"She loves me, NOT!" Thorne Marshall's voice boomed out across the room. A handful of petals drifted from his hand to the counter, and he looked up in guilty surprise. Good grief, he'd spoken aloud.

He waited to see if a head poked out from the curtained back room, but to his relief, none did. He brushed the crushed flowers into the wastebasket. He'd have to stop tearing the stock to bits. What was this obsession to pluck petals from daisies? Why couldn't he get Fleur out of his mind? He was acting like a moonstruck adolescent pining over a first failed romance.

Now that he'd passed into the shady side of thirty, it was time for him to get a grip and accept the fact that Thorne and Fleur were finished; history; gone to seed. Thorne's Country Charm would survive with one less flower, and so would he. The phone rang.

"Country Charm," he answered in a gruff voice.

"That didn't sound very charming. You'll scare off all the customers," said the voice on the other end.

"I'm not very charming this morning, Mother," Thorne replied. "You should be here by now, taking the phone orders yourself. Are you ill?"

"Of course not, darling," his mother purred. "Vincent was able to bump me in for an early cut before my doctor's appointment. I simply couldn't face the day looking like a hag."

"No one would see you on the phone."

"The walk-in customers would. I'll be there right after I leave the doctor's office."

"You're supposed to get a clean bill of health this morning?" Thorne asked.

"That's the plan," she replied.

"Good, then let's talk about your taking back the management of this place so I can get a real job."

"Good heavens, why? In the six months since my heart attack, you've increased sales by nearly 30%."

Thorne knew better than to try convincing his mother of anything in a phone conversation. He'd get her eyeball to eyeball and spell out just how things were going to be.

"We'll talk later," he said. "What time can I expect you?"

"Very sensible, dear. I'll be there by lunchtime."

Thorne controlled his impulse to hurl the phone across the room and replaced the receiver. He picked up the fistful of orders he already taken this morning. It was the week before Mother's day and the second busiest time of the year for the store.

Mother's day, bah! Mentally he cursed his mother for her romantic illusions that had saddled him with the name that had become a self-fulfilling prophesy. How could it have been otherwise when from his childhood, he'd constantly heard of her dearest wish, never met, to be a floral designer. He swore if he'd have been a girl, she'd have christened him "Blossum."

He shuddered. In college psych class, he'd learned of a guy named Paine who'd become a dentist, and the unfortunate soul called Ima Pigge who'd topped out at 450 pounds. His no-nonsense personality had led him to a career as an accountant where he had nothing whatsoever to do with flowers.

But after his parent's divorce, his mother had used her settlement to fund her long-held dream of opening a flower business. Everything had been fine until six months ago, when she had had a heart attack and he'd agreed to help run the shop during her recuperation. Thorne had been all thumbs when it came to arranging the flowers, but he had a knack for balancing the books.

His job with an accounting firm hadn't been high-powered, and his mother's pleas had been impossible for him to refuse. Literally from the day he took over the shop, he'd been a goner. One look at Fleur LaHaye, the voluptuous floral designer who was in her second week of employment, and his suppressed lust drive was permanently engaged.

Fleur had been coy; not only was she a magician with flowers and ferns, but she was a master manipulator of affairs of the heart as well. By the time his mother was well enough to return to the shop part time, Fleur had reeled in his naive heart. Thorne was deeply ensnared in a perfumed web and foolishly planning forever with his own little flower. Fleur had wanted to wed immediately, but he, ever practical, had wanted everything to be just right. He needed to make plans and follow them to the letter. But Fate had intervened. Suddenly, Fleur the creative materialist had fallen madly in love with Michael, the new UPS man. No matter that Thorne's prospects were much better, Fleur had succumbed to the sort of inexplicable attraction that makes fools out of wise men. Fleur wanted now, not later. And like an ice cube in a warm drink, Fleur had melted out of his life - and the job - without a lingering ripple.

That had been nearly three months ago, but to his wounded ego, it seemed only yesterday. Now he was determined that once his mother was well enough to return to full-time management of the shop, he would find a job far from flowers. Maybe he would even develop an allergy to flowers. But today was today. Mother's day wasn't until Sunday, but the orders came all week long.

The jangle of the bell over the door made him look up. By the clock on the wall, it was 7:47 a.m., exactly. For the sixth Monday in a row at just after 7:45, he was face to face with the one woman, since Fleur, that made him take a second glance. He watched as she strolled briskly to the cooler, and selected a single Peace rose. With a smile she brought it to him for wrapping and handed him a five dollar bill.

"Good morning," he said, performing the familiar ritual of giving her change. Her smile was as bright as the sunshine and as mysterious as the sphinx. A shaft of sunlight from the front window made warm sherry highlights in her hair, and her eyes sparkled like pools of dark rum.

"Good morning," she replied. Then, like half a dozen other Mondays, she collected her purchase and left without another word.

Thorne's throat struggled to release the words that his curious mind had formulated in response, but he watched helplessly as she disappeared out the door before he could speak. Thorne made a spur of the moment decision as he looked up to see Fred, his assistant from the back poised in the doorway, wiping his hands on his green apron.

