by Liz Talley
Both Eden and Jess shook their heads.
Rosemary didn’t blame them. Her older brother, Basil, had a fascination with breasts . . . which would make him like every other heterosexual man on the planet, except Basil wasn’t like anyone else. Rosemary’s brother suffered from delayed social and mental development, a virtual child in a man’s body. Still, his zeroing in on boobs made a gal uncomfortable.
Rosemary knew, ’cause she had them, too.
But still, Basil was sweet and funny in his own way. His childlike wonder reminded Rosemary to slow down and savor the simple things. And really it was easy to do in her small town. Not much going on, unless one counted the weekly bingo game, hot yoga at the Church of Christ and Benton Mason’s girlfriend-of-the-week sighting. Jess had already moved out of the restored Craftsman house she had shared with her soon-to-be ex-husband and taken her maiden name back. All she waited on were divorce papers. Fried chicken, with or without Basil, wouldn’t entice Jess to ride out to Rosemary’s parents’ historic plantation when it sat right next to Benton’s family home.
“So I’ll see y’all tomorrow?” Rosemary asked, pushing her chair in, pausing as she looked at her friends, their faces still etched in grief. “Everything feels so different . . . like we’ll never be the same again.”
Jess looked up. “We won’t. A piece of us is gone. And inside it feels like something’s brewing. Like those aches my granny used to get when it was about to storm.”
“Barometric pressure,” Eden said, twisting a straw paper, “except this is about us . . . and whatever Lacy left us to do.”
Rosemary moved around the table, squeezing Eden on the shoulder before giving Jess a tiny smile. “Storms bring life—they blow withered leaves from trees so new life can grow. Storms quench the earth, causing ebb and flow.”
Jess managed a smile. “You’re such a poet.”
Rosemary laughed, not bothering to be embarrassed by her flowery words. These girls knew her. “Just truth.”
And then Rosemary left her friends, pushing out the glass door into the normalcy of her life—Morning Glory, with its quaint square surrounded by glass storefronts, including her own fabric design shop, Parsley and Sage. Somehow the same crumbling courthouse and worn brick streets comforted her. No matter how much change came her way, this town was a constant.
Morning Glory was a way of life. It was sweet tea and porch swings. Mayhaw jelly in a mason jar and fireflies dotting the night. Morning Glory was Sunday morning church bells, gossip at Dean’s Diner, and traditions that didn’t make sense but were carried out regardless because that’s the way it was.
Rosemary belonged in Morning Glory . . . even without Lacy.
Chapter Two
One month later
If driving in downtown Jackson, Mississippi, made Rosemary as nervous as long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, then climbing the subway stairs to emerge into frenetic Manhattan made her feel like she needed to take shelter. Because a category 5 hurricane swirled around her.
Totally embarrassing to be such a fraidy cat.
But the flop sweat she’d broken into upon emerging from underground was all her mother’s fault. Ever since Rosemary’s cousin Halle had called and begged Rosemary to come apartment-sit in SoHo, Patsy Reynolds had been collecting news articles headlining all the horrible things that befell residents of New York City and taping them to the fridge. And dang if the thought of being left for dead in an alley somewhere near the Hudson River hadn’t wormed its way into Rosemary’s head, eroding her confidence in visiting a place she’d only seen in movies.
Of course, Rosemary had fought against the irrationality by doing extensive prep work. She’d driven to Jackson (nervously) in order to purchase the three seasons of Sex and the City she didn’t already own. She’d watched Lacy’s favorite show religiously every single night after she closed her fabric shop—which, of course, made her miss her friend all the more. Then she’d downloaded a map of SoHo, practicing how to say the street names so people (a.k.a. thieves and murderers) would know she wasn’t a tourist. Case in point, she knew to say “HOW-ston” instead of “HYU-ston.” She’d even borrowed her neighbor Mimi’s vintage Chanel cocktail dress, though it was a size too small, just in case she needed to have breakfast outside Tiffany’s . . . or go to a glam cocktail party.
New York would be her oyster . . . whatever that meant.
