by E C Sheedy
Love Letters, Inc.
The Author's Cut Edition
by
EC Sheedy
writing as Carole Dean
This edition has been updated and expanded by the Author.
Previously published as Summer Rose.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright 1997, 2011 by Edna Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You.
For Vera, Doddie, and Nat, the very best of friends.
There can never be too many August weekends.
~
And for Cody, who waits for me by the Rainbow Bridge.
Chapter 1
"Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon, you're certifiable."
Rosie grinned but didn't look away from her computer screen. "Must be bad if you're bringing the full weight of my Celtic heritage to bear, Jonesy. What's the problem?"
"You're broke. Flatter than a cheap perm."
"Uh-huh." Using her foot, Rosie rubbed the belly of the Irish wolfhound sprawled at her feet. He stretched and groaned his appreciation.
"You have the income of a poet and you're spending like a Hilton."
Rosie raised her eyebrows and scanned her modest home office, which she affectionately called Litter Hill. A Hilton wouldn't use it for shoe storage. Still, it was Rosie's and it was home. She loved it. And so did Font, the one hundred and twenty pound heap of canine currently taking up all unused floor space.
"Well, keep it to yourself, okay?" She squinted at the screen, for now jacked up on a plastic tomato crate, and pushed her glasses up her nose. "Wouldn't want it on my head if bank stocks plummet."
"I'm surprised your bank hasn't already," Jonesy said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You're not taking this seriously, you know."
"You're serious enough for both of us. And I want to get this section done before noon. Hennessy's coming by with more projects." She shoved her hair back and off her forehead, but it did no good. Masses of screeching red hair, wildly curly, swirled around her face and brushed against her skin. Skin that was the site of an ongoing war for territory between creamy alabaster and golden freckles. For now, it being late spring, the alabaster was winning.
A distinct "ahem" brought Rosie's attention back to her longtime friend and accountant. Resigned to a lecture, she rotated her upper body to face a still glaring Jonesy.
"Okay, I give up. Why am I certifiable?"
"You've lost a lot of time—and money—as a result of your surgery and convalescence. The result being these." She waved a hand over the table she'd been working on. It was piled high with unpaid bills. "As a technical writer, you work by the hour, right?"
"Right."
"And Moore Write wants to give you more work, right?"
"Right again." Rosie would have nodded, but the neck brace she was wearing precluded so much as a dip of her chin. She ran her index finger between it and her itchy neck. Damn thing!
"But instead of taking the more lucrative work to make up for lost time, you're writing love letters for the dating impaired for pennies a pop."
"Hey, that's not fair. My clients—"
"Humph!"
Rosie gave her a stern look. "I repeat, my clients are not, as you so callously put it, 'dating impaired.' If they were, they wouldn't have anyone to write to, would they?"
"Cyrano Inc. is an idea gone wrong. It's been over a month now and you have nothing to show for it. Your skills would be better employed elsewhere. Logic—and your current financial pickle—says your time should go to the highest bidder. And that, dear heart, is Moore Write Technical Inc. Economics, pure and simple." Jonesy clamped her lips firmly together and gave her a hard stare.
Rosie frowned. Jonesy was right, but it didn't matter. Cyrano Inc. might have started on a whim, but it had turned out to be oddly fulfilling. Telling someone—anyone—they were loved and desired was a ton more interesting than writing, "If all else fails, check your power source. You may have neglected to plug in."
And writing the letters gave her hope.
In the hospital, she'd become acutely aware someone was missing from her bedside crowd of friends and colleagues—a very special someone. Okay, maybe it had been just post-op blues, but it had made her think about what she wanted from life. Or to be exact, who she wanted from life.
At twenty-eight, after what seemed a lifetime of trial-and-error dating, she'd struck out. Maybe writing anonymous love letters was a bit off-the-wall, but at least her customers didn't have to check their wiring. They were already connected, which was more than could be said for her. That was about to change—and soon.
Rosie had an agenda.
She was going to find her special someone, and nothing was going to stand in her way. For once she was going to listen to her mother. She could hear her now: "When you really want something, Rosaleen, visualize it clearly, develop a practical plan, then do the work necessary to get it."
Of course, she'd been talking about financial and career success at the time—when wasn't she?—but what the heck, the advice was still good, and, besides, the definition of success, and career, for that matter, was definitely subjective. Much as her mother would like it to be otherwise, Rosie didn't want a trendy career, she wanted the perfect man. And when this Meccano set came off her neck, she was going to get him.
"And another thing," Jonesy wasn't finished.
Rosie groaned.
"Sell this place. The mortgage is killing you."
"But it's doing wonders for the Font." Rosie nudged the inert mound of dog with her toe. He didn't move. "He's like a pup since we moved here."
Jonesy looked skyward and did that funny thing with her lips, which involved pursing and lip chewing while drawing in a deep breath. Rosie tried not to grin.