"All done? Great!" Thorne handed over the stack of phone orders. "Here are the new ones. You'll have to mind the front for a few minutes. I'll be right back.

Thorne tore off his own apron and dashed out the front door. He hoped she'd still be in sight, and his luck held. Her shimmering hair was aglow, a block away. As he sprinted off, his internal censor began a dialogue. "You're off your bean, old man. Fleur dumps you, so there you go, chasing butterflies."

Thorne silenced the voice in his head. He only knew that his past lack of action had cost him the opportunity for happiness. This time he would act first and plan later. But just before he caught up to the mysterious lady, she turned into an arched gateway. Thorne stopped abruptly just inside the entrance to the cemetery behind the church located just down the street from the shop. Closing the gate quietly behind him, Thorne followed her down the graveled path and paused behind a willow tree to watch her approach a limestone-front vault. From her bag she pulled a little bottle of water, which she tipped into a small vase attached to the front of a nearby vault.

She held the rose to her face, took a deep breath of its fragrance, and standing on tiptoes, placed it in the vase. For a moment she lay her hand on the metal plaque that covered the vault, and then walked briskly away.

Thorne waited until she had turned the corner before going over to view the inscription. "Myrtle Lang, beloved Mother," it read. Now he knew where she took the rose each Monday morning, but he was no closer to knowing her identity, unless of course she was Miss Lang, faithful daughter of Myrtle.

Suddenly, Thorne felt foolish. What nonsense to trail a stranger about her personal business. He turned to trace his steps to the entrance. But just before he reached the gate, he found himself face to face with the young woman. She was seated on a bench, seemed lost in thought, and did not even glance his way as he passed by.

"The invisible Man," the internal censor mocked. "She doesn't know you without your apron, or is it apron strings?" Thorne didn't answer the voice inside his head. He wouldn't have known how to reply. He returned to the store.

The rest of the morning left him little opportunity to dwell on his mystery woman, for the phone and counter orders were frequent. By the time his mother appeared at noon straight up, he was ready for a reprieve. The minute she stepped behind the counter, he removed his apron and donned his sports coat. He watched as she tucked her trim figure into another apron. She looked healthy enough, and she smiled at him and said, "All ready, dear. Run along to your lunch."

"Didn't you pack a lunch for your little boy?" Thorne grumped a reply.

"Tsk, tsk," she replied, coming over to smooth his collar and rearrange his tie. She plucked a carnation from a bowl of water, broke the stem and tucked it into his jacket lapel, silencing his protest with her finger against his lip.

"We are cranky today," she said. "Go on, now. You'll feel better after a nice salad."

"I'm having a beer, mother, and a big fat burger."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself, dear. You're old enough to know what your body needs."

"I'm old enough to know what I need, period. What did Dr. Morris tell you?"

"You are behind the times. Dr. Morris retired at the end of April."

"Don't change the subject. Are you able to return to the shop full-time or not?

"I'm fine, for now."

Her avoidance of a straight answer annoyed him. "OK, I'll bite. What does the qualifying 'now' mean?"

"My new cardiologist thinks I should have a few more tests down the road. Nothing serious, but Dr. Morris was nearly eighty. The younger generation has different ideas."

"You bet we do. Sounds like the round-around to me. I just can't decide which of you is giving it to me."

"I'll be back full-time on Monday," his mother answered. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Oh, no, I'm not going to be responsible for forcing you back too early," Thorne insisted. "Maybe I should meet with the new Doc and get the low-down."

"Maybe later, dear. Besides, I won't be having the tests right away. It isn't urgent. The Doctor's going to be pretty busy the next couple of weeks, relocating, and finalizing a divorce takes time. Moving from the City to a little town like this is quite an adjustment."

"Just as the reverse is," Thorne said. "So your new Doc is seeking renewal in the countryside is he? Well, to each his own. I'll be back, later."

"Take your time," his mother said. "Everything is under control."

It wasn't until he was seated at the bar with a beer and a burger that he realized that they hadn't really settled the issue of his impending exit. Perhaps there was no need to belabor the point. He'd just make plans and execute them, period, and talk to the Doc personally. He raised his glass to salute himself in the bar mirror and seal his positive self-pronouncement. That was when he saw her.

His mystery woman sat at a corner table, alone. She was deeply engrossed in a digest-sized magazine, and a bowl of soup sat untouched, cooling before her. Thorne had visions of sending over a bottle of champagne. No, overkill. A glass of wine? This was a bar, but maybe she didn't drink.

He made a sudden decision and hailed the waiter. Watching the reflection in the mirror, he saw the waiter set a bowl of wrapped crackers before her, topped off with the flower that he'd pulled from his lapel. Thorne waited anxiously while she read the note he'd included.

As she looked up to the mirror as he'd asked in the note, their eyes met. There was a hint of curiosity in her smile, and she slightly inclined her head to nod assent. He balanced the mug of beer in one and the burger in the other to approach her table. She held out a hand to indicate that he should sit.

