A White Rose Read online

  Tiffany answered the phone then, startling Dakota from her reverie. They spoke briefly, cheerfully, and arranged to meet downtown just after nine.

  As she hung up, Jason glanced her way and she took that as an invite to pay him a visit.

  “Would you like another coffee?” she asked as she approached, meeting his gaze with what she knew was a lovely grin. “Or, maybe something cold? I have iced tea—”

  “I'm fine, thanks,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, wow—it's looking beautiful,” she gushed, undeterred; moving close to him and peering over his shoulder. “I just love it!”

  He grinned, moving a step away from her. “Glad you like it. It sure is a stunning garden.” He glanced over at an eight-by-ten photograph she'd supplied him with. “Did you take this picture yourself?” he asked, picking it up off the step ladder. “Is it a local garden?”

  It was local. In fact, it was a garden she'd designed, planted and maintained herself. But she didn't really want to tell him that—she liked to keep her personal life private. She seldom told a man her occupation, hobbies or passions. It was much more alluring to be mysterious and coy.

  “Yes, it's local,” she said. “A friend of mine's.”

  He nodded but didn't offer further conversation.

  “Do you club?”

  He lowered his paintbrush and looked at her. “Club?” He shook his head decidedly. “No, can't say that I do.” An impersonal smile.

  She gave a nod, trying not to frown. An idea came to mind. “You must do coffee.”

  He laughed. “Yes, I have to admit, I do do coffee from time to time.”

  She cocked her head. “There's this cute little cafe down on Dunlop Street, 'Casa Cappucino.' Maybe we could—”

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I—don't think so.” His eyes seemed sorry, as though he felt bad for turning her down… without explanation.

  She put a hand on her slender hip and stepped backward demurely as though her tender feelings had been hurt. “Is there… any particular reason why not?” She smoothed a strand of hair away from her face and blinked at him.

  He set down his brush and turned to face her. “Can I be frank with you?”

  “Of course,” she said, fearing what his next words would be. This wasn't going down the way she'd planned.

  A handful of seconds passed. “I'm not… looking for a relationship with anyone right now,” he said, knitting his brow.

  That was being frank? No, he must've wanted to say something else but had changed his mind at the last second. “Not even one cup?” she pressed. “Where's the harm in that?”

  He smiled but it seemed forced. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't think… we have the same, uh,”—he cleared his throat—“intentions, in mind.” Color rose in his cheeks and he looked away.

  Dakota gawked at him, parting her lips and exaggerating a look of shock. “Why, Mr. Sinclair! Just what kind of woman do you think I am?”

  He laughed then, setting down his paintbrush. “Hey,”—he lifted both hands, palms outward—“you're backing me into a corner here. I'm sorry to turn you down, but like I said… I'm not looking for a relationship right now.”

  “So—you're just going to assume that my intentions are to woo you.” She tried to look modestly insulted. “I ask a nice man to go for a latte sometime, and he takes ten leaps and bounds and assumes I want to marry him next week.”

  He took on a pained look. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

  She waved a friendly hand at him and smiled. “I'm just playin'.”

  He seemed relieved then and she chose that moment to turn and leave the room. “Like I said before,” she sang out over her shoulder, “if you need anything at all, just gimme a holler out back.”

  Dakota waited until she was back outside before she let her face crumple into a disenchanted frown. She huffed like a grumpy child and folded her arms across her chest, leaning back in her chair and squinting up at the blazing blue, July sky. If Jason wouldn't spend time with her away from his work, how could she possibly progress to step two?

  Chapter 3

  At nine thirty that night, Dakota found Tiffany standing at a busy bar counter, leaning forward over the counter; her tight miniskirted behind and well-defined legs drawing the eye of more than one man nearby. Dakota slipped up onto a stool next to her and gave Tiffany a sharp pat on the backside.

  Tiffany startled and straightened considerably. When she realized it was only Dakota, her face melted into a grin and she slipped up onto a stool herself. “Jerk—” she shouted over the thumping dance music, smirking.