But now, looking down at her cute seersucker sundress and back at the people striding purposefully down the street, she knew she’d never fool anyone. She looked sweet as sugarcane and they looked . . . well, urbane in their somber, sophisticated baggy pants and stomach-skimming halters.
“Oh, excuse me,” she breathed, hopping back before a guy wearing a suit and high-tops nearly ran her down. “So sorry.”
The man merely jerked his head in acknowledgment and kept plowing toward wherever he was headed. Another woman wearing . . . an odd, sacklike dress? . . . glanced at her in annoyance when Rosemary accidentally stepped in her path. Someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned, realizing she was blocking the stream of traffic coming from the subway stairs.
“Oops,” she said to no one in particular, backing up to plaster herself against the cool stone of the building behind her. It felt nice against her sweaty back. She parked the rolling suitcase at her feet, aggravated at her cousin Halle for talking her into taking the subway. She should have gotten a cab—not that she’d ever ridden in one before. They didn’t need cabs in Morning Glory. Good heavens, she’d only flown once before, and even then she’d taken the Disney Magical Express bus to her hotel. How did she even hail a cab? In Sex and the City the cabs appeared like magic whenever Carrie Bradshaw needed one. Stepping to the corner and trying to flag down the careening taxicabs looked suicidal.
“Okay,” she said to herself, sucking in a calming breath as she riffled through the burlap tote with her initials monogrammed on the side. “Why did I let my phone battery die? And where in the name of Jesus did I put the backup map?”
She pulled out a light and water bill and the gate ticket the flight attendant had handed back to her before finding the map she’d laminated for purposes such as this. “Here we go.”
Unfolding the map, she ran her finger down the line she’d drawn from the subway station to her cousin’s loft on Spring Street. Not too far. She rotated the map. So she needed to head to her left. She flipped it around. No. Her right.
She looked up, trying to find a kind soul who might point her in the right direction, but no one made eye contact. An older man walked his dog, glancing down intermittently at a newspaper, moving at a turtle’s pace. Maybe he’d be nice enough to point out the correct way.
She tugged her suitcase and dodged another flood of people coming out of the subway tunnel to reach the gentleman, whose dog lifted its leg on a scrawny tree set into the wide sidewalk. Honking horns and the swoosh of traffic surrounded her, rattling her nerves even more. “Uh, excuse me, sir?”
The man didn’t look up. Merely kept his eyes on the folded newspaper in his hand.
“Sir?”
He lifted dark eyes beneath winged eyebrows. His swarthy skin indicated he might not speak English.
“Eh?”
Rosemary clutched her suitcase tightly in case anyone got any bright idea about making off with her undies and the sensible cardigan sweater her mother had forced her to pack in order to fight the chill. As if June in NYC was cool. She held up the map and pointed to the little star indicating her cousin’s five-story building, hoping the man understood she asked for directions. “Is this place that way?” She stood facing Prince Street and jabbed her finger toward the right. “Or that way?” Left.
He took the map and turned it. “Dere.” He pointed a thick finger straight ahead.
“Oh, so it’s straight ahead?”
“Jah,” he said, tugging the leash of the dog and handing the map back to Rosemary. He sauntered off without another word.
“Thank yo
u,” she called, not really knowing if the man had given her the right direction or not. “Have a good evening.”
He lifted his hand and kept trucking.
“Guess I’m going straight,” she said to herself. A woman passing with a baby stroller looked at her oddly. Rosemary merely gave her a little wave and a smile, feeling stupid. Probably something she should acquaint herself with.
“You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she muttered.
Squaring her shoulders, she set off in the direction the man had pointed, heading east, hoping like mad she’d run into Spring Street. The sun sat hot on her shoulders and trickles of sweat coasted down her back, dampening the back of her dress, but with each step she encouraged herself.
No big deal, Rosemary. You’re a competent person taking a little walk. It’s still light out. You’re perfectly safe. Stop being a ninny. You got this.
Several people stared at her—she was, after all, rolling luggage behind her—but most talked into their phones or stared vacantly ahead, earbuds in place, world tuned out.
