204 Rosewood Lane

by Debbie Macomber

  Doing his best to control his irritation, Jack decided he could go without his morning toast. It would be good for his waistline. However his attitude didn’t improve when he discovered that Eric had used up most of the hot water for his own shower and then thrown in a load of wash.

  Unaware that the hot water tank was empty, Jack stepped into the stall and turned on the water, only to be drenched in icy spray. Yelping, he slammed open the glass door, scrambled out and grabbed a towel. Unfortunately it was damp from Eric’s shower. His son had managed to use both towels, so there wasn’t a dry one for Jack.

  “That does it!” he shouted, flinging down the towel. When Eric had first come to live with him, it was supposed to be for a few days. This had gone on for weeks now, and Jack was putting an end to it.

  His disposition was quickly moving from irritation to outrage as he tried to dress, still wet from the shower. Twice he had to stop and take deep breaths in order to calm his thundering heart. As far as he could see, Eric and Shelly were at a stalemate. Neither one of them was going to budge. Jack had hoped they’d patch things up on Thanksgiving Day at Olivia’s. Unfortunately, Shelly had refused the invitation.

  Eric had tried to hide his feelings, but they were all too transparent. His son had pinned his hopes on seeing Shelly over the Thanksgiving holiday, and her refusal had left him reeling. He was convinced she was involved with someone else now. That was when Jack had convinced Eric to visit a fertility clinic. Following the visit, Eric had gone into a depression that had lasted for days.

  Not knowing what else to do, Jack felt he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. By the time he reached the newspaper office, he’d formed a plan of action. He was going to call Shelly himself.

  Luckily he had her work number, and when they connected, he suggested they meet for dinner. Shelly agreed and they set a time, choosing a place on the Seattle waterfront. Things had to change, and quickly. For his son’s sake…and his own.

  At six-thirty that same day, Shelly met Jack at the fancy seafood restaurant. She’d already been seated and was waiting for him. She hadn’t seen him yet and he took advantage of the moment to study her. Shelly was a pretty girl, petite and fragile-looking, especially now. Jack was surprised to see that she was already wearing a maternity top. Easy enough to guess that she was pregnant.

  “Hello, Shelly,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before sitting across from her.

  “Mr. Griffin.”

  “Please,” he insisted, “call me Jack.”

  “All right.” She lowered her gaze, apparently reading the menu, but Jack had the feeling she already knew what she wanted to order. He knew what he wanted. The crab cakes were excellent. But this meeting wasn’t about crab cakes or any other menu item.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I called you,” Jack said as he set aside the menu.

  “I assume it has to do with Eric.” Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “How is he?”

  “Not great,” Jack told her. “He misses you.”

  Shelly looked toward the pier and the expanse of black inky water beyond. “I miss him, too.” Her voice was soft.

  “Was my son always such a slob?” Jack tossed in the question, hoping for a lighter mood. Eric could well have come by it naturally. His own lack of orderliness had never bothered Jack much, but Eric’s drove him to distraction. Besides, Eric far surpassed him in any slob competition.

  “Always,” Shelly said with the beginning of a smile. “I’m the organized one. Is he eating all right?”

  It probably wasn’t a good idea to admit his son was eating him out of house and home. “He seems to be doing just fine in that department. How about you?”

  Shelly smiled a little more, and Jack noticed how pale she was. “I’m constantly hungry. I’ve never had an appetite like this in my life. I have breakfast and then by midmorning I’m so ravenous I have a second breakfast.”

  That explained why she was already into maternity tops. The poor girl had turned to food to help her through this difficult time. Jack wished he knew what to say.

  “Have you talked to Eric recently?” he asked, carefully broaching the subject.

  “No…we haven’t spoken since a week before Thanksgiving.”

  “Then you don’t know.” Jack’s heart fell. So Eric hadn’t told her.

  “Know what?”

  “I convinced Eric to visit one of those fertility clinics and have his sperm tested. You claim this baby is his, and Eric says it can’t be because of something a doctor told us years ago.”

  Shelly brightened immediately. “That was a great idea. Then he knows the baby is his.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Jack glanced around, surprised they hadn’t seen a waiter yet. As if on cue, the man stepped forward. Jack asked for coffee and the crab cakes; Shelly ordered the garden salad, with extra ranch dressing on the side, chicken fettuccini Alfredo, plus an order of garlic-and-cheese bread. Jack suspected that if desserts had been listed on the main menu, she would have ordered that, too.

  “Explain what you meant about Eric. If he went to the clinic, then he must know he’s the baby’s father,” Shelly pressed. She spread the linen napkin over her lap and smoothed it out vigorously, as if a wrinkle were cause for disciplinary action. Her face was tight with anxiety.

  “According to the report, the likelihood of Eric fathering children is highly improbable.” Jack hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he assumed Eric had told her. He’d figured their subsequent conversation, more than the report, was the cause of his son’s depression. “I read the clinic’s report myself. His sperm count is very low. There is a minuscule possibility he fathered the child, but he doesn’t see that. All he read were the words highly improbable.”