  Dakota laughed and turned to the bartender for a drink.

  Tiffany's professionally-straightened brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail and giant hoops hung from her ears. Stirring the teenie straw in her glass, she leaned in close to Dakota and shouted over the din. “Remember Michel from last week—the hot college boy with those killer brown eyes?”

  Dakota nodded, unable to hold back an eager grin.

  “He's here again tonight! I just saw him a few minutes ago wandering around.” A wink. “You guys seemed to really hit it off last week.”

  She nodded, remembering. “Do we have to fight over him though?”

  Tiffany shook her head, ponytail swinging back and forth. Her eyes twinkled beneath swooping fake lashes. “Sweety, how many times do I have to tell you?” She lowered her voice. “I like black guys. Got my eye on that cutie four seats down.” She cast a glance over her shoulder and Dakota followed her gaze. Sure enough, a well-built, African American was drinking a beer and chatting with friends. “Michel's a catch,” Tiffany was saying, raising her voice again, “but he's not my type.” She winked once more. “He's all yours, babe!”

  Dakota took a long pull from her drink, finishing it off and plunking it back down on the counter. She glanced around the room. “Remember where you saw him last?”

  A nod. “Mm-hmm.” She pointed Dakota in his direction and they promptly parted company. If neither of them were successful in their boy scout that night, they would regroup later to share in their frustrations.

  It didn't take long to find Michel. He was sitting at a table with three other guys and two girls.

  His eyes lit with recognition as she approached. “Dakota,” he called out, motioning her toward his table. With a sweet smile, she sauntered up to him and dropped down on his lap, not caring in the least about the watching eyes of his party. Laughing, he kissed her lips and introduced her to his friends.

  Within half an hour later, they had a private booth together.

  Dakota had first met Michel on the dance floor the previous Saturday and after a few sensual dances, had shared a couple drinks with him and exchanged small talk. Her hopes had been higher concerning Jason last week, so she'd ended up calling it a night around 1:00 a.m. without anything more than a steamy kiss. But after Jason's rejection this morning and the extremely boring afternoon that ensued, she had to admit she was thrilled to meet Michel's acquaintance for a second time. He might be worth pursuing after all. In the amount of time it would take to win over Jason, she could have plenty of fun with Michel, and neither man would be the wiser.

  Michel was a university senior who was studying… well, she couldn't remember what he was studying. He'd told her several times but she didn't care enough to pay attention to his actual words. It was much more fun to gaze at his lips—

  “Can I buy you another drink?” he was asking now, breaking her train of thought.

  Dakota spread her mouth in what she knew was a beautiful smile and gazed deeply into his eyes. “Sure, why not?”

  He cracked a sideways grin, nodding his pleasure.

  The more she drank, the more fun this was going to be. There was something about alcohol buzzing through your limbs and belly that had a way of heightening just the right senses. And she knew exactly how much she could drink while still avoiding a hangover. The cutoff point was usually the same point that she left the bar and brought
the man home. It was a smoother transition that way.

  ***

  Fumbling, Dakota pulled her keys from her purse and slipped them into her front doorknob, all the while maintaining a clumsy smooch with Michel who seemed intent on choking her with his tongue. From the moment they'd stumbled out of the cab, he'd yanked her into his arms and pinned her up against his body, making the trek to the front door difficult but enticing.

  Once indoors, she pulled him up the carpeted stairs and into her bedroom on the second floor, pushing him away only long enough to snap on a soft lamp. When she was wrapped up in his greedy arms again, she tilted her head back and caught his short dark hair in her hands as he bit her lips. He threw her down on the bed and kicked off his shoes. Her lips smarted as he crawled on top and resumed kissing her.

  Dakota's ears hummed and her heart pounded out of control, throbbing in her temples and in her chest. She loved this high, this rush.

  Her flesh was her master and she saw no reason to deny it.

