Reflections of Yesterday by Debbie Macomber

outgrown.
    “You’re as jumpy as a bullfrog today,” Donna complained early in the afternoon. “What’s the matter with you?”
    “Nothing,” she lied. As she spoke the phone pealed. Something inside her, an innate alarm system, warned her even before she picked up the receiver that it was Simon.
    “Clay Pots.”
    Simon chuckled. “Now, where did you ever come up with a name like that?”
    “Hello, Simon.” She knew she sounded stiff and unnatural, but she couldn’t help it. She realized that turning her back to Donna would only arouse her employee’s suspicions. Her hand tightened around the receiver until the pressure pinched her ear.
    “Hello, Angie. Is this a busy time? Should I phone back later?”
    Briefly, she toyed with the idea of delaying this conversation. Even a few hours would help her compose her thoughts.
    “Angie?”
    “No … no, this is as good a time as any.”
    “I want to see you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left. There’s so much we left unsaid, and more that needs to be made right.”
    Angie closed her eyes and measured her words carefully. “Simon, listen to me. What happened is in the past. We can’t resurrect that now.”
    “Why not?” he argued. “I love you.”
    “You love a memory. I’m not a sweet, naïve teenager anymore. I can’t go back to being seventeen.”
    “Me neither, but I’m anxious to meet the woman you’ve become.” His voice went low and seductive, as if he’d put his hand over the mouthpiece so as not to be overheard. “I’m eager to show you the man I am now.”
    Angie’s heart slammed to her knees. Her throat went dry and she discovered she couldn’tspeak.
    The bell over the door chimed, indicating that someone had entered the shop. Angie was so grateful she could have cried. “I’ve got to go, a customer just came in.”
    “Angie, listen, I’ll phone you later.”
    “Simon, don’t. Please, don’t.” Angry with herself for being so weak, she didn’t wait for his farewell, and replaced the receiver. With a forced smile, she turned toward the deliveryman who was approaching the counter.
    Simon stared at the auditor’s report on his desk, knowing he couldn’t concentrate on it when thoughts of Angie dominated his mind. His phone conversation with her earlier had been awkward. He should be in Charleston, not Groves Point. He needed to talk to her face-to-face and not try to carry on a serious conversation with customers walking in and out of her shop every few minutes. But with his father away from the bank so much of the time now, Simon couldn’t pick up and leave. He rubbed a hand across his eyes to ease the growing pain that throbbed at his temple. The walls seemed to close in around him and he stood, jerking his suit coat from the back of his chair.
    “Mrs. Wilson, I’ll be back in an hour,” he announced to his assistant on his way out the door.
    “But Mr. C-Canfield …” she stuttered. “What should I do about your two-o’clock appointment?”
    Irritation furrowed his brows. “Reschedule it,” he snapped, then stalked from the room before she could comment further.
    Georgia Canfield was in the backyard, pruning her rosebushes. A straw hat graced her silver head and was secured under her chin by a brightly colored scarf. Spotless white gloves hid her veined hands. At a glance, his mother looked like an aged southern belle of the era of the War Between the States.
    “Hello, Mother.”
    “Simon.” She spoke without turning. “I wondered how long it would take you to come.”
    “Then you know why.”
    Turning, she set the wicker basket filled with blossoms on the wrought-iron table. “Sitdown and I’ll ring for coffee.”
    Without question, Simon did as requested. The urge to hurl accusations at his mother seared his mind, and he clenched his fists.
    The maid quietly delivered a tray with two cups of coffee. Resolutely, Simon glanced away, counting the interminable seconds before he could speak.