by Liz Talley
“Don’t say regrets,” she said.
“No, not that. It’s just hanging there over us, ready to fall. I hate the way this feels.”
She bit her lower lip, her eyes sad. “I know.”
He wanted to say, “And . . .” to see where she’d let the conversation go, but he didn’t. Because he didn’t trust himself. To make a good decision. To not beg her to stay. To not throw away everything that lay before him. He’d been pissed at his ma, but she’d planted the seeds she’d intended to plant. He wasn’t sure he knew what was right for his life, so he couldn’t toss his life and chase a whim. Not even for love.
If it was real love.
How did he know what love was anyhow?
So he decided to avoid the question. Such was his way. “You hungry? ’Cause I could eat.”
She nodded. “You know what I’ve been craving? The meatballs I ate at Mama Mello’s the first night I was in town. Want to take me back there?”
He didn’t. He didn’t want Rosemary anywhere near the censure of his father, his sister, hell, even the waiters. Rosemary was his escape. Mama Mello’s and his family were the anchors that held his feet to the ground. “I have to go in tomorrow for the lunch shift. You can come eat and then we’ll go to that club I told you about. Or we could go to my place in Brooklyn. You can stay with me for once. I cleaned up and even bought flowers for the table.”
“For me?” she grinned, leaning forward to kiss him. But then she pulled back. “What about Moscow and Melbourne?”
“They’re cats. Feed them, give them fresh cat litter, and pack an overnight bag. Saturday morning we’re going to the Brooklyn Flea.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s only the best flea market and artisan marketplace in the city. Very hipster. You’ll love it.”
Rosemary launched herself into his arms, covering his face with kisses. “You’re the greatest sex slave in the history of sex slaves.”
He caressed the ass beneath the shorts, thankfully not eliciting a hiss from the still tender tattoo site. Though he was perfectly willing to kiss it better again. “Which reminds me, I’ve been remiss in my duties.” He started tugging up her T-shirt.
Rosemary laughed against his lips. “We had sex this morning.”
“I thought you needed servicing every six hours,” he said, placing all his doubts, concerns, and expectations on the mental shelf where he was apt to place things that had no solution, and instead lost himself in the salty sweetness of her neck.
“Every six hours sounds about right,” she said, sliding her hand down to clasp the erection suddenly straining his gym shorts.
And so he made love to her, reveling in her body. The taste of her, the scent, the way she made mewling noises when she came, the way she looked deep into his eyes while he moved inside her. He memorized Rosemary, immersing himself in every sensation.
He couldn’t have known as he lay there on the couch afterward, watching her shimmy back into her panties, that the fairy tale they’d woven with threads of desire, make-believe, and hope would start to come unraveled the next day. Because Sal had forgotten reality did more than throw elbows and head-butt. Reality wore sly stilettos, had brash red lips and an Italian temper.
Yes, reality could be vicious.
Because reality didn’t play fair.
Friday morning came with Sal up early, taking the train to Brooklyn. Rosemary spent the morning and early afternoon completing the five prototype pillows Trevor Lindley had requested. She was still in disbelief he was interested, but overall, she could say she’d done her best with the designs. Extra time poking into secondhand stores and antique malls had netted some lovely bright embroidery for the Graceland pillow. And some of the trims and notions from Gilda’s huge supply lent a finished look. Her nerves jangled when she thought about Trevor and his team looking over them and finding them lacking, but she’d done all she could to create authentic, vintage throw pillows that portrayed who she was . . . who so many women were. Not every woman sipped cosmos, wore designer shoes, and partied until the wee hours. There were some who liked eyelet, old wood floors, and lemonade from a mason jar. Her pillows were for both kinds.
Sal had surprised her with some custom tags stamped with “South of SoHo.” She used old-fashioned diaper pins and twine to secure them to the pillows’ trimming. Afterward she placed the pillows in two large shopping bags. Gilda had said her son would come to visit like he did every Sunday afternoon and she’d send them with him. No need to go to Trevor’s offices. No need to waste one more precious second of her time here in New York City.