  ***

  Two hours later, she was soaking in a candle-lit bubble bath, alone and exhausted. Michel had taken his leave after a short period of “after sex cuddling” which had grown boring much too quickly. She didn't love or cherish him and thus had no desire to hold him close. She hadn't given him her phone number either, but merely promised to call him soon. He'd been a good lay and if needed, she would not hesitate to look him up again next weekend.

  She never allowed a man to spend the whole night, not unless the night was nearly over by the time they first hit the bed. There was something unsettling about waking up beside a strange man once the high had worn off. The morning sunshine seemed harsh at such times—sweeping away all the steamy, sensual corners of the night and making everything seem almost dirty and crude in the light of day. She hated that gritty feeling and tried to avoid it.

  A long soak in the tub had become a ritual for her over the years. She would never call it a cleansing ritual, but in essence, that's exactly what it was: She refused to fall asleep disheveled and “abandoned.” A bath had a way of refreshing her and numbing her senses so that she could simply crawl into bed, switch off the light and slip away into never-never land.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday morning yawned with a blanched sky and a trickle of rain. Dakota slept till ten before forcing herself to get up. The house was drab without sunshine and she felt cooped up when she couldn't sit outside over breakfast.

  Slipping on a jade satin housecoat, she made her way downstairs and started a pot of coffee. The tiled kitchen floor was chilly under her feet and she shivered. Sundays were the worst day of the week. She felt tired and listless on Sundays, sometimes even sad. Morose. For years she had willed the despondency away, but it only seemed to grow with time.

  After changing into shorts and a cotton tee, she went outside, locked the house, and climbed into her black Ford Explorer. She was headed for the town of Shanty Bay, a small lakeside community fifteen minutes north of Barrie, Ontario. She'd grown up there. Her old farmhouse had since been torn down, but her childhood neighbor, Clarice Beaumont, still lived in the yellow clapboard house next door. She made a point of visiting Clarice at least twice a month and usually on Sundays. The woman was like a Grandmother to her and Dakota loved her dearly.

  A wink of sunshine was peaking through the clouds by the time she pulled into Clarice's driveway and parked the SUV. The lawn was freshly mowed—thanks to the turf company Clarice hired every summer to tend to the grass—and clusters of pink geraniums, yellow lilies and cedar shrubs edged the paved driveway. Tulip leaves and white petunias encircled the ancient elm tree that stood massive in the center of the front yard; its small teardrop leaves stretching out high and wide, shading the grass, the driveway, and part of the wooded street.

  Clarice Beaumont was in her early seventies now and crippled with arthritis in her ankles and knees. She could still maintain her household, cook, clean and do laundry, but yard work was out of the question. If she tried to get down on her knees, she'd suffer pain and swelling for weeks afterward.

  Dakota took care of the gardening. It was the least she could do to thank the elderly woman for all those years she'd shown her kindness. As a latch-key kid, Dakota was used to coming home to an empty house every day after school. From three-thirty in the afternoon to six, she was completely alone: from the age of eight until the day she moved out at nineteen. Clarice had noticed the little girl next door and had eventually invited her in for milk and homemade cookies. It quickly became a daily ritual. Dakota took to the widow right away and they'd formed a close bond over the years that followed.

  In her pre-arthritic days, Clarice had planted climbing vines and rose bushes along the front porch of her house, as well as sedges and ivy around a small koi pond in her backyard. Gardening was her hobby and Dakota had been fascinated with it from day one. And Clarice, the intuitive woman that she was, had picked up on the young girl's interest and had taught her everything she knew about flowers and gardening. Dakota had been an apt pupil and it seemed only natural that when Clarice could no longer maintain her flowers because of her swollen knees, Dakota had taken over and kept them alive. Even while attending university in Toronto, an hour and a half's drive south of Barrie, she had continued to travel back to Clarice's home each month to keep up the flowers—and to plant more. She had continued to do so after purchasing a flower shop in Barrie as well, and she intended to continue doing so for as long as the elderly woman lived there.

