by E C Sheedy
* * *
About an hour later, when Rosie got up—much improved—Kent was still there. So was Jonesy. They were sitting at her kitchen table, looking at each other as if they'd discovered a new candy—and were just now finalizing the distribution system. Rosie's heart slipped silently into her socks. She knew they'd like each other. Economically speaking, they were a perfect pairing. Like the Dow Jones and Warren Buffet.
"Better?" Kent asked, getting up when she stepped into the room.
Rosie breathed deeply. Her sinuses had unclogged at last, and her voice was back to normal.
"Much. Thanks. I added a cold tablet to your mom's cure-all. I'm almost human." She tugged at the brace. "Or should I say humanoid."
"Won't be long before it's off, Rosaleen," Jonesy said, sipping her coffee and looking back and forth between her and Kent.
"No, not long." Rosie didn't sit. Instead, she ran a finger along the edge of the table. "I take it introductions aren't necessary."
They nodded and smiled at each other. "Now you've got company, I'll head back to work." He walked over to Rosie, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek, whispering, "Take care of yourself."
She swallowed, scarcely able to breathe. Her cheek was hot where his mouth had lingered. "I will." Was that thin, reedy voice truly hers? She cleared her throat.
"When do you expect to have the manual complete?" He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door.
"I don't know yet. I need to have another look at it. I'll let you know."
He nodded, and for a moment it looked as though he were going to say something, then he smiled at Jonesy who'd come up behind them. "Nice meeting you, Jonesy."
With that, he was gone.
When the door closed behind him, Rosie went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and watched him sprint through the rain to his car. He moved well, she thought, quick and fluid. Kent Summerton was a man in a hurry.
"Earth to Rosie. Earth to Rosie."
Rosie settled her gaze on Jonesy and blinked. "Sorry. Wool-gathering. What did you say?"
"I said who is that?"
Rosie headed for the kitchen and Jonesy followed her like a goose in formation. "I though you introduced yourselves."
"We did. I know his name, what he does, but that's it. I need more, Rosie. Much, much more."
"Like what?" She poured herself coffee.
"Like, for starters, how did you meet him?"
"Through Cyrano, Inc." Rosie could have bitten off her tongue.
"He's one of the dating-impaired. I don't believe it."
"It's a long story." And Rosie wasn't about to tell it. Not only would she have to field a barrage of I-told-you-so's from Jonesy; she'd be violating Kent's confidence.
"So what's my accounting crisis of the week?" Rosie asked, deciding her best course was a change of subject.
Jonesy ignored her. "You're infatuated."
Jonesy didn't believe in love, so Rosie guessed this was the best description she could come up with. "Nope. I'm in lust. Nothing more and nothing less."
"So?"
"So, what?"
"So, this is great news. This is what you want. Right?"
"I want lust?"
"It's the usual jumping-off point."
"Not for me."
"Rosaleen, are you crazy? The man's spectacular. He's a partner in a thriving business—in a growth sector of the economy—has a solid work ethic, owns his own home, and has well-laid plans for his future."
Rosie's mouth fell open. "You got all that in twenty minutes?"
"Just tell me. What can possibly be wrong?"
"Not a thing. He's perfect—for you, Jonesy. Go for it."
"Are you serious?" Her eyes narrowed in speculation.
"No, I'm not. Touch him and you're dead meat."
Jonesy smirked. "I thought so."
Rosie turned her coffee cup and stared at the delicate flowers painted around its base. "He doesn't like kids, Jonesy. I may lust after a man who doesn't like kids, but I could never love one."
* * *
Kent sat in the car and watched rain course down the windshield. He was thirty feet from the door of the club, but he couldn't make himself open the car door.
And what the hell had made him drive right past Beachline and land on Rosie's doorstep? He might as well have been on autopilot. That bit about his misplacing his phone was a crock. He'd wanted to see her. Had to see her. It was as simple as that.
Not simple at all.