  Shelly lowered her eyes and Jack wondered if she was struggling not to weep. “That explains a great deal,” she whispered.

  “Oh?” Jack didn’t mean to pry, but if she was going to volunteer the information…

  “It explains why he hasn’t called me. He doesn’t believe the baby’s his. He obviously thinks I cheated on him, and I resent that. His lack of faith in me is very hurtful, Jack.” She stared down at the table. “But despite all that, he’s continuing to make the rent payments. He knows I can’t handle them with what I’m earning.”

  Jack wanted to groan out loud. While he appreciated the fact that Eric was generous, it also meant it could be years before he moved out on his own. Jack was stuck with his son.

  “I told Eric not to, that I’d make the payments on my own, but he’s still covering the rent.” She paused, shaking her head. “I’m grateful. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to manage rent plus everything else.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt here,” Jack said, “but I need the truth. Is Eric the father of your baby?”

  For the first time Shelly’s eyes met his. “This baby is your son’s. As soon as he or she is born, I’ll be able to prove it without a doubt. Until then, I don’t think it would do any good for Eric and me to see each other again.”

  That answered Jack’s other question even before he had the opportunity to ask. “I see.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Jack,” she said quietly. “I appreciate it. But it doesn’t matter what that clinic told Eric. Because I know differently. I’ll be giving birth to the evidence in less than five months.”

  By the end of dinner, Jack didn’t feel any closer to a solution. When he arrived home, Eric was sitting in front of the television eating from a large bag of potato chips.

  “You’re late,” his son said, keeping his gaze focused on the television.

  “I had dinner with Shelly in Seattle.”

  Eric reached for the remote control and turned off the TV. “You were with Shelly?” He frowned at Jack, as if waiting for him to elaborate. “Did she call you?” he finally asked.

  “I called her.” Jack shrugged off his raincoat and considered the best way to approach this dilemma.

 
“Did you tell her about the sperm test?” Eric demanded. His son was on his feet now, outrage flashing from his eyes.

  “There wasn’t any bread left this morning,” Jack said, “and the hot water was used up and then both towels were wet and—”

  “You broke my trust because I ate the last stale piece of bread in the house? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No… I was hoping that if I reasoned with Shelly, we might clear this up once and for all.”

  “If you want me out of here, all you have to do is ask.” Eric stormed into what had once been the spare bedroom.

  “I didn’t say I wanted you to move out,” Jack said, but his words held little conviction.

  “Not a problem, Dad,” Eric said, rushing out of the room a minute later with his duffel bag. Clothes spilled out from all sides. “I’m out of here. You weren’t much of a father when I needed one as a kid. I don’t know what made me think you’d be any different now.”

  Jack groaned in frustration. He’d made a mess of this when all he’d been trying to do was get their lives back to normal. “Eric, listen, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Eric repeated as if this was the most ridiculous comment he’d ever heard. “It’s a little late for that. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you anymore.”

  With that, he was gone and Jack wondered how long it would be before he heard from his son again.

  Cedar Cove was a wonderful place to be at Christmastime, Maryellen mused as she opened the gallery the first Friday in December. Evergreen boughs were strung along both sides of Harbor Street and large festive candy canes hung from each of the streetlights. The gallery itself was decorated with tiny white lights and elegantly draped swags of spruce that scented the air. It was the smell of Christmas to Maryellen, the smell she associated with childhood holidays—and with her father. She had a sudden sharp memory of him, bringing in a fresh Christmas tree, stamping snow from his feet. Maryellen blinked back unexpected tears.

  For some reason, she found herself thinking of Jon. It’d been two weeks since Maryellen had last seen him, but, she suspected it wouldn’t be long before he arrived at the gallery with more of his photographs. Especially since she hadn’t brought them with her when she’d left his house. Maryellen had done her best to prepare emotionally for this next confrontation. She couldn’t allow what had happened to taint their business relationship. A thousand times since that night she’d wanted to kick herself for giving in to her baser instincts. She had plenty of excuses to justify her actions, but time and truth had knocked down every one of them. It wasn’t the wine or the moonlight, nor could she blame Jon for seducing her. She’d been fully involved.

  Almost as if Jon was aware that she was thinking of him, he showed up shortly after the gallery officially opened for business. Maryellen was busy with a customer when he came into the large open studio. She noticed that he had two framed photographs with him and guessed there were more in his vehicle.

  Maryellen was still waiting on the customer as Jon made a second and then third trip, carrying photographs into the back room.

  “I’m going to think it over,” Mrs. Whitfield said.

  It took Maryellen a moment to realize the doctor’s wife was referring to the watercolor she’d been considering as a Christmas gift for her husband.

  “That’ll be fine,” Maryellen said. Then, with far too little warning, she was alone in the back room of the gallery with Jon.

  “Hello,” she said stiffly, doing her best to remain cordial and polite. Before leaving his house, she’d told him their relationship, from that point forward, would be strictly business. She’d meant it.

  “Hello.” His eyes probed her with such intensity she looked away.

