A Rose From Sarah

A Rose From Sarah

  by

  George Blum

  Copyright 2012 George Blum

  All Rights Reserved

  After Sarah, Ben Stanton never expected to fall so helplessly . . . foolishly . . . in love again. But that was before Kinsley came along.

  The early autumn rain muffled the bell hinged atop the door to Downtown Fineries, a ninety-four year old drug store and gift shop which stood in the geometric center of Jefferson, New York, a village located in the western reaches of the state.

  Ben Stanton brushed stubborn droplets from his brown cloth raincoat before rushing to the narrow aisle near the back of the store to search for "McGill’s Mix," his favorite candy assortment for special occasions. It was already six-twenty!

  Dinner at eight--engaged by nine. That was the plan. Tonight was the night. It was now or never.

  He was midway through his search when Hally Simmons, the septuagenarian owner of the establishment, coughed his noisy arrival. "Hey, Mr. Simmons," Ben began as he rummaged through mismatched boxes and cellophaned bags. "I can't find the . . ."

  "McGill's Mix?" the elderly proprietor asked as he wiped his nose with a crumpled handkerchief.

  "Yeah," Ben replied with a mild blush. His frown didn't fade, however. "I mean I know it sounds kind of silly, but I really need a box of the stuff tonight. I have, well, an important dinner engagement."

  Simmons reached onto the highest shelf and, after pushing aside a LifeSavers assortment bag, extracted a box of McGill's. "This what you're looking for?" he asked, a tired grin spreading across an even more exhausted face.

  Ben snatched it gratefully. "Thanks!"

  "Sure," Simmons wheezed out. "Just tell Sarah I said hello."

  Ben stopped with a jerk and turned slowly toward the storekeeper. "I haven't seen Sarah for about a year now, Mr. Simmons," he began slowly. "She left town. Remember?"

  Simmons, who apparently hadn't heard his customer's response, waved an arthritic hand and limped toward the rear of the store. Ben fished around his wallet for some dollar bills, now wearing a worried frown. This was not the time to start thinking about past loves. This was not the time to start thinking about Sarah.

  After getting his change from Mr. Simmons, Ben buckled his raincoat and slipped on his tweed cap. He looked skyward before leaving the safety of the drug store's front overhang. The rain was coming down more fiercely now. He would have to step even livelier in order to get to Kinsley’s on time. Looking a couple of times each way, Ben decided the traffic would never let up completely, so darted in between shiny-slicked cars across State Street. On the relative safety of the sidewalk, he pulled up his collar against persistent drops and cinched down his cap. Above a stubborn curtain of thick black clouds, thunder rumbled forlornly.

  With a troubled sigh, Ben tucked the box of candy inside his coat and began the seven-block walk toward his third-story flat.

  Hally Simmons had been correct. The proprietor might be getting old, but his memory was still pretty sharp. Ben had always purchased the "McGill's Mix" for Sarah, and he had always picked it up at Downtown Fineries.

  One of two things Ben Stanton had been able to count on during his stormy relationship with Sarah was that a gift would make her content. For a while, at least. Any gift would do, but "McGill’s Mix" served quite nicely. The other had been the short-stemmed red roses. Sarah had had a passion for them. While she didn't particularly care to receive them, as Ben had discovered shortly after he began dating the woman, she loved to give him a red rose at almost any opportunity. When he picked her up for a date, when they dined at a restaurant, when they walked hand in hand down on the canal path. He'd find them in his pockets, on the windshield of his car, in his briefcase. Sarah was, if nothing else, creative.

  A gusty crack of lightning signaled a fresh torrent of rain. Ben ran down the puddled sidewalk and ducked into a phone booth. He was glad that Jefferson, a quaint village in many ways, still had its share of public booths. While Ben was modern in most respects, he had thus far avoided picking up a smart phone. He fished for some change while glancing at his watch. 6:32.

