Loving Jessie

by Dallas Schulze

  “When a woman feeds a man a filet mignon and plies him with fine cognac, there’s got to be an ulterior motive.”

  His smile took any sting away from the words, but Jessie flushed guiltily, and her fingers tightened around the rose she held, bruising the peach-toned petals.

  This was Matt, she reminded herself. Never mind that she was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was really amazingly attractive sitting there, with his dark hair just a little tousled and his eyes questioning. What mattered was that he was one of her dearest friends. She could talk to him about anything. Ask him anything.

  She lifted her eyes to his face and felt her nerves steady a little. “It’s…it’s sort of…unusual and rather…personal.”

  Matt shook his head and smiled gently. “What is it, Jess?” he asked softly. “What do you want?”

  “A baby.” She blurted it out, then drew a deep breath and repeated it more steadily. “I want a baby.”

  DALLAS SCHULZE

  Loving Jessie

  www.mirabooks.co.uk

  To Kathy, my very best friend.

  Prologue

  She hadn’t planned on becoming the world’s oldest living virgin. She hadn’t taken any vows of celibacy or burned any incense on the altar of eternal purity. But here she was, just a few months away from her thirtieth birthday and still pure as the driven snow. Dammit.

  Giving up on sleep, Jessica Sinclair sat up in bed, resting her chin on her bent knees as she stared into the darkness. She had no one to blame but herself, she thought gloomily. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had opportunities. She’d dated—nice men, attractive men who would have been more than willing to take her to bed. But it wasn’t sex or the lack thereof that was bothering her.

  At least that wasn’t all it was, she amended with a sigh. You weren’t supposed to miss what you’d never had, but it wasn’t like she didn’t have a pretty good idea of what she was missing. From magazine articles on how to become a multiorgasmic woman to movies filled with artfully shot scenes of exquisitely toned bodies writhing on silk sheets, sex wasn’t something you could remain ignorant about. So, yes, the sex was part of it, but there was so much more.

  A husband. A child. Family. She wanted the whole package.

  Which was why she was sitting here in the bedroom where she’d slept since childhood, alone, untouched, and likely to remain that way. It wasn’t that she’d been saving herself for marriage, but she’d wanted to give her heart before she gave her body. If it was an old-fashioned idea, she could blame it on the fact that she’d been raised by her grandfather and perhaps her thinking was a generation or two out of date. Still, there wouldn’t have been anything wrong with it if she hadn’t so foolishly given her heart to someone who didn’t want it.

  No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. He didn’t even know it had been given. No doubt he would have been astonished and embarrassed if he had any idea that her feelings for him went any deeper than friendship, which was why she’d been very careful never to let him suspect the truth—that little Jessie Sinclair had been in love with him since she was sixteen years old.

  Jessie closed her eyes for a moment, forcing back the sharp sting of tears. She wasn’t going to cry. God knew, she’d done more than enough of that over the years. Tears didn’t do anything but make her eyes swell and her nose turn red. Moving abruptly, she swung her legs off the bed and stood up. No more tears. She’d made that promise to herself the day she’d watched Reilly McKinnon marry another woman. And, in the five years since then, she’d kept that promise.

  The polished hardwood floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she walked to the window. It was long past midnight, but a full moon rode high in the cloudless sky, bathing her grandfather’s rose gardens with its pale light. It was midsummer and everything was in bloom, and she knew if she were to go outside and walk along the redwood-mulched pathways, the warm night air would be rich with the heady perfume of a hundred plants, a thousand blossoms. Just under her window was Blanchefleur, an old damask rose with a sweet scent. Her grandfather had planted it for her the year she turned fourteen—a rose to dream on, he’d told her. And she had. She couldn’t count the summer nights she’d spent curled up on the window seat, drinking in the rich scents and dreaming of the future.

