by Wendy Warren
“Let’s have lunch this week, and I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Dean prevaricated, hoping that by the end of the week he might have some ideas about how to salvage his plans to put a low-cost, bilingual health-care clinic in the building his father had owned.
Dean had driven Alberto to his first AA meeting. In the following months, they had spoken frequently. The idea for Clinica Adelina Community Health Care was born in these conversations and out of Alberto’s desperate need to deal with what he perceived as his terrible failure.
“It looks as if another grant is going to come through.” Dean watched pleasure spark in Alberto’s eyes and felt some guilt about not disclosing the demise of his engagement, a crucial component in making the dream of a clinic come true. Perhaps they could find some other venue, someone willing to donate the space….
The music changed, and Alberto grinned. “Time for line dancing.” He gestured to the glasses in Dean’s hand. “You here with your novia?”
After some hesitation, Dean answered, “No. I’m expecting a friend.”
They agreed to be in touch the following week, and Alberto moved on. Dean found a table far from the dance floor and waited. Precisely at 7:00 p.m., Rosie walked in.
She wore a camel-hair coat over the same skirt and sweater outfit she’d had on earlier. Curls the color of coffee beans framed her face and bounced thickly on her shoulders. She took several steps into the tavern then stopped and looked around, searching for him.
Dean’s hand came halfway up then stopped. Every time he saw her, a smile rose from his chest, but she appeared as tight-laced and miserable as she had since December, and his optimism fell another notch.
One night and a baby did not turn two strangers into a couple. As much as he wanted to rediscover the woman who had smiled like the sun and whose starry eyes had sparkled with humor, it was time to admit that he may have been mistaken about her. It wouldn’t be the first time that a man in his family had fallen for the wrong woman.
Was he like his father? Victor had been three-times unlucky in love. By most accounts, he had loved Dean’s mother, but she had passed on when her marriage was still young and her son a mere child. There was no telling whether that marriage would have lasted. Dean barely remembered his mother, but he knew that emotional availability had not been his father’s greatest gift.
Victor’s second marriage, to Fletcher’s mother, could only be termed a tragedy, though it had begun with the anticipation of rebuilding a family. Jule Kingsley had been more mercurial than the Oregon weather. A delight one moment, incomprehensibly distraught the next, she had harbored pain and secrets that had nearly destroyed them.
Dean studied Rosie in the subdued tavern light. Had he, like his father, fallen for a woman inherently incapable of—or chronically unwilling to—conduct a relationship in a positive, open, constructive manner?
His mood threatened to tumble further, but he pulled it up with firm resolve, setting aside his own interests. Rosie didn’t want him; that was clear. Badgering her would not help matters. No matter what, his child would be raised amid respect and courtesy, with two parents who worked together to create a stable environment. A loving environment…even if they didn’t love each other.
Maybe if he backed off, she’d open up. Smile more. Knock a hole or two in the wall she’d erected around herself.
Rising, Dean started toward her, promising himself that his only agenda from now on was to establish a calm cordiality between them and to formulate a sane plan for cooperatively raising the child they’d created.
Rosemary looked around Tavern on the Highway, trying to ascertain whether Dean was already there. She turned her head in choppy motions, like a bird feeling vulnerable in an open field.
After spending the rest of her workday utterly distracted by thoughts that had nothing to do with work, she had come to a firm conclusion.
Well, pretty firm….
Sort of firm….
Not really firm at all. But she believed she was making the least crummy decision she could in a really difficult situation. The thought of sharing that decision with Dean was making her a nervous wreck, however, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.
“Rosemary.”
The deep voice cut smoothly through the music and talking.
Dean wore a handsome sweater in cowboy tan, an attractive complement to his blue eyes and nut-brown hair. His shoulders appeared broader out of the white lab coat, and he looked relaxed and very, very…hot.
Rosie felt a dizzying sense of déjà vu, almost as if they were about to reenact the night they’d met. Except that he’d just called her Rosemary—instead of Rosie—for the first time.
“I’ve got a table away from the noise,” he said, reaching automatically to put a guiding hand beneath her elbow. Before he connected with her, however, he stopped himself, letting his hand drop back to his side.
Nodding, she followed him, aware of the feminine smiles and lingering glances of appreciation he drew along the way.
When they reached the table, she plopped her large shoulder bag onto one of the four available chairs. As she sat, she noted the drinks waiting for them.
“I ordered for us,” he acknowledged. “If you’d like something else, I’ll head back to the bar.”
Recalling the drinks he’d sent to the table the night they’d met, she frowned. “Is it a mixed drink? I’m not having any alcohol.”
“It’s orange juice.”
She looked at the two tall tumblers. “Which one?”
“Both.”
She looked up, remembering that he was a connoisseur of Pacific Northwest microbrews. “Orange juice over beer?”
He shrugged. “You can’t drink. I’m fine with orange juice.”
“That’s nice of you.” Her ex wouldn’t have put himself out that way. Dean sat down, and Rosemary cleared her throat, wondering how to begin.
“Are you hungry?” Dean asked, drawing her attention to the Tavern’s minibuffet.
“I’m ravenous at night, but…I’m a little nervous right now. I’d like to talk first.”
His brows rose, but quickly fell again, his expression a handsome mask that hid his thoughts. He was different tonight, more subdued and…neutral. No hunger in his eyes, no humor lurking at the edges of his mouth. Rosemary told herself that a dispassionate Dean would be far easier to approach regarding the topic at hand.
She coughed lightly to clear her throat.
Then sighed.
