Today, I’m pairing a beautiful piece of music that is aptly named with the first few paragraphs of my novelette Apple Blossoms and Whispering Hearts. This is what we call the meet-cute in romance writing. AKA when the hero and heroine meet.
Thomas is a bachelor who struggles with social interactions – especially when they are with ladies. He’s a bit unsure of himself and sees himself as not very much of a “prize.”
Clara is a widow with an energetic young daughter. She thinks she’s had her one chance at happily ever after.
Enjoy!
P.S. Apple Blossoms and Whispering Hearts is the Patreon free read this month. You only have to be signed up as a member to read it. No subscription required. It’s also one of the stories in First Blooms and Second Chances, the second collection of Nature’s Fury and Delights that is on sale all this month for $2.99 USD (with all other currencies also reduced). Regular price is $5.99 USD.
“More, Mama! More!”
Thomas Prescott heard the small child’s squeal of delight before he rounded the bend in the path and saw her, a small bundle of excitement, dancing with her hands in the air, attempting to catch the white petals falling from the apple tree above.
Thomas stopped where he was. He would eventually have to continue on his way, but he did not wish to disturb the child’s fun just yet. He would let her twirl and giggle for a few moments longer before intruding on her play.
“More, Mama!” the child pleaded when the shower of petals slowed.
“One last shake,” the lady, who must be the child’s mother, said from her perch on a bench beneath the apple tree. “But we must save some flowers so that we can make apple pies for Christmas.” Rising up on her toes, she grasped a branch and gave it a gentle shake. The flurry of white petals caused by the action was met with clapping hands, bouncing curls, and happy laughter.
Thomas had always enjoyed watching the exuberance so freely displayed by children. Theirs was a joy that was infectious, though it was also something that felt foreign to him. His childhood had been sober. His mother had died when he was just an infant, and his father had been a dour sort of gentleman who found enjoyment in sedate pursuits and wished for his son to do the same.
If Thomas should ever be blessed with children – which, with each passing year, seemed less and less likely since at forty he still had not found a wife – he would make certain to allow them to run and play as much as they desired until such time as they were required to begin their lessons. However, even then, he would still insist that a portion of their time be spent in pleasurable pursuits merely because they were pleasurable.
He shifted his observation to the petite lady shaking the branch. She must be his new neighbour. He had heard that Mr. and Mrs. Watson had not returned alone but had brought with them a granddaughter and the child’s mother, their son’s widow. She was pretty just as he had been told. Her hair was the same golden brown as the child’s curls and her features were just as delicate.
He should introduce himself instead of just standing like a mesmerized fool on the path. She was his neighbour, not some lady wishing for a dance in an assembly hall. Neighbours were much easier to talk to than strangers – even if he did not know his neighbour, she was a neighbour, just the same.
He drew in a deep breath and willed his feet to carry him forward to complete the task of introductions. These first few steps were always the most difficult. Once these first pleasantries had been exchanged upon this meeting, then it would become easier to touch his hat and nod in greeting or to actually say good day whenever they met again.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Watson greeted Thomas as he approached.
Smiling, she extended her hand in his direction. “Since you are here, and, even though it is entirely too forward by half to ask such a thing, would you be so kind as to assist me in regaining the ground?”
“I help, Mama.” The little girl who was only just head and shoulders above the height of the bench held up her hand towards her mother.
“That is very kind, Abigail,” Mrs. Watson said to her daughter. “However, I think it would be far more graceful to allow Mr. –”
“Prescott. Thomas Prescott at your service.” Thomas hurried forward to lend his assistance.
“I had thought you might be Mr. Prescott,” Mrs. Watson replied before turning back to her daughter. “I should like to have Mr. Prescott assist me. Will you mind terribly, Abigail?”
Abigail scrunched her face as she shook her head. Though she indicated that she did not mind abdicating her position to another, her expression let all know that she was not pleased to be doing so.
“Mr. Pescott?” The child inquired looking up at him with that same scrunched up, not-altogether-pleased expression as he helped her mother from the bench.
While this little lady was far younger than most who raised an eyebrow at something Thomas had done or said, censure from a female was not a foreign thing to him. He was not always at ease in company, and that unease had often led either to some unfortunate, awkwardly-phrased comment or to him being thought aloof and severe because he remained silent. However, unlike disapproval of an older lady, Thomas, who was an uncle to four youngsters, knew precisely how to respond to an unhappy child.
“My humblest thanks, madame, for allowing me the privilege of assisting your mother. It was such a noble act that I believe it deserves some sort of reward.” He lifted his walking stick and tapped a branch overhead. Fragrant blossoms fluttered down, and Abigail’s scowl dissolved into a happy squeal as she once again attempted to catch the flowers.
