by Wendy Warren
Unlike Fletcher, who had once been the king of cynicism, Dean had always believed that a pure and endless love existed. His doubts around the topic centered on the disbelief that such a feeling would ever happen to him. In thirty-five years he had never lost control of his heart.
Still, as he listened to Claire count cartwheels and Fletcher laugh at his son’s antics, Dean acknowledged the firm conviction that a child should be raised in a family. And while “family” could be defined in a variety of ways, his desires were crystal clear: he and Rosie had created a baby, and that baby should turn cartwheels someday with two parents to watch him. Or her.
He stood. He’d intended to give Rosie a couple of days to process their “situation” before he spoke with her again. Bad plan, he realized now. Giving her more time to put a wedge between them would not yield the results he wanted.
And he did know what he wanted. He knew exactly.
Downing the rest of his lemonade as if it were a double shot of courage, he set the glass on the table and walked down the porch steps to say goodbye to his brother, sister-in-law and the boys. He had some business to attend to, and there was no time like the present.
Chapter Five
Rosemary had been back at work for a couple of days when Dean walked into the library. As far as she knew it was the first time he’d been here since she’d started the job in January.
Seated at the reference desk, she watched him stride through the double doors, greeting three people by name before he spotted her. Her heart began to beat too fast and too hard.
He wore his white lab coat and carried a bag from Honey Bea’s Bakery. When he stopped in front of the reference desk and plopped the white bag in front of her, she strongly doubted he’d come in to ask whether the library had the latest edition of Physician’s Desk Reference. She glanced at Circulation, where Abby was replacing a bar code, then back at Dean. Please do not say the word pregnant. Do not say anything about us, she pleaded silently, or indicate in any way that there is or ever was an “us,” or that I know you as anything other than the friendly neighborhood pharmacist.
Her too-damn-friendly neighborhood pharmacist.
“Rosie,” he greeted.
She grit her teeth. I have got to tell him not to call me that.
“Nice to see you again.” He spoke as calmly and pleasantly as if the only place they’d ever met was a church coffee hour. Raising his voice slightly, he asked, “I wonder if you could help me find something.”
She blinked. He was here as a library patron?
“Quite possibly,” she murmured. “What are you looking for?” Her trembling fingers poised over the computer keyboard.
Dean leaned forward—way forward—his classic features appearing more handsome the closer he got. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You.” More audibly, he asked, “Do you have the latest Laurence Gonzales novel?” And, softly again, “When do you take lunch?”
“I believe our copy is circulating,” she responded loudly to his first question. “Let me check the rest of the system.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. In a low hiss, she told him, “I am not spending my lunch hour with you. This entire library would buzz with gossip.” Clicking the mouse three times in rapid succession, she returned to a voice that carried. “Yes, I’m afraid all copies are circulating. Would you like to place a hold?”
“Sounds great,” he boomed for anyone nearby to hear. And then quietly, “What kind of hold do you have in mind?”
Rosemary’s gaze flew to his.
He winked. “Because I was rather fond of the hold you used when—”
“Shh! Shhhhhh!” She shushed like the classic librarian. Unable to stop herself, Rosemary glanced wildly around, noting that her library was beginning to fill with the noontime regulars. When a couple of people looked over, she peeled her puckered lips back in a toothy smile.
Dean turned and smiled, as well. “Hello, Mrs. Covington,” he called out, nodding to an older woman who owned more hats than anyone else in Honeyford. Today she had on a short-brimmed blue straw with morning glory and a purple butterfly springing from the wide band. “You look particularly charming today.”
The octogenarian beamed, leaving her place in front of the large-print section to join them at the reference desk.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kingsley. Miss Jeffers.”
Some of the older folks in Honeyford preferred a more formal style of address, Rosemary had discovered. Ordinarily she enjoyed conversing with EthelAnne Covington and being swept into the woman’s more gracious era, but today she’d give anything to clear the library of all humans. How much simpler life would be if she were left alone with her books! The most complex tome seemed like kid stuff compared to the tangled web of her current circumstances: pregnant and single only two and a half months into her job in a conservative small town.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Covington?” she asked, hoping that if she became involved with her customers Dean would disappear.
“Why no, thank you, dear, not at the moment. I came over to speak with Mr. Kingsley, if I may.” Drat. “I hope I’m not crossing too many boundaries by accosting my pharmacist in the library,” she said to Dean with a near-girlish laugh, “but you were my next stop today.”
Sensing an opportunity after all, Rosemary stood. On the verge of excusing herself, she felt her wrist caught in a masculine hold. Surprised, she gazed down stupidly at Dean’s fingers as they curled around her.
“If you’ll wait just a moment, Ms. Jeffers,” he said. “I’m not quite finished with my…questions.”
To EthelAnne, he inquired graciously, “What can I do for you, dear?”
The elderly woman obviously adored the endearment.
Rosemary’s wrist—no, her entire arm—began to feel hot. She needed an avenue of escape right now. Dean was practically sitting on her reference desk, holding her arm as if such a gesture were nothing out of the ordinary. Even if EthelAnne didn’t think that was odd, someone else was bound to walk by and take notice. Then questions would begin. Questions Rosemary was nowhere near ready to answer.
