One step inside the cavernous building reminded him why he normally avoided social gatherings. The noise level alone would have made a deaf man clap his hands over his ears. The music itself wasn’t too bad—or at least what he could hear of it sounded pleasant enough. It was the hundred or so conversations going on at the same time that made his head ache.
A waiter rushed by, balancing a tray filled with flutes of champagne on his shoulder, and Whit quickly stepped out of the way to avoid a collision. Easing back to stand against the wall and out of harm’s way, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked around.
The last time he’d visited the nursery, the greenhouse had looked like…well, a greenhouse, with long wooden tables laden with plants running the length of the room and tangled hoses trailing over the floor. Now the place looked more like one of those fancy solariums he’d seen featured in the home and garden magazines his sisters-in-law were always drooling over—a fete he figured only Macy could pull off with such style.
A huge tree-shaped fountain, carved from native limestone, rose from the center of a grouping of curved buffet tables. Water bubbled up from the tree’s dome and flowed down over intricately carved leaves to tumble into a shallow pool below. Rimmed with vases of fresh-cut flowers that scented the air and strategically placed lighting, the pool and fountain created a spectacular centerpiece for the mouthwatering feast of hors d’oeuvres placed around it.
Above him, miniature lights had been strung along the steel beams that formed the glass roof, giving the ceiling the appearance of a star-filled sky. Urns and pots filled with lush tropical plants occupied every available nook, while tall Norfolk pines stood like sentinels at each of the three doorways. Along the outer walls of the building hung baskets filled with an assortment of flowers and vines, adding yet another splash of color and texture to the space.
Though impressed with Macy’s decorating skills, to truly enjoy it, Whit would have needed a hammock and about two hours alone. For a man who spent the majority of his time in the country, conducting one-sided conversations with horses, the press of people and the noise they created were almost more than he could bear.
Deciding that an evening at home with his conscience didn’t seem so bad after all, he began to ease his way down the wall, craning his neck as he searched for Macy, so he could make an appearance and split. Just as he spotted her, his hip bumped something solid and he made a wild grab to keep the object from falling.
“Hey!” Macy cried. “Careful with the merchandise.”
His smile sheepish, he righted what appeared to be an old garden gate. “Sorry, Mace,” he said, then glanced down at his hands and the rust that covered them. “Uh, you might want to have a talk with your supplier. Looks like he’s selling you inferior products.”
“Are you kidding me? Salvaged iron is the rage! This stuff flies out of the store faster than I can slap a price tag on it.”
Giving her a skeptical look, Whit squatted in front of the gate to examine it more closely. Though old and no longer functional, someone had given it new life by attaching glass jars to the scrolled iron that formed it. Secured by a fine-gauge wire, the jars held lighted votive candles and fresh-cut flowers.
Impressed by the ingenious use of material, Whit pushed his hands against his knees and stood. “Okay,” he conceded. “I have to admit that’s pretty darn clever.”
She lifted a brow. “It can be yours for a price.”
He sputtered a laugh. “And what would I do with a piece of foolishness like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, hiding a smile. “I suppose you could set it up on your patio and wow the ladies you entertain at home.”
“What ladies?” he asked wryly.
“My point exactly,” she said as she looped her arm through his and led him toward the crowd. “You need to get out more. Go places where you can meet single women your age.”
“Aw, Macy,” he complained. “Don’t start with me. You know how I am around women. Especially ones I don’t know.”
“Fine. Then we’ll find a woman you do know for you to talk to.”
He tugged her to a stop and lifted a brow. “I am. I’m talking to you.”
“A single woman,” she clarified.
He did a quick scan of the crowd, then shrugged. “Sorry, but it appears all the women here are either married or engaged.”
Macy snagged the arm of a woman who was passing by. “This one’s not.”
“Whoa,” the woman said, laughing as Macy hauled her back. “What am I not?”
“Married,” Macy replied. “Whit was complaining that every woman here was either married or engaged. I just proved him wrong.”
As the woman turned to look at Whit, resentment knotted in his gut when he discovered that out of all the available women in the room, Macy had chosen Melissa Jacobs to prove her point.
“I should have added widow to that list,” he muttered, then turned on his heel and walked away.
The next morning Whit was in the barn early, cleaning out the stalls. It was a hot, backbreaking job, but it suited his mood just fine as he had some steam to work off.
He couldn’t believe he’d run into Melissa the night before. The odds of seeing her twice in a two-week span, after successfully avoiding her for nearly seven years, had to be high.
But Whit’s luck had never been very good. Not where Melissa was concerned.
“I think you owe me an explanation.”
Startled by the voice, he snapped up his head to find Macy standing in the stall’s open doorway. That she was angry with him was obvious in the hands she held fisted against her hips.
With a frown, he resumed his shoveling. “For what?”
Dropping her hands, she marched toward him. “Don’t you play dumb with me, Whit Tanner. You know very well that you were rude to Melissa last night, and I want to know why.”
“No offense, Macy, but you’re not my mother.”
“A fact you should be grateful for,” she informed him. “If I was, I’d turn you over my knee and give you a spanking you wouldn’t soon forget.”
He snorted a breath. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she warned. “I’m about a hair away from snatching you bald-headed as it is.”
He stood the shovel up and braced an arm over the handle to peer at her. “Do you talk to Rory like that?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I want an explanation, and I’m not leaving until I get one.”
To prove her point, she sat on a bale of hay and folded her arms across her chest. The clencher for Whit, though, was when she pursed her lips and lifted an expectant brow.
Grimacing, he shot the shovel blade beneath a pile of manure and scooped it up, planning to ignore her. He crossed to the wheelbarrow, dumped the manure, then repeated the process four more times. By the time he shot the shovel beneath the fifth pile, her steady gaze was burning a hole in his back and the heavy silence that stretched between them was screaming in his ears.
“Okay!” he said in frustration. “I left because I didn’t want to talk to her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t. Period.” He scooped up manure, then turned to frown at her. “And you might as well go on home and irritate Rory for a while, because that’s the only explanation you’re going to get from me.”
Jutting her chin, she stood.