After Rosemary had walked three blocks, she knew something was wrong. She pulled over, this time against a glass storefront, and took the map from the pocket of her bag, cursing herself for not charging her phone during the layover in Atlanta. She traced a finger along her current route and saw the issue. She was walking parallel to Spring Street. If she hopped one block over, she’d be on the right street, but would have to double back a few blocks to get to the building where her cousin lived.
“No big deal,” she said.
A man carrying a bag of groceries looked over. “Huh?”
“Oh nothing,” she said, death grip on her luggage handle. “Just talking to myself.”
He made a face before continuing on his way.
Rosemary swiped at the sweat dripping into her eyes and turned down Mulberry Street, hoping her makeup wasn’t pooling. Rosemary rarely wore the stuff, but Eden had scored a bargain correction stick to hide the blemish on her chin along with some shimmery eye shadow. So much for being glamorous. She was sweating like a preacher during a July tent revival.
The street she walked down looked cramped, but in a charming way that made her want to sink down at one of the cute bistro tables covered with red-and-white-checked cloths and drink some ice water. The spicy scent of roasted meat tickled her nose, and her stomach growled at the thought of a garlicky red sauce. She’d studied the map of Manhattan enough to realize she was probably walking through Little Italy . . . but she’d obviously not studied it enough to get her to her cousin’s apartment.
A man wearing an apron and a gorgeous smile tried to hand her a menu.
“Dinner for the lady?”
“Uh, no thanks.” She brushed the paper aside and kept walking, trying to pretend she was a businesswoman late for a dinner appointment instead of a lost tourist.
“My grandma makes the best meatballs. You’re missing out, tesoro.”
Her stomach growled again. Loudly. And the guy heard it.
“Ah, your stomach says yes,” he teased.
Rosemary turned to deliver a brusque “Mind your own business,” but when she caught sight of the friendly smile attached to the handsome face, she bit her lip. This guy was cute with a capital C. “Did your grandmother really make the meatballs?”
The man chuckled. “Well, it’s her recipe. Close enough, right?”
He wore dark trousers, a white button-down shirt, and an apron, pristine except for the small splatter of red sauce on the left hip. His shaggy, dark hair swept just across his broad forehead, and those dark eyes positively twinkled good humor with a hint of naughtiness. A firm jaw with a five o’clock shadow added to his rakishness, while the nose that had possibly been broken made him approachable.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said, halfway meaning it. But his smile broadened, taking her words as flirtation, and darned if his smile wasn’t mesmerizing. Rosemary couldn’t look away to save her life.
“I’m Sal,” he said, moving the stack of flyers to his left hand and extending his right.
She stared at his hand. The manners her mama had instilled in her for twenty-seven years dictated she reach out and take the very masculine hand held out to her. The wariness she’d coated herself in upon climbing out into the Manhattan sunshine told her to get her sweaty rump to her cousin’s apartment and forget about sexy Italian guys with flashing white teeth.
He looked down at his hand and then did something utterly adorable. He wiped it on the apron, then extended it again.
And that meant she had to take his hand. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
“I’m Rosemary,” she said, wondering if she should wipe her hand, too. After all, she’d been sweating all the way down Prince Street and half of Mulberry. She decided against it and slid her hand into his.
He had a nice grasp. Firm, smooth, and almost refreshing. Dang it. She should have wiped her own clammy hand. Now he knew just how hot and grimy she was.
“That might be the prettiest name I’ve heard in forever,” he said, holding on to her hand a bit longer than necessary. “Now that we’re not strangers, come in and get something cold to drink.”
“My palm was sweaty, wasn’t it?” she said, blowing out a breath that ruffled her bangs.
That made him laugh, and damned if that didn’t make him ten times sexier. Rosemary felt her heart skip a beat. “A little sweat never bothered me. I have some fresh mint tea to cool you down. I’ll even put some sugar in it so you feel like you’re on your mama’s porch in Georgia.”
“How did you know I’m from Mississippi?”
“Well, I just don’t know, dahling,” he drawled in a voice that sounded like a drag queen doing a Scarlett O’Hara impersonation . . . badly.