Rosemary sank onto the couch, her mind tripping back to what she’d almost blurted out last night. Yep, she’d come a cat’s hair from breaking down and begging Sal to keep her. To stop her from going back to Mississippi. To make what they had real.
But that would be insane.
Of course, everything about the past weeks in SoHo had been crazy, so why would her changing the rules be any different?
But she knew the answer.
Because though she loved Sal, they weren’t meant to be. No matter how lovely the dream she’d whipped up for the past few weeks, the fluffy clouds and sunshine were a netherworld of her own making. Sal didn’t love her. He’d implied as much almost week ago when they were making love.
But she’d given her own heart anyhow. How could she not and be true to who she was? She might have gone sans undies, gotten her butt tattooed, and gotten snockered on champagne punch, but she was still regular ol’ Rosemary. Pretending the world away for a little while was one thing, but she’d never lied to herself. Truth waited like a winged creature sitting sentry. It would not stay content to watch her run away much longer.
So she had a come-to-Jesus meeting with herself. Sal would stay here. She would go. And their time together would be stitched on her soul, marking her for always. Rosemary had accepted this was the way of it.
Two more days until she left.
She got up and got on with it.
Friday afternoon was busier than normal on the streets of SoHo. But wasn’t that always the case? Even in Morning Glory people started the weekend on Friday.
“Hi, Michelle,” Rosemary said to the cashier at Golly Gee Willikers, a small café with good bagels and wonderful jams and jellies. “Do y’all ship?”
Michelle smiled. “I love when you say y’all. And, yes, we ship in the continental US.”
“Perfect. I’m going to mail home some jams for gifts. Don’t want to pay overage on my bags for the flight home.”
“Smart girl,” Michelle said, pulling the jars she pointed to off the shelves behind her. The café resembled an old-fashioned general store. Which was probably why Rosemary liked it so well. Old-fashioned. Wasn’t that what Sal called her? “You going back home soon?”
“Sunday.” Saying it made it so real. So final.
“Well, I’m glad you came by. And don’t forget to send me that—what was it?”
“Mayhaw jelly. My mama makes it every year. I’ll mail you some.”
Michelle handed her a card and rang her up. “’Bye, Rosemary. If you come back to the city, come see me.”
Rosemary waved and as she stepped out into the SoHo sunshine, her phone rang.
Jess.
“Hey, stranger,” Jess said, her voice hoarse.
“Hey,” Rosemary said, moving to the side as a group of tourists passed her. “Are you fighting a summer cold or something?”
“No. I went to Tanner’s T-ball game. He scored two home runs. Well, of course, everyone scored a home run. Fielding is not a priority for four-year-olds. But picking dandelions and noses is. Go figure.”
Something warm edged out the desperate feeling she’d been carrying around for the last day and a half. “Oh my gosh, he’s already four?”
“I know, but my sister-in-law keeps feeding him for some reason.”
“So how are things?” Rosemary asked, knowing the impending divorce weighed on Jess. Pe
rsonally, Rosemary believed her friend was better off without her high school sweetheart turned lunatic.
“They’re going. I’m sorry I had to get off the phone the other day before you could tell me about your New York fling. Someone from a staffing firm called and I had to get paperwork in to them. I’m signing up to do contract nursing. So finish telling me about the carriage ride.”
“Wait, what staffing firm?” Rosemary asked.
“Just a way I can get out of Morning Glory every now and then. Most jobs are only a month or two, but it will be nice to not carry a shooter’s mirror to check around corners. Benton and whatever slut he’s dating seem to pop out of nowhere. I need a break.”
“I heard he’s dating a bartender from Jackson. It almost makes me feel sorry for Brandy. Almost.”
Benton had left Jess for their florist, Brandy Robbins. Silly Brandy thought Jess’s ex-husband and son to the mayor would marry her. Ha-ha. He’d moved on to a string of women.
“Yep. Been dating this one for a couple of weeks.”
“Ugh, but good for you. Applying with that agency is a good way to get over Benton and the divorce. Of course, I’ll miss you like crazy when you’re gone, but you need some time away.”