"So, you're telling me you won't stop wasting your time on Cyrano, you won't sell this money pit of a farmhouse, and you won't take more contracts from Moore Write?"
"Right. On two out of three."
Jonesy's gaze didn't waver.
"I will—read my lips, Jonesy—I will take on more work from MooreWright. Hennessy says they've just signed a contract to update their computer-training manuals. If I get a piece of that project, it'll see me through to the next millennium—or make my next mortgage payment. Whichever comes first." She arched her brows. "Happy now?"
Jonesy's stern expression turned to worry. "Burning the midnight oil isn't the answer, Rosie. It's too soon after your surgery. What you need to do is prioritize—"
"Ugh, I hate that word. It sounds like something involving rubber gloves and suction."
Jonesy threw u
p her hands. "I quit. I just quit."
"Good. Then I can get back to work." She pointed to her computer. "This is for Moore Write, after all. Real top-dollar stuff, Jonesy. Honestly."
Jonesy snapped her laptop closed. "Have them send the cash directly to the nearest poorhouse. Maybe they'll give you an early-bird discount if you book your room in advance."
Rosie laughed. "You're damn sharp for a bean counter, you know that? Now go, already, and let me get to work."
Jonesy stood and gathered up her computer and papers. That done, she looked down at Rosie. "How's the back, anyway? Better?"
"Much. It won't be long until this—" she touched the metal brace encasing her neck "—gets recycled into a plant stand. The doctor says from then on, back flips and somersaults are definitely out, but other than that, life returns to normal."
"Normal, huh?" Jonesy gave her a narrow look. "I wonder if your doctor has any idea what that word means applied to you."
Rosie's grin widened. "Go, Jonesy. Go! Thanks for the advice. I really will try to—what was that word again?"
"Prioritize?" Jonesy raised a skeptical brow.
"Right."
Jonesy headed to the door.
"And Jonesy?" Rosie called, still smiling.
She turned.
"Your check is in the mail."
* * *
Kent Summerton picked up the stack of mail on his desk and fanned through it impatiently. He pulled one letter out, cursed under his breath, and shoved it in his desk drawer. He turned another over in his hand and looked at the return address. No luck.
He tossed the whole stack back on his desk and ran a hand along the nape of his neck, where the tendons were tight as guy wires.
He wasn't surprised. Responding to the stupid ad had yielded exactly the results he'd expected. Zip. A waste of stationery. Cyrano, Inc. was probably one more one-ad brainchild of some hare-brained entrepreneur. He cursed again and massaged his neck muscles. He was beat, wrung out. He was thirty-two and felt like a hundred. Right now, if he had a choice between hot, mind-numbing sex and eight hours in the sack alone, alone would win. Not that he had time for either sleep or sex.
"Kent, can I see you a minute?"
Dressed in her usual dark suit and silk blouse, his assistant, Marlene Grant, waited just inside his open office door, holding a file and a notebook.
He admired Marlene. On the job. Too bad he couldn't admire her in a more intimate way. Puzzling, because she was ambitious, organized, and focused—all traits he respected in a woman—and she gave off all the right signals. Trouble was he had another woman on his mind, and he couldn't shake her loose. She was fast becoming an obsession.
"If you're busy, I'll come back later," Marlene said.
"No. Now's fine." He'd have to think about his "obsession" later. Right now, he had a business to run. He dropped the mail on the desk and waved her in. "Have a seat."
Still standing, he leaned to open his file drawer. "While you're here, we can review the food and beverage stats." Right about now, chewing a bundle of hay held more appeal, but it had to be done, and he was the only one around to do it.
She strode in, sat in the chair facing his desk, and crossed her legs. Kent's gaze ricocheted off them on its way to the files he was pulling from his drawer. Even her legs looked organized. Or maybe thirty-two marked the beginning of his sexual decline. On that dreary thought, he took his chair.
"Before the stats, could we discuss this proposal for a computerized tee system? It looks like a piece of junk to me, but Con just said he thinks it's a great idea." She put a thick file on his desk and shoved it toward him.
"Con's here?" Kent's head jerked up in time to catch Marlene's businesslike nod. Conrad York was his business partner—or so their partnership agreement said. Kent was starting to wonder. Lately, Con had taken to doing one hell of a disappearing act. Hadn't been around for a week. But today Kent had him. Just a blip on his sonar, maybe—but it was enough. "Marlene, could this meeting wait?"
She stood. "I'll come back at three." Her words dripped annoyance.
"Thanks." Kent was out the door and at the pro shop in seconds. Too late. Con was already on the third tee.
* * *
Rosie picked up the mail in the front hall before sinking gratefully into the big recliner by the fireplace. She rested her armored neck on the chair back and looked out over her fenced backyard. Beyond the fence lay twenty acres of pastoral heaven, a blurred mosaic of dandelions, clover, and untamed grass. Her neighbor's five cows viewed it more practically—as a salad—and were dining in fine style in the second pasture. The yard, the pasture, the crop of dandelions were all hers, and she loved them passionately.