  He dropped a couple of dimes into the coin slot and began to punch out Kinsley’s number, smiling at the foolish things one did when in love. He had fallen into the habit of phoning Kinsley every night at six-thirty. It didn’t matter if he had just dropped her off at her house at six, or whether he would be seeing her for dinner at seven. He would phone her. From the office, from home, from a booth, like tonight. The tradition had begun right after their first date and had continued for the seven months since. As silly as the compulsion to phone might be, he certainly couldn’t skip it tonight. His engagement night.

  Ben’s goofy grin faded slightly as the phone continued to ring unanswered. Four. Five. This was somewhat unusual. Kinsley was always home when he phoned. Seven. Eight. He hung up the phone, his face creased with concern. Kinsley had complained about receiving strange calls lately, at all hours of the night. “Chicken hang-ups” she called them. Perhaps she had gotten another one of the heavy breathing calls right before Ben had phoned. She was probably just gun-shy.

  Ben stepped back into the persistent rain shower. He bundled up and resumed his quick pace. He had one more stop to make.

  Henson's Jewelers, Ben knew, would be open until eight this evening. He had phoned precisely three times during the day to make sure. It wouldn’t do to propose to his wife-to-be, give her some chocolates, then forget the ring. It wouldn’t do at all. Tonight, Kinsley would get her engagement ring inside the box of chocolates. Not the most original means of proposing, perhaps, but it was reliable. Traditional.

  Henson’s was still a block away as the rain continued to muster its strength. Why rain tonight, on what was destined to be a memorable evening?

  While it had rained the last time he saw Sarah, rain had been appropriate. It had fit the mood. When one severed a relationship, rain was more than appropriate--it was to be expected. Ben took a deep breath and tried to block out that last night with Sarah. It didn't work. The images were still too powerful, too disturbing.

  Sarah, never quite in synch with Ben's feelings, had believed that she and her long-time companion were going out to a movie the night he stopped by to tell her that everything was off. Dressed casually that evening, she had answered the door with a short-stemmed red rose between her teeth. Her eyes had begun to glaze fiercely when he informed her that he would no longer tolerate the on-again off-again signals she relished in giving. When he informed her that he needed more stability in his life. When he informed her that he needed a more emotionally-sound relationship.

  Sarah had acted true to form. She had backed him out onto the porch, rose still between teeth, grabbed him by the collar of his brown and green sweater, then hissed at him. Pulling the flower from her mouth, she said, in a malevolent monotone, "It's Kinsley, isn’t it? That’s what this is all about."

  Ben, genuinely puzzled, had shaken his head and stood his ground. "This is about us,” he had replied in between her mixed torrent of self-pity, fury, and hysterical laughter.

  "You two should be quite happy together," Sarah had barked out just before pushing him off the porch and onto the rain-sogged grass. The short-stemmed red rose had been tossed onto his chest before he had had a chance to get back on his feet.

  The ironic thing, Ben Stanton had mused innumerable times in the months since his break-up, was that Kinsley Parker, once Sarah's closest friend, had absolutely nothing to do with his gradually-deteriorating relationship with Sarah. It was after the break-up that Ben had become interested in Kinsley Parker. While they had both felt awkward, nearly guilty, about it at first, the affinity between Ben and Kinsley had been undeniable. Occ
asional dating had transformed into constant companionship. Constant companionship, Ben hoped, would evolve into a lifetime commitment. But first there was the matter of the engagement ring.

  Henson's was nearly deserted as Ben pushed open the tiny shop's double-paned glass door. He half-heartedly examined the ring’s engraving (it was perfect), casually checked the setting of the stones (they were expertly mounted), and lackadaisically signed the charge slip (the price was a bit steep, but this was no time to scrimp).

  He wasn't thinking about the ring, though. He was thinking about Sarah, for some damned reason. He wondered where she was. No one seemed to know where she had landed after moving away from Jefferson. He wondered if she had gotten on with her life as well as he had gotten on with his.

  The rain was down to a drizzle as Ben stepped out of Henson’s. He turned the corner on Oak and headed toward the three-story Victorian he had called home for the last six years. The constant rumble