"I'm intrigued," the lady said. "I've had drinks sent to my table before, but crackers and a flower - that is unique."

"Extraordinary means to meet an extraordinary lady. It gave me the excuse to formally introduce myself. I'm Thorne Marshall of Country Charm. And you are Miss Lang."

"You must be psychic, Mr. Marshall, or is it just that you followed me this morning?"

"You did recognize me?"

"I have a good memory for faces," she replied. "But tell me, do you follow all your customers, or is this just a new method of consumer research."

"Uncharacteristic impulse, I'll admit," Thorne said. "But I had to meet the lady with the rose habit. Most of our customers have a much harder time making up their minds. Am I forgiven for intruding?"

"Curiosity only killed the cat," she replied, crumbling some crackers into her soup. "No harm done."

"Thanks," Thorne said, and took a sip of the beer so he could think of how to keep the conversation from dying.

Miss Lang rescued him by saying, "The food isn't bad here, even if they usually skimp on crackers."

"I haven't been here for a long time," Thorne admitted. "But today I had to get away from the wonderful world of flowers. All those mother's day orders are killers."

Suddenly he realized what he had said. "Oh, sorry!"

"No offense taken," she said. "Mother died years ago. I've just found it comforting to visit her grave once a week while I make the adjustment to a new place. I hadn't been here since she died."

"My mother would admire the respect you show," Thorne said. "I'm afraid she feels I take her for granted."

"And do you?" Her voice was amused.

"I don't think so. I've been helping her out in the shop - she was ill - but now I'm anxious to turn the business back to her."

"Off to the big city?"

"I've done that and been there," he said. "I'm just looking for a change."

"So what are you waiting for?"

"Oh, she's got some hot-shot new Doc that wants to be sure she's up to par. Probably just wants to pad the bill."

"You're cynical about doctors as well as florists?"

"Not cynical, just realistic."

Her reply was to pick up her bill. "I've got to run. Thanks for the flower." And she was gone.

"Swell," said Thorne's internal censor. "You've made a real fool of yourself, old man.

Thorne finished the beer and now cold sandwich in silence. He had accomplished nothing. He didn't even know her first name. He might as well go back to the shop and serve his sentence sending flowers to other mothers.

Somehow he survived the rest of the week, and by mid-day on Saturday, all the Mother's Day orders had been processed. He accompanied his mother to church on Sunday where she and the other mothers basked in the at-least-once-a-year attention from their offspring.

On Monday morning, Thorne was at the shop bright and early, hoping for a visit from Miss Lang to collect her weekly tribute to her own mother. He'd almost forgotten his mother's promise to return full-time, and her arrival at the store at seven-thirty a.m. was a momentary surprise.

"I'll take over the front," his mother told him briskly, donning her apron. "You can escape to your bookkeeping in the back."

"That's fine," Thorne agreed, but he lingered at the counter, unwilling to abandon his vigil. The hands on the wall clock seemed to inch toward quarter to eight.

When his mother turned from her tidying up to find him underfoot a second time in ten minutes, she gave him a narrowing gaze. "Are you still here? I thought you couldn't wait to get away from the front."

Having run out of delaying tactics, Thorne was just about to leave without waiting for Miss Lang to arrive, when the bell over the door jangled, signaling the first customer of the day.

Thorne's relief that Miss Lang had at last appeared was tempered by his mother's reaction.

"Have you come to see for yourself how well I'm doing?" Thorne's mother asked the other woman.

Miss Lang shook her head. "No, I'm a regular Monday customer."

Thorne spoke up. "The usual?"

Miss Lang's eyes shifted to meet his gaze. "Yes."

"I'll get it for you," he said.

As Miss Lang and his mother chatted, Thorne's censor quickly processed the observation that the two knew each other.

"You said you wanted to meet my new doctor," Thorne's mother said to him. "This is Dr. Hart, or have you already met?"

"Your son and I are acquainted, the woman said. "But he knows me by my maiden name, Lang."

Hart? Dr. Hart? Thorne's censor was going wild. Was this another self-fulfilling prophesy? Thorne struggled to remember what negative comments he had made about his mother's medical care, but Dr. Hart endeavored to put him at ease. She took the rose from him with a whimsical smile.

"It wasn't very nice to conceal my identity from you," she said. "But then, you never did ask."

"That's what happens when one surrenders to impulse," Thorne answered. "Mother can tell you that I'm not usually like that."

"Good heavens, no," his mother agreed. "Maybe you need to see a doctor, Thorne."

"A heart doctor is just what I need," Thorne agreed, coming out from behind the counter. The look of astonishment on his mother's face was priceless.

"The Doctor & I will discuss it over coffee, Mother."

Dr. Hart seemed to be enjoying herself as well. "Sounds like a plan." she said.

"There's just one thing," Thorne said. "I still don't know your first name."

"My friends call me Rose."

Thorne laughed aloud, "Of course," he said, tucking his hand through the doctor's arm to lead her out the door, enjoying the moment and his mother's look of amazement.