  Clarice was already opening her front door as Dakota ascended the shallow porch steps. A pleased smile filled the woman's narrow, aged face; her milky-blue eyes bright and happy. A floured apron suggested she'd just come from the kitchen.

  “Rose, it's good to see you!” She stepped backward to let Dakota inside.

  “It's Dakota, Clarice—call me Dakota.”

  Clarice waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever's the matter with Rose? I always thought it was such a pretty name. You know I'm never going to give it up.”

  Dakota smiled and followed the elderly woman indoors, swallowing down a hint of irritation. “Do I have to complain about this every week?” She let out a laugh. “You're the only person who calls me that anymore.”

  A curt nod and a raised eyebrow. “Yes, and every year that goes by, I see less and less of the Rose I once knew.” Clarice was sometimes blunt but Dakota loved her enough to let such comments slide. Still, the comment bit; the memory of her former name and the naïve little girl it represented, was vexing.

  “So, how's your mother?” Clarice asked pleasantly as she sat Dakota down at a red and white checkered table in the kitchen. A wad of cream-colored dough sat in its floured center. “I'm making cinnamon buns,” she explained as she rinsed her hands in the sink and returned to kneading the dough.

  “Haven't seen Mom in a couple weeks,” she answered absently, glancing about the tidy room. “I might go see her next week.”

  Clarice nodded. “Mm-hmm. Well, give her my regards when you do.” She flattened out the dough and covered it with a cinnamon-raisin spread. Then, rolling it up like a tube, she cut it into one-inch portions. After retrieving a baking sheet from the counter, she laid out the buns side by side, slipped the tray into the oven, and rinsed her hands in the sink.

  “There,” she said, satisfaction in her tone.

  “Let me help,” Dakota urged, snapping out of a daydream. She pushed her chair back, rising. “Sit down already!”—This with a laugh. “I'll wash the dishes.”

  Clarice shook her head. “I am more than happy to do it. Keeps me nimble.” She set an egg timer for the buns and filled a kettle with water.“I'm not an invalid yet, you know.” She proceeded to tidy up the table and put the baking dishes in the sink; a firm yet playful glance warning Dakota to stay put. Nevertheless, Dakota went to the cupboards and grabbed the milk, sugar, mugs, and spoons. Pulling a box of tea bags from the cupboard, she prepared a sterling silver tea pot and set it down next to the stove.

&nb
sp; “You never did learn to do what you're told,” Clarice said with a chuckle.

  Dakota grinned and gave the old woman a side hug before tackling the dishes in the sink. She smelled like lilacs and baby powder. Her chin-length hair was coiffed and silky, tucked behind her ears. “Easy to maintain,” she'd once said. “My days of long, blond curls are history. The boys used to swoon over my golden hair, you know. You might say I was the prettiest girl in town. Used to get milk jugs for free with nothing more than a bat of the eye!” This was of course said with a playful wink.

  Dakota had seen photos of Clarice when she was young and she wouldn't say that Clarice had been beautiful, though certainly charming in her own way. She was a lean woman with a small pointed nose, solid jawline and too narrow of a waist. Her hair had actually been dark brown before it grayed, and never longer than shoulder length. No, she hadn't been a looker, but she did have that sort of inner quality that filled her features with tranquility.

  Dakota poured two cups of tea and they chatted for awhile about their day-to-day lives while the mouth-watering scent of sugar and spice filled the room. When the egg timer rang, Clarice pulled the golden buns from the oven and whipped up a bowl of icing. After the buns had cooled sufficiently, Dakota took over for Clarice and dribbled a touch of white swirl over each one. She reached for a warm bun and took an unladylike bite, letting the icing and cinnamon melt on her tongue as she dipped her head back.

  “Amazing,” she said, savoring the fluffy mouthful of dough as she spoke. “You seriously need to open a bakery.”

  Clarice smiled with pleasure. “I made them just for you,” she said, eyes bright. “My daughter's on a diet and won't touch 'em. And if I made these just for myself, I'd lose my svelte figure.” She grinned and helped herself to a bun.