When she attempted to extricate herself, Dean’s casual hold tightened briefly, as if in warning. She considered picking up her stapler and wrapping him on the knuckles. Before she could make her move, his fingers began to lightly stroke the underside of her wrist, away from Mrs. Covington’s view. Goose bumps shivered up Rosemary’s arm.
Darn him!
“I’ve just been speaking to Gabrielle Coombs,” Mrs. Covington said, blithely unaware of the drama in front of her. “She’s on the July Fourth entertainment committee. Lovely young woman, so civic-minded.”
“Yes,” Dean murmured. His fingertips began to trace tiny circles while Rosemary considered the various ways she could either break free or murder him in full view of her patrons. Unfortunately her brain grew fuzzier with each slow, tantalizing circle.
“I know you’re aware that your brother is Grand Marshall of our Honeyford Days Spring Festival,” EthelAnne said to Dean. “We’re so appreciative that he agreed. What you don’t know is that a few of us ‘old-timers’—” she laughed as if they really weren’t old-timers at all “—in The Betterment of Honeyford Society have written a play depicting Honeyford’s history. Since he’s the only professional actor we know, we’re wondering whether he might agree to perform a role in our theatrical sortie.”
Dean’s fingers ceased their circles on Rosemary’s wrist. “A play,” he murmured, frowning. “Uh…my brother isn’t a theatrical actor, Mrs. Covington, he was a bull rider and—”
“Oh, but he’s very high-profile. The cities of Bend and Sisters draw tourists throughout the year. If Honeyford can accomplish that, every business in town will benefit. And what better way to draw tourists than to offer them special events they can’t find anywhere else? I’m quite certain that with the right cast we can pack the community center to the rafters.” Her thin fingers fluttered like angel wings toward the ceiling. “And i
t’s no sin to want to win.” Her hands came back to rest in pretty-please position. “Will you ask him?”
Rosemary could see Dean struggling with the desire to be of service and the reluctance to approach his brother. She wondered what kind of relationship he had with his family. Who, for that matter, were his family members? She knew nothing important about him.
You know he’s a generous lover.
Heat suffused her face seconds after the thought struck. Still, it was true. By the time they’d arrived at the motel, they’d both been almost comically ready to shuck their clothes. She’d been surprised by her own eagerness, though not by Dean’s. Weren’t most men in a hurry once they’d determined they were going to have sex?
And yet he’d been considerate, unselfish and…romantic. Rosemary wondered whether it was reasonable to call the actions of someone who didn’t even know you romantic. Vi had once dated a man who, she said, could look at any woman as if she were the only woman in the world. It wasn’t personal. With Dean, everything had felt personal.
Rosemary knew that her mother and sisters would, if consulted, tell her to get her head out of the clouds. The Jeffers women were historically unlucky in love. Rosemary’s mother had jettisoned her own husband when her daughters were still wearing footed pajamas. She’d raised her girls to be independent, strong and, above all, realistic. Rosemary’s two sisters had never, as far as she knew, believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or any story ending in “…and they lived happily ever after.” Which was why Rosemary had always felt like a disappointment to her family. She’d once set out cookies for Santa on a little dish she’d set behind a chair so her mother wouldn’t see it. It had taken hours to cut out the tiny arrows she’d taped on the floor after everyone else had gone to bed, in the hope that Santa would find his snack. He hadn’t. The Tooth Fairy had never taken any of the teeth Rosemary had slipped under her pillow, either, and as for “happily ever after”… These days Rosemary knew where all the fairy tales were shelved in the library, but never again would she count on real life being so accommodating.
“I share your interest in bringing more tourism to Honeyford, Mrs. Covington.” Dean smiled gently at the older woman as he prepared to disappoint her. “And I’ll help in any way I’m able, but I can’t imagine my brother agreeing to—”
“Bridgett Kramer has agreed to sew his costume from scratch! She’s an award-winning seamstress, you know,” EthelAnne “It’s No Sin to Win” Covington interrupted, trying to cut a refusal off at the pass. “Bridgett found a wonderful pattern for an Uncle Sam costume. It even has spats.”
“You want Fletcher to play Uncle Sam?”
“Yes, and Ed Fremont will loan us a top hat that Bridgett can decorate”
“A top hat.” Rosemary saw the muscles around Dean’s mouth twitch. “White beard, too?”
“Of course.” EthelAnne looked at Dean with exquisite hope. “You’ll ask him, then?”
Dean’s smile spread handsomely across his face. Rosemary knew instantly that he was laughing at himself and his brother, rather than at EthelAnne. She wondered again what kind of family relationships he had. Fun? Casual? She couldn’t recall the last time she had simply laughed with her mother or sisters. When they had dinner or got together for holidays, suits and cell phones were the order of the day. She felt herself frowning then saw Dean turn to her. He winked.
That was all—just a quick, sharing-the-joke wink—but Rosemary felt the connection all the way down to her toes. She felt connected, she realized with a jolt, connected to him. She didn’t even have time to tell herself how absurd that was, or to get her head out of the clouds. Immediately the warm, knee-wobbling feeling spread through her.