“And money,” Jess drawled before giving a sigh. “Enough about me. Last time you were telling me about the carriage ride. And since Eden has such a big mouth—”
“She’s already told you about my Italian stallion?” Rosemary teased.
“Only that he’s romantic and hung like a horse.”
“Jess,” Rosemary hissed even as she laughed. “Yes and yes.”
“Oh, sister, I’m so glad. You needed to go somewhere wonderful and have hot, no-strings sex with, well, obviously a guy who could satisfy your inner slut.”
“Oh my Lord, Jess,” Rosemary said, nearly choking.
“I’m kidding. Sorta.”
“This has been good for me. Lacy was right.”
“And wouldn’t she love to hear you say so?” Jess said, humor gone.
“She would,” Rosemary said, before telling Jess about Trevor Lindley and the opportunity to sell her pillows to his company.
“That’s so awesome, Rosemary. Just all the stuff is happening for you,” Jess said, sounding almost as if she was about to cry. Which was very un-Jess-like.
“Yeah,” Rosemary said, her feet leading her toward Little Italy. Funny how she now knew the way. Maybe it had something to do with the man waiting for her. Or maybe she’d stopped worrying so much about the scary stuff, no longer fearful of the world around her.
“You sound sad,” Jess said.
“A little,” Rosemary admitted, stopping to admire a cute strapless maxi dress in the window, one she never would have contemplated buying before because it showed too much skin. “It’s going to be hard to leave. I mean, I miss Morning Glory and I could never live here really, but—”
“The Italian?”
Tears scratched her throat. “Yeah. My Italian sex slave.”
“You’re making me blush, Rose,” Jess laughed, before sobering. “You didn’t fall for him, did you? I mean, you were supposed to go up there and be a wild, modern woman who used men, drank hard liquor, and owned the Big Apple.”
“You didn’t think that would really happen, did you?”
Her friend sighed. “No. You’re just not that kind of girl, are you?”
“Nope,” Rosemary admitted, putting her hand on the handle. The dress would look good on her. “But I did get a tattoo.”
“What the hell?”
Rosemary couldn’t stop the laughter. “I love shocking you.”
“Oh, whew. You’re joking.”
“Oh no, I did get a tattoo.”
“Great Lord have mercy, what has this man done to our Rosemary?”
“I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” Rosemary joked, opening the door and stepping into the boutique. “I’ve got to run, but I’m glad you called. I’ll see you next week.” If she didn’t die of heartache first.
“Okay, enjoy your last two days, slut.”
Rosemary laughed. “I love you, too, Jess.”
And then she hung up, strode into the store, and asked the clerk to pull the dress in the window in a size eight. If she had to endure the pleasure/pain of saying good-bye to the man she loved, she could at the very least do it in a cute maxi dress. Two more days to be bold, sexy, and smitten with a hot Italian boy from Brooklyn. Two more days to own the new Rosemary, the girl who’d spread her wings and couldn’t image folding them up never to be used again just because she would go back to her hometown.
Okay, so she wasn’t going to go braless at the church picnic or let a guy get to third base in the back of a pickup truck. But she wasn’t going to be the woman she’d been before. Everything she’d done thus far in New York, from the cab ride to taking a business lunch with Trevor Lindley, had fashioned a more self-confident, self-aware woman . . . a woman who believed in her abilities both in and out of the bedroom.
Lacy hadn’t just given her a gift of adventure. She’d given her the gift of herself.
After trying on the dress and loving it, she handed the clerk her Visa and decided to wear the new dress to meet Sal at Mama Mello’s. She didn’t have a strapless bra, so she went without one. Another first, but damned if her boobs weren’t perky enough to look fine beneath the gathered elastic.
Ten minutes later, she stepped into Mama Mello’s and found Sal sitting at the bar with one of the most gorgeous women she’d ever seen.
And that’s when she got a wriggly feeling that wouldn’t leave her.
Chapter Eighteen
When Rosemary walked into Mama Mello’s their last Friday together, time stood still. As in Sal could almost hear the tinny seconds tick off from the clock keeping track of the few moments he had left with the southern girl who’d rocked his world.