  Jessie fingered the window latch hesitantly for a moment before slowly turning it and raising the window. Since her grandfather’s death six months ago, she’d spent a bare minimum of time in the garden, doing only what had to be done. The rose garden, especially, had been Leland Sinclair’s pride and joy, and the memories had been too raw and painful. But, tonight, as the summer-warm air flowed in, bringing with it the earthy smell of freshly watered soil and the sweet perfume of roses, the memories were sweet, too. There was pain there, an aching sense of loss for the man who had raised her from the time she was eight years old, but, breathing in the intoxicating mixture of scents, Jessie found herself smiling. Remembering.

  She sank down on the window seat and leaned her forearms on the sill, letting her eyes drift over the moon-kissed garden. Maybe it was losing her grandfather that had made her so aware of everything that was missing in her life. Without his companionship, the little house where she’d grown up seemed too big for one person. But the emptiness in the house couldn’t compare with the emptiness inside her.

  And, God, how she hated the maudlin sound of that.

  This was all Pamela Sue Jenkins’ fault, she thought, her mouth quirking in a half smile. Pammie Sue, with her perky blond hair and orthodontist-approved teeth and her two and a half kids. She’d been annoying when they were in high school together, and ten years hadn’t done anything to make her less so.

  Another bun in the oven, she’d burbled when Jessie ran into her at the supermarket today. Patting the slight bulge of her stomach, she’d smiled as though she’d invented pregnancy. When I told Joe the news, he was so tickled. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s hoping this one will be a boy. Not that he doesn’t love CeCe and Sammy Jo—his little angels, he calls them. She’d smiled indulgently at the little angels who were cheerfully dismantling a display of paper towels. Looking at them, Jessie thought that, at six and eight, they already looked a great deal too much like their mother—perky curls, protuberant blue eyes and all. Shame at the uncharitable thought made her smile warmer than it might otherwise have been as she offered her congratulations.

  Thanks. I suppose it’s silly but I’m really looking forward to having a baby around again. Pammie Sue sighed and batted her eyes sentimentally. I guess some women are born to be mothers. I admire women who have careers, the way you do, but I just don’t think I’d have the head for it. Her regret might have seemed more sincere if she’d looked a little less smugly content with her lot in life. She gave a tinkling laugh and patted her stomach again. I guess I’m just not cut out to be a driven career woman.

  Jessie could have pointed out that being a part-time dessert chef wasn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a high-pressure career but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. All she really wanted was to escape from Pammie Sue while she could still keep her own smile in place, while she could pull enough air into her lungs to murmur congratulations one more time, while she still had enough self-control to conceal the green tide of jealousy that was welling up inside, threatening to choke her with pure acid.

  She had thought she’d managed to put the incident behind her. Deep breathing on the way to the parking lot and a few minutes spent sitting in the summer-hot car while she made a mental list of all the wonderful things in her life and she felt she’d gotten it under control. Having a baby wasn’t the only route to fulfillment for a woman these days. She had a successful, if not terribly demanding, career, and, thanks to her grandfather, i
f she was moderately careful, she didn’t have to worry about money. She had her own home, absorbing hobbies, good friends and her health. Really, her life was practically perfect, she’d told herself as she turned the key in the ignition.

  But there was something about the dark hours after midnight that stripped away all the pretty wrapping from the picture she’d painted, and Jessie blinked against the hot sting of tears. The truth was, she would have given almost anything to have what Pamela Sue had. Well, not the perky hair or chipper little voice, she thought. But a husband and a child. A family of her own.

  And she could have had just that, if only she hadn’t allowed a childhood crush to grow into something much stronger and then allowed herself to half believe that, if she put her whole heart and soul into wishing, this particular dream could come true. Life didn’t work that way. Wanting something wasn’t enough to make it happen.

  Unfortunately, once she’d given her heart, she didn’t know how to take it back, even when it became clear that it was an unwanted gift. No, she corrected herself. Not unwanted—unnoticed. Even if Reilly hadn’t married his damned beauty queen, he would never have seen her as anything more than the little girl who’d spent years tagging along after him and his best friend, Matt. In a way, the affection Reilly felt for her hurt more than if he’d hated her. At least there was passion in hatred.