Rosemary made a face. “I don’t sound like that.”
“Yeah, you do,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t stay. I have somewhere to be.”
Sal stuck his lip out. “Aww, don’t say that. You’re the prettiest southern girl who’s come by today.”
“I’m probably the only southerner who’s come by today.”
“Yeah, but still,” he said, giving her a wink.
“Maybe I’ll come by later,” she said, wanting to stay but knowing she needed to find her cousin’s place, unpack, and call her mother before the woman called NYPD and filed a missing person report.
Someone from inside called his name. He stuck his head through the doorway. “Coming, Pop.” Then he turned back to her, folding a flyer. Holding it out to her. “Promise you’ll come back tonight. We have a great dinner special, and . . . I wanna get you that iced tea.”
Good gravy, the man made iced tea sound positively naughty. Rosemary took the flyer and tucked it into her bag. “Maybe.”
“Ah, you’re killin’ me.” Sal shook his head but jabbed a flyer toward another passerby, who promptly threw it on the ground. “Jesus, the tourists are bustin’ my balls today.”
Rosemary picked the flyer up and handed it back to him. “I’m sorry.”
“Make it right by coming back tonight.”
Rosemary started easing away, yanking her suitcase. Who did she think she was, flirting with some waiter on the street? For a moment his friendly smile had distracted her, made her feel almost human in a place where she was a fish out of water. She tossed back a smile. “Maybe.”
And then she walked away from the cute guy, rolling down Mulberry, looking to make a right on the next street, which should be the one where her cousin had a fancy loft apartment. God willing and the creek don’t rise, she’d find it. Maybe then she could think about flirting with cute waiters. After all, she’d be there for two and a half weeks. And she had nothing to do but soak in the scenery, sleep late, eat exotic foods, and forget she was a totally clueless citizen of Morning Glory. She was in NYC to live a little. And by George, she was going to do it, too.
Sal Genovese shoved the stack of Mama Mello’s f
lyers into his brother’s hand. “Thank God you’re back. Passing out the specials ain’t my vibe.”
Dominic grinned. “Don’t worry. I can bring ’em in. They like my dimples.”
“Yeah, well, next time I’ll go pick up Brittany. Not a single person came in to eat with me hustling out here.” Dominic had clocked out in order to help their sister, who’d gotten a flat on the way to work. Normally, his pop wouldn’t let a Genovese shirk his duty, but when it came to his daughters, Big Donnie had a soft spot.
Dominic slapped him on the back as Sal pushed farther inside the restaurant their family had owned for three generations, making his way through the early dinner crowd back to the kitchen, where his father and the staff bustled around filling orders. The place wasn’t stuffy, but they had real tablecloths, a nice bar, and on weekends a guy played the piano. A fellow could do worse, as his pop liked to say.
“Dom’s back, Pop,” Sal said, running water in the big stainless sink in order to scrub the street off his hands. When he was in the kitchen, he felt himself. Ah, sure, he could dial up the charm when needed, but he preferred the menial tasks of chopping onion and garlic over dealing with patrons.
“Grab the scampi and veal for table three and tell Kyle to move his ass. He’s spending too much time talking up them chicks at the bar,” Sal’s father barked, flipping eggplant parmesan onto the new square plates Sal had talked him into ordering.
“Got it,” Sal said, dodging Gus, the pastry chef his father had hired recently to replace his mother. Still surprised him sometimes to not find Natalie Genovese filling cannoli and whipping together award-winning tiramisu for Mama Mello’s. She’d been a constant presence in the back for thirty-five years, but after several back surgeries and severe sciatica, she’d finally retired . . . though she often showed up to boss Gus around, tasting his desserts and wrinkling her nose, muttering about the way things were supposed to be done. That was his mama—a ballbuster. But she was good at whatever she did.
An hour and a half later, Sal took a break, sneaking a beer from the ice behind the bar and slipping out back so his pop wouldn’t catch him and chew him out for popping a cold one on the job. But nothing was as good as a cold brew after a long day. One beer wouldn’t hurt.