She began to feel queasy. It might have been her pregnancy, it might have been fear, but either way Dean was responsible.
“I’ll speak to him at my first opportunity,” Dean promised, eliciting a clap of delight from EthelAnne, whose nails, Rosemary noted dimly, were painted a hopeful peony-pink. “May I ask you for a favor now, Mrs. Covington?”
“Why, certainly!” EthelAnne’s eyes sparkled with eagerness.
“Do you think you could help convince this lovely lady to have lunch with me?” Rosemary’s eyes widened as he gestured to her, his eyes flashing with bald interest. “I haven’t had a chance yet to welcome our new librarian to town, and as president of the Chamber of Commerce, I consider it my responsibility.”
There might have been a couple of decades between EthelAnne Covington and her last date, but she didn’t miss Dean’s true intent. She looked between the two of them, clearly delighted, and Rosemary felt her anxiety spike to out-and-out panic.
“That’s not necessary.” She held up a hand, shaking her head at the same time. “We’re a library—we don’t deal in any kind of commerce, so it’s not your responsibility—”
EthelAnne laughed. “Oh, dear, you’re very literal. Dean is one of Honeyford’s most conscientious citizens. I’m sure he won’t sleep a wink until he’s performed his civic duty.”
The laugh lines around Dean’s mouth deepened, but he raised his brows innocently. Rosemary’s brain scrambled for a way out and latched on to “too much work” as an excuse, but she never got to utter it.
Irene Gould, who led the book club that met in the conference room every Tuesday evening, approached the reference desk and exclaimed, “How lovely! Three of my favorite people in one location!”
Rosemary winced. Why did everyone sound as if they were speaking through megaphones today? “May I help you, Irene?” she said quickly. “Do you have a question?” Because this is the reference desk, after all, not a singles’ bar.
“We were just convincing Miss Jeffers to—”
Oh, for the love of heaven…
“—allow Mr. Kingsley to accompany her to lunch. As a gesture of welcome.” EthelAnne filled Irene in on the topic du jour.
Behind purple-framed glasses, Irene’s blue eyes rapidly assessed the situation. “Wonderful idea! The diner has a sublime mulligatawny soup today.”
Dean reached for the white bag he’d brought with him. “Actually I picked up sandwiches at Honey Bea’s.” This time when he made eye contact with Rosie his expression was more sympathetic than humor-filled or victorious.
Less than ten minutes later, Rosemary and Dean were walking side by side down C Street.
“I know I should apologize,” he admitted, his voice deep and smooth, “but I can’t claim true repentance.”
The late-winter day was crisp, but sunny. Rosemary shoved her hands in the pockets of the thick periwinkle cardigan she’d grabbed on her way out of the library.
“I was under the impression that Honeyford is a conservative town,” she complained. “Doesn’t anyone care that you were engaged just a few days ago?”
“Very few people knew about my engagement, Rosie. We hadn’t officially announced it yet, and Amanda lives and works in Salem. She doesn’t particularly care for small-town life, so generally we got together in the city. The night you saw us in the market was one of the rare exceptions when she came here.”
Their shoes crunched along the gravel that substituted for a sidewalk on a portion of the street.
“Were you planning to move to Salem?” Rosemary asked. If he had, she might never have met him again, even after she’d discovered she was pregnant with his baby. Would that have been better?
They crunched a few more steps, and Dean responded, “We were going to commute to be together on weekends.”
He was staring straight ahead, frowning. His former marriage plans were none of her business. Zero. Not a bit. But she’d been married to a man who had worked so much that they’d had a weekend marriage even though they’d lived in the same house seven days a week. They had lost their connection to each other years before the marriage had ended. She wished she’d seen it sooner.
“Marriage has to take place seven days a week,” she said, “wherever you are. But it would be a lot harder if you weren’t even i
n the same town. Everyone takes for granted that love will get them through the hard times.” She shook her head. “It won’t. Love comes and goes—that’s natural. If the commitment to an ideal isn’t there—” Hearing the fervor in her voice, Rosemary stopped. She felt Dean’s gaze on her.
“How long were you married?” he asked quietly.
Panic gurgled through her. Her marriage was too private, too confusing and too much a failure to discuss. “Who said I was?”
Dean’s hand grasped her elbow, firmly stopping her when she would have kept walking. He faced her, and she stared at his chest, but he wasn’t having any of that, either. Tucking a finger under her chin, he raised her face.
His expression was serious, direct. “One thing we can be with each other is honest,” he said. “That’s one thing we should to be. Our child ought to have parents who talk to each other, at the very least.”
The mention of their child reminded Rosie that something much larger than her feelings or his was at stake. For better or worse, she had to find a way to get along with this person that one aberrant, passionate night had permanently affixed in her orbit. Still, there had to be boundaries.
“I honestly don’t want to discuss my marriage,” she said, meaning what she said without saying it meanly. “Not right now.”
He wasn’t happy with her answer, but he accepted it. “All right. I’m a willing listener if you change your mind.” He let go of her chin, glancing at the sky and looking, she thought, like the leader of a lion pride, testing the air to see what the pride’s next move should be. When he glanced back to her, she had to give herself a mental shake.