Sell the place, Jonesy had said. Not in this lifetime, my dear friend. Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon intended to raise her children in this house. All she needed was the right man. She closed her eyes.
In the midst of a fantasy involving a hot-blooded Mr. Right intent on an afternoon sexcapade which included whipped cream, champagne, and a braceless Rosie, her bloodless computer burped a reminder to get back to work.
"Just a minute," she yelled. "I'm opening the mail."
She leafed through the windowed envelopes. Rosie figured if her name was spelled wrong, it was a solicitation; if it was spelled right, it was a bill. Both she saved for last or for never. She smiled. Who said she couldn't prioritize? After sorting, two pieces remained: a letter from Mary Poppins, the code name for one of her Cyrano customers, and a large envelope from The Morning Times which she knew would be responses to her most recent ad.
She tore it open and three letters fell out.
Not enough, Rosie girl, not nearly enough. The dismal thought neither dulled her curiosity nor dimmed her enthusiasm. The return address for one of the letters was Beachline Resort. She knew the place, a small but classy hotel with a golf course and a series of well-appointed cabins along a bluff not far from downtown Victoria, and maybe fifteen miles south of her own property. The breath-stopping views attracted anyone with money enough to afford them. Rosie had lunched there with a few of the MooreWrite people when she'd signed her contract with them, well over a year ago.
She tore open the letter.
Dear Mr. /Ms. Cyrano:
I read your ad in The Morning Times and would like to discuss same. Please call or write to arrange an appointment with me in my office at your earliest convenience. A prompt reply would be appreciated. Thanking you, I remain,
Yours truly,
K.L. Summerton
General Manager
Rosie whistled softly. Definitely a buttoned-down type—and she wasn't thinking shirt collars. She shuddered. Ambitious suits weren't her style. But, running her ad in the financial pages, she should have expected this type of response, and there was always the chance Mr. Button-Down would pay well. As for meeting him in his office, it wasn't going to happen. She wouldn't be driving until her neck brace was in the nearest dumpster.
She glanced at the other responses; a fancy brochure from a company offering shared office space downtown, and a job application from an unemployed poet. Jonesy would love that. She grinned and pushed herself up from the chair.
"Okay, Mr. Button-Down, you're up," she announced.
Back in her office, she picked up her receiver and keyed the number from the letterhead.
"Beachline Resort." A woman's friendly voice smiled down the line. "May I help you?"
"Mr. Summerton, please." Rosie waited to the tune of a Strauss waltz. She was swaying to it and trying to identify it when a man's deep voice broke the rhythm.
"Kent Sumerton here," he said, as if clipping the words from a dry branch. His tone was authoritative and had the immediate effect of making her square her shoulders.
"Mr. Summerton. I'm Rosie O'Hanlon, from Cyrano, Inc. You asked that I call to arrange an appointment and I—"
"Tomorrow morning would be good for me. This afternoon would be even better," he said, his voice brusque to the point of rude
ness.
Rosie held the receiver in front of her, frowned at it, and returned it to her ear. Definitely a button-down. "I don't make house calls, Mr. Summerton. I generally do business by e-mail, snailmail, or telephone."
"This isn't business as usual. Your name again?"
"Rosie O'Hanlon."
"Miss, Mrs., or Ms.?" he asked, as if he were about to put a tick in a box.
Rosie considered telling him to use her first name but decided against it. "Miss," she said in as formal a tone as she could muster.
"As I was saying, Miss O'Hanlon, this is not business as usual. And even if I'm miles off track here, I figure it's worth a shot."
"I'm sorry, I don't follow you." What in heaven's name was the man talking about?
"What I'm trying to say is that I've been receiving letters from a woman named Gardenia. I'd like to know if she used your love letter service."
Rosie didn't hesitate. "My business is confidential. You'll have to ask your woman friend if she—"
"I don't have a woman friend—at least not in the sense you mean—so I can't ask. I have no idea who this Gardenia person is. That's why I'm talking to you, Miss O'Hanlon."
Chapter 2
"Oh." Rosie let the word seep through the line while she gathered her thoughts. "You mean they're anonymous letters?" she finally added, stating the obvious.
"You got it in one."
"Oh," she repeated, her feet firmly on shaky ground. She'd never figured on something like this. Still, there was no reason to believe someone using her service had initiated the letters. No reason at all.
"Is that the extent of your comments? 'Oh'?" he drawled.
Snide, she decided. The man was definitely snide. "I was thinking—"
"Sorry it's so difficult for you."
The roots of her red hair took fire. "Look, why don't you get a prescription for courtesy pills, take a leave of absence from that high-stress job of yours, and call me when you've rejoined the human race. Good-bye, Mr. Summerton." She hung up, teed off, but smugly pleased with herself.