  Sighing, Jessie slid lower on the window seat, resting her head on her folded arms, eyes closed as she listened to the quiet. So, here she was, she thought again, staring thirty in the face, still as pure as the driven snow and likely to stay that way unless she did something about it. Maybe she couldn’t change the way she felt. Over the years, she’d tried and had found that the heart, once given, was not easily persuaded in another direction. But just because she could never have the man she loved, did that mean she couldn’t have any of her dreams?

  A husband, a child. You didn’t have to have the first to have the second.

  Her eyes popped open as the idea whispered slyly in her ear. These days, you didn’t have to have a man in your life to have a baby. She sat up, feeling something like excitement tingle in her blood. It wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, but sometimes you had to adjust your dreams to fit reality.

  A baby. A child of her own. A family. There were ways to get that without having a man as a permanent part of your life. She didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about it, but it couldn’t be all that difficult. So maybe life hadn’t turned out the way she’d planned. That didn’t mean she couldn’t make a new set of plans.

  Life was a hell of a thing. You made plans, followed through on them, saw things go pretty much the way you’d wanted—and found out that nothing was the way you’d thought it would be.

  Reilly McKinnon braced his elbows on his knees and contemplated the pattern in the faded rug at his feet. Ugly sucker, he thought. It was supposed to be something special—an Audubon? No, that was the bird people. Aubusson. That was what it was. Dana had been tickled pink when she found it, said it would be the perfect thing for his study. It was all right, he supposed. Most of the time he didn’t notice it at all, but, when he did, he couldn’t figure out why anyone would pay so much money for a rug that looked like it was half-worn-out already. But Dana had been so pleased when it was unrolled on the oak floor that he’d made lots of noises about how beautiful it was and how it was just what he’d been wanting.

  That had been the first year they were married, and he would have let her paint his den pink with green polka dots if it made her smile. Still would, for that matter, he admitted with a sigh. But these days it took a lot more than paint or a worn-out piece of carpet to make her eyes sparkle. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her look completely happy. No, that wasn’t true. He could remember exactly when things had changed—and why.

  Reilly stood abruptly, coiled energy forcing him into action, even if it was only to pace across the room and back. It was late, long past midnight, and the big house was quiet around him. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights except a single table lamp, the dim light suiting his mood. It was easier to brood in the dark, he thought, with a brief flash of bleak humor.

  He had no one to blame for the state of his marriage but himself. He was a fool, a twice damned, dumb-as-a-rock fool. Leaning one elbow on the stone mantelpiece, he closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose, trying to soothe the ache building there. One mistake. One incredibly stupid, unforgivable mistake and he’d lost the best thing in his life.

  Opening his eyes, Reilly looked at the half-dozen photos on the mantelpiece. God, it was like looking at a museum dedicated to better times, he thought. His parents the year before his father died; a formal wedding portrait of him and Dana, the ivory silk of her wedding gown fanned out behind them, her face tilted to give him a smile of such incredible beauty that, even five years later, it made his breath catch. A snapshot of her that he’d taken on their honeymoon, her eyes bluer than the Mediterranean Sea behind her, her expression bright with happiness. It had been a long time since he’d seen that look in her eyes.

  His chest tight, he looked away, focusing on the photo next to it. It was a picture of two young men and a girl. All three were smiling at the camera, looking as if they might burst into laughter at any minute, which was probably exactly what had happened as soon as the camera clicked. His mouth relaxing in a half smile, Reilly lifted the frame and carried it over to the sofa, where the light was better. Sinking down on the soft leather, he studied the picture, letting memory wash over him.

  God, he’d been young then. They all had. He and Matt had been…what? Twenty-three or four, maybe? Which meant Jessie couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. She was all legs and big brown eyes, toffee-colored hair caught up in a ponytail. It had been summer, and the three of them had been on their way to the coast. He and Matt had promised to teach Jessie to surf. He remembered how they’d teased her, telling her she couldn’t be a California girl if she didn’t know how to surf. Her grandfather had snapped the picture of the three of them standing in front of Matt’s ancient pickup, surfboards just visible in the background.

