut we didn’t have ice cream,” he said.
    â€œRoss Claybourne, I do believe Mr. Horner will be able to retire from his ice cream stand with what we’ve bought this week alone.”
    Ross smiled at me. “I like ice cream. I like eating ice cream with you. So sue me.”
    I patted my tummy. “I’m going to gain ten pounds before this week is over, if I haven’t already. I need to call our family attorney. Maybe I can sue you for alienation of a waistline.”
    He squeezed my hand as we moved along the boardwalk, pulled me closer to him, and said, “Ready to get rid of me so you can diet?”
    I stopped, forced my tears not to surface, and said, “Never. I’d gladly wear twenty extra pounds if it meant your being here.”
    His smile was faint but warm. Loving. “Bless you for that.”
    We moved on, toward the ice cream stand, where only a handful of people stood in line. I spied Mr. Horner behind the window, beaming as he watched us approach. I suspected the older man had enjoyed witnessing love bloom between Ross and me this week. Mason Horner had been a lifelong friend of my father and, when Dad left, had felt some sort of paternal obligation to Jon and me. He and his wife often expressed concern that I had never married, that I’d be alone—like Mom—until my dying day. They’d not wanted that for me, they said. So to see me with Ross had to have held some semblance of hope for them.
    â€œStrawberry and Moose Tracks,” Mr. Horner said before we had a chance to order.
    Ross winked at me. “What would you like to do this evening?” he asked.
    â€œOh, I don’t know . . . anything, really.” I turned to watch Mr. Horner, but Ross turned my face toward him, his finger against my chin. “How about dinner at the inn?”
    â€œLisa would love that, wouldn’t she?” I started to look again at Mr. Horner, wanting to see—as I’d always done—just how high he’d stack the scoops. I was the proverbial kid in an ice cream parlor.
    â€œLook at me,” Ross whispered.
    Goose bumps returned; I shyly allowed my eyes to meet his.
    â€œI love you,” he said. “Do you know that?”
    â€œI know that.”
    â€œWhat are we going to do come Thursday, Miss Kelly?”
    I blinked, sorry he’d brought it up. “Maybe, if we close our eyes real tight, Thursday won’t come.”
    â€œStrawberry and Moose Tracks,” Mr. Horner said from behind the opened window. He stretched the waffle cones—piled high with three scoops each—across the white linoleum counter. I took them both while Ross paid.
    â€œThank you, Mason,” Ross said. “Oh, and can I have a small cup of water, please?”
    â€œMason,” I said as we walked toward the picnic benches with our delights. “To me, he’ll always be Mr. Horner, but to you, he’s Mason.”
    â€œThat’s what you get, young lady, when you take to dating old men.”
    â€œOld er, Ross Claybourne. Not old.”
    After sitting on a bench, he raised his cone to me in a mock toast. “To us.”
    I tipped my cone to meet his. “You got Moose Tracks on my strawberry,” I said, after we’d pulled them apart.
    â€œConsider it fertilizer.”
    We laughed and bit into our ice cream. For several minutes, said nothing. Just licking and biting and watching the sun dance over the water and listening to the gulls call overhead, the gentle murmur of locals and tourists. Wishing as hard as I could wish that these moments could be frozen in time, or dripped into bottles to be opened on lonelier, colder days.
    I had managed to nibble and lick my way to the bottom scoop. I paused to watch a small flock of sandpipers in flight, hovering close to the shoreline just beyond the fencing. They sang twee-wee-wee, twee-wee-wee . I took another bite of ice cream, raking my teeth across