The woman was a fertility goddess in training. He shuddered. Kids. She wanted kids, a whole scout troop of them. And she'd used them like garlic on vampire to ward him off. He admitted she'd been fair—and right. So why had he spent the whole weekend thinking about her? He had no intention of overworking a stork. They were about ten kids apart and would probably stay that way.
Unless...
Marlene rapped on the window. He opened it, and the damp air invaded the car like a sodden wind. "Kent, what are you doing sitting out here? Are you okay?"
She peered at him from under a huge golf umbrella. "Yeah, just thinking." And working up a Machiavellian plot to change a certain lady's mind about a bearing a child for every sign in the zodiac. He'd be doing her a favor. One good look at her "plan" in living, breathing color, and she'd backtrack faster than a tourist faced with a grizzly.
Marlene stepped back and he opened the door.
"Packard's waiting. He's threatening to walk off the project if you initiate the penalty clause."
She lifted the umbrella to accomodate his height, and he stepped under. "Let's go." He took Marlene's arm and headed for the door. Packard he could handle. Rosie he wasn't so sure of.
The meeting with Packard took less than half an hour, ending with the man's agreement to add more manpower and swallow some overtime costs. If he kept to his word, everything would be smooth sailing from here on in.
When he got back to his office, the first thing he did was rifle through his mail. Nothing from the mysterious Gardenia. And for the first time, he was disappointed.
He wasn't disappointed by his phone messages. Rosie had called. He picked up the phone and hammered in her number.
"Rosie?"
"Hey, Summerton, I just wanted to say thanks for the home remedy. It helped. I'm feeling better."
"I'm glad."
"In fact I felt good enough to crack open the Beachline manual. I've already got some questions and was wondering if I could call your pro shop. That's who manages tee times, right?"
"Right. But I'm sure I can answer most of them. Try me."
"Actually, I'd rather talk to the golf pro and the people who deal with the golfers on a day-to-day basis. If that's okay?"
"Sure, I'll let them know you'll be calling." He paused. "You know, it would be a good idea if you met the people here, got a feel for the place. Why don't I pick you up tomorrow—say around eleven. After you've made the rounds, I'll take you to lunch."
For a moment she was silent.
"Strictly business, right?" she said.
"Absolutely. You think I want to get myself tangled up with a woman who plans to spend the rest of her life in a delivery room?"
Another brief pause. "No. I don't think you do. Eleven will be fine."
He hung up, feeling smug. The plan—his plan—was in motion.
* * *
Rosie shoved a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear and watched Kent turn into her driveway. Font imitated a growl and glanced up at her. When she shook her head to tell him that guard dog duty wasn't called for, he lined up his gaze to match hers. Together they watched Kent Summerton drive the gravel path to the house, the sunlight bouncing off the polish of his high-powered car.
She waved and ignored the wobble in her knees, the rubbery muscles in her calves.
The car crunched up to the bottom step, and she started down.
"Are you always so prompt?" she asked, after he'd opened the door for her and she'd settled in the c
ar.
"A failing."
"Me, too."
He glanced at her and put the car in gear. His look was disbelieving, but he grinned. And naturally she went all quivery inside. And naturally it made her mad as heck.
"I was standing on the step waiting, or didn't you notice?" Even to her own ear she sounded nicely bitchy and proudly chagrined. She'd always wanted to be chagrined. She hoped it impressed him.
"I'd notice you if you were standing in Times Square on New Year's eve, O'Hanlon. I think we both know that."
That shut her up. She settled for silence until they were nearing Beachline and he started to tell her about the people she was going to meet.
Inside the club's impressive doors they were met by a frosted cookie named Marlene, who looked at Rosie as if she were a soggy-mouthed Rottweiler with one of Marlene's three hundred dollar Italian pumps clasped in her teeth. The pump, Rosie guessed, was Kent Summerton.
They shook hands with the showy enthusiasm of two rival politicians at a joint fundraising.
"Kent, I've been waiting for you," Marlene said, turning to Kent. "Con called. He said if you phone before eleven-thirty you can catch him at his hotel." She looked at her watch. "You've got five minutes."
