Roomful of Roses. Diana Palmer

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      Chapter One

      It was the most wonderful kind of spring day—warm after the recent rain, with butterflies gliding around a puddle beside the porch of the weathered old country store in southern Creek County. Camellias were blooming profusely, their pink and red blossoms stark against the deep, shiny green of the leaves that framed their delicate faces. A dusty road led off beside the worn wood building, and a tractor could be heard breaking ground nearby.

      Wynn Ascot left her camera and equipment on the back seat of her Volkswagen and slid out of her yellow sweater before she went up the cracked concrete steps onto the dusty porch and through the screen door. The store smelled of bananas and onions; overhead was a fan that whirred softly amid the homely clutter of groceries. Wynn shook back her long dark hair and lifted its weight as she walked into the store, feeling the heat abate. The swirling blue-patterned cotton skirt was cool enough, but she was wearing a long-sleeved white blouse with it—she hadn’t expected the day to heat up this much! The suede boots were just about as confining as the blouse, making her long legs hotter.

      Mrs. Baker was leaning over the dark wood counter next to a cheese hoop, talking to old Mr. Sanders. But she looked up when she spotted Wynn.

      “Loafing, huh?” the white-haired woman teased.

      Wynn grinned at her, pausing to say hello to the stooped little man talking to Mrs. Baker. “Well, can I help it that it’s spring?” she laughed. “This is no day to be stuck inside slaving over a typewriter. You won’t tell on me, will you?” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

      The older woman pursed her lips. “You do a story about my boy Henry and I’ll keep your guilty secret,” she promised.

      “What did Henry do?”

      “He caught a fifteen-pound bass this morning over at James Lewis’ pond,” Mrs. Baker said proudly.

      “You tell him to bring it by my office about two o’clock today and I’ll get a picture of it for the paper,” Wynn agreed. “Now, how about a soda? I’m parched!”

      “What was it this time?” Mr. Sanders asked with a smile, leaning heavily on his cane. “A fire? A wreck?”

      “Water,” Wynn corrected, pausing long enough to take the icy soft drink from Mrs. Baker and toss down a swallow before she continued. “John Darrow had the soil-conservation people help him design and build a pond on his farm to store water in case of drought.”

      “Mr. Ed says the early rain means we probably will have a drought this summer,” Mr. Sanders agreed, quoting his next-door neighbor, a farmer of eighty-two whose claim to fame was that he was more accurate than any south Georgia weatherman.

      Wynn took another long sip from the soft drink before she replied, “I hope he’s wrong.” She grinned at the wrinkled old man. “Now, there’s a story. I think I’ll go take his picture and get him to predict the rest of the summer.”

      “He’d love that,” Mrs. Baker said, and her blue eyes looked young for a minute. “He’s got grandkids in Atlanta. He could send them all a copy.”

      “I’ll put it down for first thing tomorrow.” With a sigh, Wynn sank down beside the wooden fruit bin into a comfortably swaybacked cane-bottom straight chair. “Just think. I could be sitting in a normal office working a lazy eight-hour day, and nobody would ever call me at night to ask how much a subscription was or how to get a picture in the paper.”

      “And you’d hate it,” the older woman laughed. She lifted her face to the ceiling fan with a sigh. “Funny how these fans are just coming back into style. This one’s been here since I was a young woman.”

      “I remember sitting here on lazy Fridays in the summer with Granddaddy, just after the fish truck came up from Pensacola,” Wynn recalled. “Granddaddy would buy oysters and cook them on a wood stove while my grandmother fussed and swore that I’d burn myself up trying to help him. Those were good days.”

      Mrs. Baker leaned on the counter. “How’s Katy Maude?” she asked.

      “Aunt СКАЧАТЬ