He let a few beats pass. “Are you ever going to read my letters?”

Part of her wanted to say yes—but fear held her back.

“I don’t know.”

His shoulders slumped, and he pulled his hands from his pockets, keys gripped in his fingers. “I hope you do. They may not be articulate, but they’re from the heart. In the meantime, I’m here if you need help during your recovery—or with anything else.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you for the flowers.”

There was nothing left to say. Yet he remained where he was, gaze locked with hers, longing—and love—radiating from him.

She steeled herself against both. Steve had brought this on himself, and no matter what pretty prose he’d written in his cards, it wouldn’t bring Jonathan back—or restore the life she’d once had.

At last he turned away, crossed the room, and let himself out, the apartment silent except for the quiet click of the door behind him.

Legs shaky, Beth maneuvered herself over to the couch and sat beside the overflowing vase. Touched one of the soft petals. Inhaled the fresh scent of the hydrangea. Drank in the beauty of the delicate sprays of delphinium.

The bouquet had been a thoughtful gesture, and the flowers were beautiful, each blossom perfect.

But they wouldn’t last. In a few days, they’d begin to wither and die—as her feelings had for Steve.

Or so she’d told herself.

Yet after hearing Christi’s story today . . . after digging out the box of cards and letters from the dark recesses of her closet . . . after looking into Steve’s regret-filled eyes and feeling his remorse and sorrow . . . was that true?

Or had her love for him simply been lying dormant beneath her anger, much as flowers like these died back during the harsh winter but rebounded in spring at the first touch of warmth?

His letters—and her reaction to them—could provide a clue.

But did she have the courage to let go of her insulating anger and open her heart to Steve’s message—and the possibility of a new beginning?

18

This could be a mistake.

From behind the counter, Christi flicked a glance toward the door of Eye of the Beholder. Rubbed her palms down her slacks. Checked her watch.

It wasn’t too late to call Marci, tell her not to bother stopping by on her lunch hour.

Except she wanted to help. Especially after hearing the collective worry of business owners at the chamber of commerce meeting, seeing Beth’s distress Sunday about the impact of declining tourism on her shop, and staying up late to flesh out the idea that had come to her during the meeting.

Her enthusiasm, however, may have warped her perspective about the practicality of what she’d intended to propose.

Perhaps she should think it through a bit more.