Kent's expression hardened. "You'll have to excuse me, Rosie."
"No problem. I'm sure Marlene can point me in the right direction."
"Marlene, how about starting Rosie off in accounting? Introduce her to Susan. I'll catch up with you there."
Marlene nodded. She and Rosie moved toward the lair of bean counters and computers as Kent strode off, double-time, in the opposite direction.
Marlene and Rosie smiled at each other, showing enough straight, gleaming teeth to make a crocodile writhe in envy.
"How nice of you to make time to come and see us," Marlene said, not meaning a word of it.
"Nice to be here," Rosie said, then she giggled.
Marlene gave her a puzzled look.
"Sorry, I was just thinking how wonderfully vague the word 'nice' is. How it's so often used to say the exact opposite of what it means."
They stopped outside a door with a sign saying STAFF ONLY, and Marlene's smile fell from her face like snow from a tin roof. "Are you saying I'm insincere?"
"Uh-huh. But that's okay. If I had my cap set for Kent Summerton, I'd be leery of me, too."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do."
Marlene started to say something, then stopped. A tight smile bowed her lips. "I've got a flash for you, Miss O'Hanlon. Every woman in the place has her 'cap' set for Kent Summerton."
"But?" Rosie tilted her head. "There's a but in there somewhere. I can smell it."
"But it seems Kent has an aversion to 'caps' regardless of what woman's head it sits on. The only thing that turns him on is work, work, and more work."
"I know." Rosie sighed noisily. "And it is, as they say, a cryin' shame. All that good husband material going to waste."
Marlene gave her a searching look, then laughed. "You, too, huh?" She shrugged. "Well, all I can tell you is the line forms to the right, and it's damn long." She pushed open the door a couple of inches, then stopped. "You're all right, Rosie. It'll be fun working with you."
Rosie put out her hand, and Marlene took it. They both chuckled. "Lead on, Marlene. Nothing like the warmth and charm of a well-run accounting department to make me feel at home."
* * *
By the time Kent joined them, Marlene, Susan Lyle, and Rosie were sitting in Susan's office drinking coffee and laughing like schoolgirls. Actually, it sounded more like giggling. Not that any man in his right mind would accuse them of that. He was pretty sure women didn't "giggle" any more. When he stepped into the office, Susan, always shy and hesitant around him, sobered immediately and began fussing with the papers on her desk. He glanced past her to the clock behind her desk. Twelve-ten.
"Rosie, I promised you lunch. Are you done here?" If he read it right, they'd barely got started. At this rate it would take Rosie forever to finish this project, which was just fine with him. He'd take all the time with her he could get.
"Yes, and I'm starved." She stood, then turned back to Susan and Marlene. "When I'm finished with the manual, we'll celebrate, okay? Have dinner at my place and finish dissecting the inner workings of the opposite sex."
"We'll be there," Marlene said, answering for the always silent Susan.
"Oh, and Marlene? I'll send the first pages of the manual through on Friday. Have a look and let me know what you think."
* * *
In the dining room, Kent pulled out Rosie's chair and she settled in, looking both preoccupied and pleased with herself.
Within seconds Mae Smythe, Beachline's newest server, was at their table, smiling broadly, telling them the specials, and leaving menus. Inwardly, Kent groaned. If he'd hoped for privacy with Rosie, that hope was lost with Mae waiting their table. He knew from experience she'd be filling his water glass every five seconds.
"Good meeting?" Kent asked, setting aside the menu he could have recited in his sleep.
Rosie looked up. "Excellent. I like your people. Marlene's amazing. There isn't anything she doesn't know about this place. And Susan... Well, let's just say I think her DNA would show she's Jonesy's long-lost twin. Neat lady."
"Yes, they're both valuable Beachline employees, very committed to their careers."
Rosie lifted her eyes to meet his directly, their expression impish. "Not like some misguided women you know. Right, Summerton?"
"That's not—"
"May I take your order?"