  “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “The sky’s a dull gray and it’s threatening to rain.”

  She smiled weakly. Obviously, small talk wasn’t working, but when had it ever with this man? “I see you’ve brought me a few pictures.”

  “These are the ones you left at my house. If you hadn’t been in such a rush—”

  “I appreciate your bringing them by,” she said, cutting him off before he could say something else to remind her of that evening.

  “I came for another reason,” he said. He tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His pacing was making her nervous, and then she realized he was nervous, too. He stopped abruptly. “Are you free Sunday afternoon? There’s a dinner train I’ve always wanted to take and I was hoping you’d agree to come as my guest.”

  This was exactly what Maryellen had feared was going to happen. She held her breath so long that her lungs began to ache. “Thank you, but no.”

  “No?” He sounded hurt and confused.

  “I meant what I said earlier. It’s important that our relationship not become personal.”

  He frowned. “A little late for that,” he muttered.

  She ignored his remark. “I’m not interested in seeing you outside the gallery.” She couldn’t make it any plainer than that.

  “You were the one who invited me to the Halloween party.”

  “I know, and that was a mistake. The first of several. Listen, Jon, this is all rather embarrassing and awkward, but I’d consider it a favor if you forgot all about what happened.”

  His frown darkened. “That’s really what you want?”

  “Please.”

  It looked as though he was going to argue with her, but then he shook his head. “I don’t have any other choice do I?”

  “I know. Again, I’m sorry.”

  “Fine, whatever.”

  Maryellen wrote him a receipt for the pictures and held it out to him.

  An uncomfortable moment passed before he took the slip, turned and walked out of the gallery. As soon as he was gone, Maryellen closed her eyes and released her pent-up tension in the form of a deep sigh. She sagged onto the stool and tried to compose herself.

  “Just a minute here,” Jon said, bursting back inside the room. “I don’t do a good job of pretending. Maybe you can forget what happened, but I can’t. Dammit, Maryellen, what we had was good. Surely you can see that?”

  “No, I can’t. Please don’t make things any more difficult than they already are.” She should’ve known he wouldn’t be willing to drop this.

  “I’m not the one making things difficult—you are. Let’s meet and talk this out. You decide when and where.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Jon said, pacing again. The old boards creaked beneath his feet as he walked around a gorgeous blue porcelain vase she was getting ready to display. “If you want to pretend it didn’t happen, fine, be my guest, but I can’t. I wish to God I could because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About us….”

  “Rest assured the matter is out of my mind.”

  He snorted at that, recognizing her remark for the lie it was. “If you gave us a chance,” he argued, “you might discover we have something worthwhile here.”

  “I doubt it,” she said as blandly as she could, wanting him to assume that this conversation was boring her. “I’m afraid you’ve misread the situation.”

  He stared at her. “You do this sort of thing on a regular basis?”

  She laughed, hoping to sound amused when in reality she felt humiliated and ashamed. “Not in a while… Jon, I’m sorry if you read more into our night together than you should have, but—”

  “I know, I know,” he said and raised his hands to stop her. “I get the picture.”

  She sincerely hoped he did.

  “Our relationship is strictly business.”

  She nodded, forcing herself to smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.

  He slowly surveyed the back room of the gallery. “That being the case, I won’t trouble you again.”

  “I appreciate that, Jon,” she said gratefully.

  “Will you mail me a check once the photographs sell?�
� he asked.

  Maryellen didn’t immediately make the connection. “Mail you a check? You mean you won’t be in again?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said starkly.

  “Ah…” He had her flustered now. “That’s exactly why I wanted to keep the personal out of this! There’s no need to end our professional relationship, is there? I mean, your pictures are wonderful, really wonderful, and— You will let someone else drop off your work, won’t you?”

  The question fell between them and hung there for several tense seconds. While she waited for him to consider her solution, Maryellen clenched her hands behind her back. This wasn’t what she wanted. She was proud to display his photographs. His work brought in customers and paid him well. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. A business relationship.

  Jon held her gaze, and in him she saw anger and regret.

  “I think it’s time I made arrangements with another gallery,” he said with a shrug that looked anything but casual.

  Maryellen bit back words that would ask him to reconsider, that would plead with him to stay. In a small voice she managed, “If this is what you prefer, then I can only wish you the best.”

  “It isn’t what I’d prefer,” he told her flatly. “It’s what you want. Goodbye, Maryellen.”

  A thickness formed in her throat as Jon turned and for the second time started to leave. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, turning back. He walked quickly toward her. “Don’t worry,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t plan to bother you again, but I would like one last memory before I go.”

  “What?” she asked, her voice trembling, reacting to the shock of his touch.

  “This,” he said hoarsely. Then he kissed her as if it was the only thing that had been on his mind from the moment she’d dashed out of his home. His kiss was hard and hot and unbearably slow. By the time he tore his mouth from hers, the blood was pounding in her ears.

  Maryellen tried to prevent herself from giving him the satisfaction of a response, but when he released her, she staggered back two steps and gasped for air. Her hand went to her throat in an instinctive reaction.