Free Roses for Mama by Janette Oke

seemed so foreign to Angela that she felt confused. He did not belong to the world she was used to. She hardly knew how to address him. Her flush deepened.
    “H—Hello,” she finally stammered. “I—I am looking for Mr. Stratton.”
    The gentleman tipped his head slightly while she awkwardly tried to tuck in a strand of silvery blond hair that danced playfully about her face in the afternoon breeze. Her blue eyes, wide in astonishment, and her flushed cheeks revealed her confusion.
    Then he offered a smile—not a friendly grin like Angela was used to receiving from Charlie but a smile—soft, curving, and controlled.
    “I do hope you are a neighbor,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “A close neighbor.”
    “I—I’m Angela,” she murmured and felt even more foolish. “I—I—expected Charlie—”
    “Charlie is busy.”
    “Oh—of course. Well, really I came to see Mr. Stratton and well—”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, kind but firm. “He really isn’t up to visitors. He’s quite ill.”
    “Oh, not that Mr. Stratton,” Angela said quickly. “I mean the—the new Mr. Stratton.” She knew she had said it all wrong. She tried again. “Mr. Stratton’s son.”
    The door swung open to its full width and the youthful gentleman stepped back and bid her enter with a wave of his hand. The smile had returned.
    “That Mr. Stratton would be most pleased to see you.” He motioned Angela into the hallway. “Won’t you come into the parlor?”
    Angela stumbled along in step.
    “Please be seated,” he continued. “I will have Gus prepare some coffee—or perhaps you prefer tea?”
    Angela had never been in the parlor before. Her wide eyes studied it now, going from the gold damask of the sofa and chairs to the rich mahogany of the piano. She wanted to just stand and look, but the man beside her seemed to be asking her something. She turned her attention back to him and shook her head slightly.
    “I—I’m sorry,” she murmured.
    “Tea—or coffee?” he repeated.
    “I—I think—tea, please,” she managed to answer and then remembered the pan in her hands. “I—I’ve brought some baking,” she said. “To sort of welcome the—the other Mr. Stratton—to the community—as a neighbor—you know.” She thrust the pan out toward the stranger.
    She had never been so flustered before. Was this young man Mr. Stratton’s lawyer? Maybe he had accompanied the son here. If only he would stop looking at her. If only Charlie would make an appearance.
    “Please,” the young man said again. “Won’t you have a chair. I’ll only be a minute.” As soon as Angela had taken the seat he offered, he left, baking in hand.
    Angela arranged her skirts carefully and wiped her palms on her pocket handkerchief. Before she could turn her attention back to the identity of the stranger and to her intriguing surroundings, she heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see Charlie enter the room. She could have hugged him. He crossed to her and took her trembling hand.
    “Are you ill, girlie?” he asked, noticing her flushed face and clammy fingers.
    “Oh, Charlie,” she admitted, “I have just made such a fool of myself. I—I came over here to—to sort of welcome Mr. Stratton’s son with some baking and I—I expected you—or Gus—to open the door and it—it quite threw me when this—this total stranger was standing there, and I’ve been babbling like a silly schoolgirl ever since.”
    Charlie gave Angela a quizzical look. Then his hand tightened. “He threw ya, did he?” he asked, and Angela detected annoyance in his voice.
    “Oh, it wasn’t that. I mean he was most polite,” she hurried on. “It was just that I expected you—or Gus—or maybe even Mr. Stratton’s son, but—”
    “Angela,” said Charlie giving her hand a bit of a shake, “that was Mr. Stratton’s son.”
    Angela looked at Charlie with wide eyes, unable to believe that he was serious. She wasn’t sure what she had