Mae, accompanied by the clinking ice cubes in her water pitcher, arrived to hover over Kent's shoulder. He put his hand over his glass and nodded in Rosie's direction. Mae gave her a bright smile. After Rosie had her explain the ingredients that made the chicken special so special, they ordered.
"I'm not misguided, you know," Rosie said, turning her attention back to him. "I know exactly what I want, just as Marlene and Susan do. And I'm equally as committed to it."
He loved her eyes, so wide and honest, not a hint of subterfuge or guile. He'd never looked into eyes so blue, so filled with humor. He noticed then.
"Your glasses are fixed."
She touched the lower rim, then shot him an irritated look. "You're not listening again, Summerton. I was talking about my commitment."
"I know, but when did you get your glasses repaired?"
She rolled her eyes. "Saturday. Hennessy came and took me to the optometrist." She pierced him with a look. "Happy now?"
"You should have called me. I would have taken you."
"Are you crazy? Why would I call you?"
"Why did you call Hennessy?"
"Because he's my friend."
"So, what am I?"
Her lips moved, but nothing came out. "Good question, Summerton. A very good question."
"And one I'd like an answer to."
"You're a recent acquaintance."
"That's it?"
She looked at him as though he were in full military gear with a sack of land mines strapped to his back. The lady was cautious.
"Okay, let's see." She fiddled with her fork, then aligned it perfectly with her plate before looking at him. "You're an acquaintance, a customer of MooreWrite, a man I'm trying to extricate from an over-heated and over-avid woman's attentions, a single guy who'd love to have a no-strings affair, and a highly developed peptic ulcer waiting to perforate."
He laughed. "I don't have an ulcer."
She smiled serenely. "You will, Summerton. You will." Then she added, "I notice you didn't deny the 'no-strings affair' part of my description."
"Can't."
She sipped her water. "You're honest, anyway. I guess that's something." The way she said it, it didn't sound like much. Maybe on a par with putting the toilet seat down. But the damn truth was he didn't know what he wanted from Rosie—other than a repeat of that sizzling kitchen kiss.
> Mae brought their orders and for the remainder of their lunch, they stuck to neutral subjects. They weathered it with only six interruptions, not all of them from Mae.
After lunch they were walking toward the pro shop, when Rosie asked, "Is it always like that? So many people coming at you for things?"
"It's a bit worse than usual. My partner's away." Enough said. Right now, he didn't want to think about Con York, let alone tell Rosie about him. Con's recent penchant for playing hookey was beginning to wear thin. It hadn't started out that way. At first they'd worked together, but lately Kent had taken over virtually all of Con's work. He was beginning to feel like a fool for tying up with him in the first place.
He opened the door to the pro shop and followed Rosie in. Greg was waiting for them.
"Rosie, this is Greg Nestor. He's our golf professional. Between him and Marlene, I think you can find the answers to all your questions." When he looked down at her, he caught the faint scent of lemons. Knowing Rosie, a man couldn't be sure if it was perfume or pie ingredient. "When you're finished here, let me know. I'll drive you home."
She pushed her chin against the brace in what passed for a nod and, unless he read her wrong, had just a little trouble pulling her gaze from his. His breathing warmed, and he concentrated on his own problem, shifting his eyes to look at Greg. "Take care of the lady, Greg," he said, his voice odd to his own ears. "I'll be in my office."
He had arrangements to make for a family barbecue. It was show-and-tell time.
* * *
Rosie called Kent at three to tell him she'd done all she was going to do for today, and by three-thirty they were in his car. Rosie was tired, but she was determined it wouldn't show. This was the longest time she been away from home since her surgery. All she wanted to do was go home and put her head down. But she couldn't. Not yet.
She glanced at Kent. The lines in his forehead were drawn tight enough to snap. She resisted the urge to smooth them away. No. It would be all too easy to make Kent Summerton and his stress lines a full-time job. She stilled her twitchy fingers.
"Kent, would you drop me off on Yates Street? I've got a doctor's appointment at four."
"No problem." He started the car.
"Thanks." She smiled, not wanting him to see her own weariness.