  His smile widened as the memories rolled back. The radio in Matt’s truck had been broken, so they’d spent most of the hour-long drive to the coast murdering songs by the Beach Boys, making up lyrics and inventing harmonies that would have made Brian Wilson beg for mercy.

  The surfing lessons had been only marginally successful. He didn’t think Jessie had ever managed to stay upright on her surfboard for more than five consecutive seconds. He and Matt had spent most of the day fishing her out of the Pacific. Matt had, anyway. If he remembered correctly, he’d spent most of the afternoon trying to pry a phone number out of a statuesque redhead in a hot-pink bikini. He’d long since forgotten the redhead’s name and face, but he could still remember the way he and Matt and Jessie had laughed on the way home, stumbling through endless verses of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

  They’d had some good times together, he thought, some really good times. It had never seemed to matter that Jessie was so much younger than he and Matt, or that she was a girl. She’d just…fit in, somehow. Part little sister, part friend. And Matt. Matt had been his best friend from fifth grade through college and beyond. Still was, Reilly guessed, even though they hadn’t seen each other in…how long had it been? Still holding the picture, he let his head fall back against the soft leather of the sofa while he tried to recall the last time Matt had been home. Three years? Four? Hell, the last time he’d seen Matt was when he flew in from way the hell and gone to be best man at the wedding. Five years. It was hard to believe it had been that long. A couple of phone calls, half-a-dozen postcards sent from parts of the world no sane tourist would willingly visit—they’d kept in touch in that out-of-touch way men favored.

  Apart from spending a few years in some fancy cooking school in Paris, Jessie had stayed in Millers Crossing, and he still saw her fairly of
ten. Well, now and again, anyway. Frowning, Reilly tried to remember the last time he’d seen her. Fourth of July, maybe? The whole town had turned out for the annual barbecue, and he and Dana had run into Jessie waiting in line for a churro—a sweet fried twist of dough that was a specialty in the Hispanic community. He remembered he’d teased her about checking out the competition, and she’d laughed. That was a month ago and, before that…before that, the last time he’d seen her was at her grandfather’s funeral in February. Funny, how you could lose track of the people you cared about, even when they were right under your nose.

  God, he was tired. It was late. Dana was upstairs, asleep in the bed they still shared. He could go up and join her, but what was the point? It wasn’t as if she cared one way or another. She hadn’t said as much, hadn’t suggested by so much as a word or a glance that she would rather he moved into another room, but he doubted she would offer any argument if he made the suggestion.

  Reilly let his eyes close, let tiredness wash over him. What he wouldn’t give to be that twenty-three-year-old kid in the photo again—his whole life ahead of him, a second chance. Wouldn’t it be great to have nothing more important to worry about than how many bottles were remaining on that mythical wall?

  Matt Latimer shuddered faintly as he splashed the last few ounces of twenty-one-year-old Chivas into a plastic tumbler. Should have kept out a glass when he was packing stuff up to give to Goodwill, he thought, contemplating the warm amber liquor through the clear plastic. He didn’t mind eating pizza straight out of the box, but when you started drinking good scotch out of plastic, could the end of civilization be far behind? Shrugging, he lifted the glass. What the hell, civilization hadn’t really lived up to its promise, anyway.

  With the first swallow of scotch warming him from the inside, he looked around the apartment he’d called home for the last eight years. No, actually, he couldn’t remember ever calling it home. It was just the place where he lived in those brief, restless intervals between assignments. Up until recently, he didn’t think he’d ever spent more than two consecutive weeks here, and the past few months of more or less enforced residence hadn’t exactly inspired him with warm and fuzzy feelings for the place. Still, it seemed as if, after eight years, there should be some evidence left of his occupation, even if his belongings were already packed, waiting to be loaded into his Jeep in the morning.