Season Of Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

God for that,” Andrew had muttered. The pain in his stomach had become sharper, more concentrated. And then his chest had felt tight. He could tell that something was wrong with his heart. Could he be having a heart attack?

      Not when I’m only thirty-four years old.

      Emma had said, “Here’s a folded tablecloth. I’m going to put in under your head.”

      “What a good idea,” Andrew had replied, softly. Despite the aches in his stomach and his chest, he’d begun to feel drowsy. Why not take a little nap? He’d had a long day, starting with a seven-hour drive from Asheville…then he’d studied the church windows…and then all the talking at the tea party…

      Returning to the present, Andrew found the bed remote control and worked the button that lifted him to a sitting position. “I don’t even remember the trip in the ambulance.”

      “You were unconscious when we strapped you to the gurney.” Sharon’s face was filled with anxiety again. “Oleander toxin causes a variety of heart rhythm problems—all of them serious.”

      He tried to assess the beating of his heart. The gentle throb inside him seemed normal, although something Sharon had said kept nudging at his thoughts.

      “Look…I don’t have any enemies in Glory—or in Asheville, for that matter. I can’t get my head around the idea that someone poisoned me on purpose.”

      “The police confirmed it.”

      “The police? So it’s an official investigation?”

      “That’s right. They consider your poisoning attempted murder.” She tossed her head unhappily. “In fact, a special agent named Keefe wants to talk to you. I told him you’d be ready to be interviewed later this afternoon.”

      “Sheesh!”

      “And a dozen reporters have called the hospital asking about you. By evening, your story will be front-page news from coast to coast.” She looked faintly amused. “Who can blame them? It’s not often that a famous stained-glass guru is poisoned by a toxic Scottish dessert during afternoon tea at a small-town bed-and-breakfast.”

      “Whoa! Who says I’m famous?”

      “The Internet.” She held up a wireless laptop computer. “Last night while I was waiting for the antitoxin we gave you to do its thing, I accessed a search engine and entered your name.”

      “Don’t believe everything you find on the Net.”

      “I discovered that Glory Community Church imported the world’s foremost expert on painted stained-glass windows. We knew that you’re the great-great-great-grandson of James Ballantine of Edinburgh, the man who built our windows. But we didn’t know that you’re celebrated on four continents.”

      “In highly limited circles.” He let himself grin. “But world expert or not, I have no interest in talking to reporters.”

      “Bless you! The Scottish Captain doesn’t deserve a flood of negative publicity merely because Emma Neilson did a good deed and hosted a tea party.”

      “Talking about good deeds…I need to get back to work. I have a presentation to prepare. I’m scheduled to speak to the elders of the Church tomorrow evening.” He laughed. “Well, you know that. You sent me the invitation.”

      “If you take it easy today,” she said, “I’ll do my best to get you released tomorrow.”

      “I’m feeling fine.”

      “You look fine, too. But five hours ago, you were sleeping in our emergency room—and twelve hours ago, we had you listed in critical condition.”

      “And so, I’m stuck here in bed until tomorrow morning?”

      “Until we’re sure that your heart rhythm is back to normal.” She swung her index finger to and fro like a metronome. “I’ll keep you company for a while.”

      Andrew saw something blossom in Sharon’s eyes that he tried to gauge. Was it…enthusiasm? Did she enjoy spending time with him? He felt a ripple of concern. He’d never been good at reading women’s faces. Her “enthusiasm” might be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, or maybe her routine attempt to come across as polite and professional.

      They had spoken for a long time at the tea party. He must have liked her then…he certainly liked her now. But what had they talked about? He remembered only snips and scraps of their conversation. They were both single. They both enjoyed skiing. And both bicycled from their homes to their workplaces. Not much to go on. Worst of all, he didn’t recall her body language or the other non-verbal cues that signaled her thoughts about him.

      “What else did you learn about me on the Internet?”

      Andrew squirmed at the clumsiness of his own words. You sound like an egotistical clod. Ask about her.

      Before he could undo the damage, she said, “I learned that we have something in common.”

      She reached into her pocket and brought out a cell phone that was also a personal-digital assistant. She pressed a few buttons. A photograph of a small white dog appeared on the screen.

      “Meet Heather Pickard.”

      “You have a Scottish Terrier, too?”

      “Heather is three years old. She isn’t a show dog, like your Scottie.”

      “You’ve heard about MacTavish? Well, he’s retired from the show ring.” He looked around for the telephone. “I have dozens of photos in my laptop. If I can get someone to retrieve it from the Captain, I’ll dazzle you with Mac’s portfolio.”

      Sharon pulled a face. “Nice try. But no laptops or cell phones until tomorrow. You’ll have to make do with conversation today.”

      “In that case, let me ask you a question. You know how to cook Scottish desserts, you have a Scottish Terrier, and you live in Glory, North Carolina, a town founded by Scots. I see a pattern developing. Am I right?”

      “It’s true that I like Scottish things…” She smiled then added, “All except plaid.”

      “Me, too—but I can explain my Scotophilia. It’s in my blood. What’s your excuse?”

      She began to laugh. “You used the wrong word. Scotophilia is a medical term that means a preference for darkness or night. You don’t seem the type of person who avoids the light.”

      “Scotophilia is also a fondness for Scotland and the Scots. I found the definition on the Internet.”

      She laughed louder.

      “Anyway,” he said. I’m a Scotophile because my grandparents moved from Scotland to North Carolina after WWII.”

      She stopped laughing long enough to say, “As a matter of fact, so did my grandparents. The Pickards hail from Glasgow.”

      “I can’t believe that Pickard is a Scottish name. It sounds French.”

      “Our Scottish branch isn’t as large as the Ballantine Clan, but ‘men of Picardy’ have lived in Scotland for hundreds of years.”

      Andrew forced himself to look at the small Christmas wreath on the wall above Sharon’s head and count the four gold angels and nine silvery stars. From what he’d seen, the hospital had been restrained in putting up Christmas decorations. Still, thanks to the holiday season, he could gaze at something other than Sharon’s lovely face.

      Don’t say what you want to say.

      He ached to tell Sharon that that she looked her most lovely when she laughed—but that would probably make her laugh at him. Even if it didn’t, why start something that would only lead to disappointment. Some guys weren’t meant for long-term relationships. You, for example. You’ve proven that enough times to recognize the truth.

      Help them restore the church