For eight months, Dr. Mark Vance has been visiting Sheehan's Nursery to buy flowers for his mother's grave, and every week, Hal Sheehan slips an extra lily into the bunch. Mark would love nothing more than to get to know the gentle giant better, but in 1954 Baltimore, a man just doesn't ask another man out. His fears are compounded when a visit the day before Valentine's casts doubts on Hal's intentions. Maybe he really was meant to live a life of secrets. Or maybe he just needs the holiday to discover the best secret of them all.
EXCERPT
...As exhausted as he was at the end of his Friday night shift at the University of Maryland Medical Center, Dr. Mark Vance always found fresh energy by the time he reached Sheehan's Nursery. It didn't matter if the Baltimore streets were slick from melted snow that had frozen overnight, or that the sun was bright and chirpy. He always pulled the door open and set the tiny overhead bell into a ringing frenzy feeling like he could take on the world.
This particular morning, the shop wasn't its normal empty self. From the radio on the narrow counter, Dinah Shore serenaded the two men already waiting for service. Mark took his dutiful place in line behind them, but tipped his head to the side in curiosity to watch the owner wrapping an order of long-stemmed red roses. Another discrepancy from the norm. Though his name was painted in the front window, Ernest Sheehan rarely worked the front of the store, or at least, he never did on Saturday. In the almost eight months Mark had been coming in after work, he'd only seen the man in passing or caught a glimpse of him through the door that led to the rear of the building.
Curiosity turned into alarm. If Mr. Sheehan was manning the counter, where was his son, Hal?
His imagination ran away from him. Possibilities veered from oversleeping, to lying in bed sick, to being crushed by the morning delivery truck. By the time it was his turn, his thudding, dread-filled heart nearly choked him. Hal couldn't be dead. He was too strong, too vital. But in all the Saturdays Mark had been coming to pick up the flowers for his mother's grave, Hal had never once been absent. What could have happened?
"Good morning, Dr. Vance." Mr. Sheehan's smile was broad and friendly, as if they'd shared this weekly ritual together instead of him and Hal. He wasn't nearly as physically imposing as his son, but they shared the same open features, the guileless hazel eyes, the wide mouth. His hands were stained and scarred from his years of gardening, several fingers twisting from early arthritis. Hal's hands would likely do the same at some point in the far future. He was all set to follow in his father's footsteps, to take over the flower shop when the older man finally retired. "Sorry about the wait today."
"It's good to see the shop busy," he replied politely.
"Always busy this time of year."
Mark frowned. "This time of year?"
Mr. Sheehan paused in the middle of pulling out the lilies from the refrigerated cabinet behind the counter. "You know. Valentine's Day tomorrow." He paused. "Don't tell me you forgot about it."
He had, actually, but that was because he'd never had any reason to celebrate the holiday. He shrugged. "Too busy working to notice, I guess."
"Well, I hope for your sake your sweetheart is too busy, too. Otherwise, you'll be spending next Valentine's Day alone." He waggled a gnarled finger in Mark's direction. "Take it from someone who's been married longer than you've been alive."
Though Mark smiled and nodded, he refrained from correcting the assumption.
"Here you go." Mr. Sheehan held out the bouquet of wrapped lilies with a delicate grace that belied his burly stature. "It should be a good day for a visit with your mother. Cold, but at least the sun's out."
"Yeah." But his focus was on the flowers and the six buds peeking out at him from the paper. "Wait. Is that number right?"
With a frown, Mr. Sheehan took the lilies back and counted them, his lips moving with each number. "Half a dozen. Just like always."
"But I usually get seven."
"You pay for six."
"Well, yes, but--"
"Then six is what you get." He took the money Mark had ready, though his jovial mood had lessened. "Hal's a hard worker, but he's not really a thinker, if you get my meaning. I'll have a talk with him about being more careful with his counting from now on."
He hadn't meant to get Hal in trouble, but from the sound of it, his morbid fabrications about what might have happened were unfounded. He took the receipt as calmly as he could manage, then asked in an equally careful tone, "So Hal's all right? I was surprised not to see him when I walked in."
Mr. Sheehan hitched a thumb toward the back of the store. "We've got extra deliveries this morning because of the holiday, so he's busy with all that. Probably better that way. I can't afford all my counts being wrong this week because he can't count to six without taking his gloves off."
Mark's instinct was to defend Hal. After all, someone needed to. He would have expected a father to be the first person to know his son's worth. But then again, Mr. Sheehan knew Hal a lot better than Mark did. All of Mark's interactions with him consisted of five-minute exchanges on Saturday mornings, where the most he'd ever got from Hal was a few sympathetic words strung together in response to whatever nonsense Mark could babble about that day. He was always kind and friendly, with that shy smile that made Mark's stomach flip-flop, but that was it. Maybe he really was as simple as Mr. Sheehan made him out to be.
Mark retreated to the door, catching and holding it open for the middle-aged woman who'd been about to enter. With a small wave back to Mr. Sheehan, he said, "See you next week."