Angelina moved beside him, her dark hair swishing past his face as she turned to look at what had captured his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a V form between her eyes; he heard her measured breath, felt her register the situation.
“You know her?” Angelina asked, her blood-red fingernails scraping the bar.
He didn’t say anything, which seemed to annoy Angelina, because she gave a slight huff. But he didn’t care because once again Angelina sat uninvited in the middle of his world. Like a bad penny, she’d cropped up, contrived reason tumbling from her glossy lips. This time, his mother had asked Angelina to stop by Mama Mello’s to pick up Frangelico for a recipe. Supposedly his mother had graciously volunteered to teach Angelina to make Italian pastry. The thought behind the action made Sal’s skin crawl, but he’d complied, sliding behind the bar to hunt for the liqueur.
Angelina had taken his maneuver for an invitation and plopped her rounded ass down on a stool and started asking questions about culinary school, of all things.
“Was the school hard?” she’d asked.
“Not really. For a while I enjoyed it, but then it started seeming like the same thing every day—a bunch of stuff I already knew. I figured I could learn what I needed from Pops, so I quit going. Probably a stupid move because I find I use techniques they taught me all the time. Some of the menu items we’ve done well with evolved directly from a few of the classes.”
“But you won’t go back?”
He shrugged. “I’ve taken some specialty classes, but you know I like making pizzas. Guess some people find it stupid to limit myself to something like pizza, but I like the challenge of making an American staple complex and interesting.”
“I like them,” Angelina said, latching on to the passionate subject. “Especially the sauces.”
“Took me a while to find the perfect balance between sweet and tangy for the tomato base,” he said unscrewing the top of the bottle. “Why? You thinking of going to culinary school? Real estate a bust?”
She shook her head. “No, I wondered why you didn’t stick with school is all. You seem to l
ike cooking so much. Like it’s a true passion.”
Sal shrugged, filling the clean sauce jar with the liqueur his mother had requested, wondering about this new tactic of Angelina’s—interested chitchat. Was this another ploy to get him to lower his defenses, or had she accepted the fact he wasn’t interested? “I do. I feel more myself when I’m creating new pies. Probably the same way you feel when you show a place and sell it on the same day, right.”
“Real estate isn’t creative. Not really.”
“Yeah, but accomplishing a goal is,” he said, wondering why he told her this. But something in his own words resonated within him. He felt more himself when he was creating a dish . . . not running a restaurant. Not that he couldn’t run his own place, but he longed to do his own thing. He’d always be a Genovese, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t break out of the box a bit.
“So you doing something fun this weekend?” she asked, pointing at the zinfandel sitting behind him. “I’ll have a glass of that before I go to your mother’s.”
He shook his head when the bartender started for the bottle. “No worries, Kyle. I got it.”
Pulling out a clean stem, he poured Angelina a glass. Then he tilted his head and poured one for himself. He was off the clock and wouldn’t mind something to mellow him. “I’ve got plans tonight and Saturday, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m going to Bloomie’s with some girls tomorrow. Maybe hit a few clubs tomorrow night. If you’re out, you should text me and come hang with us.”
He didn’t say anything, because meeting up with Angelina sounded as fun as going in for a prostate check . . . and likely just as uncomfortable.
Dreading this Sunday had become a hobby, but he hoped to give Rosemary and their short-lived love affair a perfect send-off by dinner at Tavern on the Green, the one place she’d mentioned wanting to dine at. Then they’d go dancing at the Hotel Morey rooftop bar. They’d started on that dance floor and he wanted to finish there. Full circle.
“Frances Anne and Bobby split, huh?” Angelina asked.
Had they? He hadn’t paid attention. His spare thoughts had been occupied and he hadn’t engaged his sister in much conversation since she’d been so judgmental about Rosemary. He knew Frannie knew he was miffed. He didn’t really care, because he’d been avoiding anything that reminded him of the reality of his world, which included skipping Mass and Sunday lunch last week. “Huh.”