Then she reached for her orange juice, took a shaky sip and replaced the glass on its cocktail napkin.
She folded her hands in her lap.
One of her feet began to tap madly, so she crossed her legs to quell the anxious motion.
Spit it out, Rosemary!
“I’ve been thinking about our situation all afternoon. It’s hard to think of anything else, isn’t it? I told one of my friends—she was here the night I met you—Daphne. I don’t know whether you remember?”
“The blonde.” Dean nodded. “My friend Len was smitten.”
“Oh. Well, I told Daphne what was going on. I hope you don’t mind—”
He waved the concern away. “I’d expect you to discuss a major life event with your friends. I’d be more worried if you didn’t. I assume you’ve told your family, too?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “No. I’d rather not tell my family until we have certain decisions ironed out.”
Crossing his arms, Dean settled himself against the ladder-back chair, observing her soberly. He wasn’t a husky man, but he was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked too big for the stingy piece of furniture. “Maybe,” he said, “your family can help you reach those decisions.”
She nearly groaned. If only he could appreciate the irony.
Her mother, after lamenting Rosemary’s apparent inability to navigate birth control at the age of thirty-two, would remind her that the decision to forfeit one’s independence this way lasted at least eighteen years.
<
br /> One thing Rosemary had to say about Dean: at no time had he chosen the easy way out of this situation. He could have walked; she’d certainly given him the opportunity to turn a blind eye to her pregnancy.
Frowning, she folded the edges of her cocktail napkin. “We’ve both had a few days to let this sink in,” she began, needing to know more about him before she said what she’d come here to say. “Have you—at any time—considered asking me to end the pregnancy?”
It took her a few seconds to lift her gaze from the napkin and let it focus on his face. She saw an expression she had not witnessed on him before. Blue lasers, his eyes pinned her with a steely intensity. His shoulders grew rigid, and he looked as if only a mighty effort allowed him to control his voice when he responded. “If you don’t want this baby, I do. Your body is the one that has to go through nine months of pregnancy, I realize that, but you’re carrying something that belongs to me, too. If you need help—with money, time, anything—I’ll give it to you, but don’t do anything—”
Rosemary held up a hand. “I’m not, I’m not.” She shook her head. “I asked because I wondered how committed you are to the idea of being a father.” She smiled wryly. “I guess we’re clear on that now.”
He watched her closely a moment longer. Slowly, his shoulders began to relax.
What an interesting man he was. Never married although he was thirty-five, not above a one-night stand, yet willing to become a single father if necessary.
“Have you always wanted children?” she asked. “Or is this a philosophical conviction?”
He gave the question the consideration it was due. “I used to want children. In my twenties, I figured I’d be a father by the time I was thirty. Somewhere along the line I became less convinced, and more recently…” he hesitated “…I thought I’d marry, but wasn’t sure kids were in the picture.”
“That would have been all right with you?”
Again Dean gazed at her a long time before answering. “No. For a while I thought it would be, but…no.” Uncrossing his arms, he leaned forward, moving his untouched orange juice to the side and resting his elbows on the table. “What about you? How eager are you to be a mother?”
That’s what Daphne had asked her, and after getting off the phone with her longtime friend she’d spent the rest of last night letting the reality sink in. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted the trappings of family life—dinners around a big table with everyone talking too much; holidays filled with chaos; summers that were lazy and laughter-filled. Neil, her ex, had convinced her that wanting to do family activities and needing to expand the family in order to do them were two entirely different things. They were already a family, just the two of them, he’d insisted, and someday they could seriously discuss the addition of children, when they were both ready.
Neil had decided he was ready to add a mistress before he became ready to add children, and even now, two years beyond the discovery, his betrayal still felt like a bayonet slashing at Rosemary’s soul. That seemed so melodramatic, but it was true. She wished she could get over it, forget him, forget how good they had once felt. But she had pictured herself at eighty, with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren…and with Neil, happily counting the wrinkles and the years. She had defied her family’s warnings, braved their wagging heads and ignored how often the word naive came up in conversation so she could continue to believe in her dream.
Neil had taken much more than himself out of her life. Never before had she believed hope was something that could die; now she knew it was possible. To lose her dream, something so intrinsic to her spirit, was a feeling she never wanted to experience again.
She looked at Dean, waiting patiently for her answer. Was she eager to be a mother?
Last night, she had pictured her future with—and without—a child. She’d imagined being a single mother, in a small town and in a city…perhaps Portland, but perhaps someplace entirely new, where she would be a stranger among strangers. She’d bathed herself in the details and the feelings that had come up, trying not to judge or censor her reactions, and finally she’d found her way to what was, for her, the truth.
Being a single parent, like her mother before her, was not her dream come true. But having a child to hold, to love unconditionally, to introduce to butterflies and rainbows and monster slides and swimming pools, to wipe sticky hands and dry salty tears, and to know that until the end of her own life, she would love someone with every breath she took—
“Yes,” she said aloud and without any doubt. “I’m eager to be a mother. I’m excited about the baby.” It felt soooo good to be able to say it out loud! Hopefully when the time came, she would be able to say the same thing to her family—without stuttering or apologizing for being the sole Jeffers woman who wanted the whole package—mother, father, backseat full of kids. “I don’t think it’s too soon to start addressing the baby’s needs.”
Dean shifted, sitting up straighter. He had begun to smile when she said she was thrilled. Once she mentioned the baby’s needs, however, he came to full attention, serious as a judge. “I plan to be financially responsible throughout my child’s life. If there’s anything you need right now—”
“Oh, no, no! I wasn’t talking about finances. I don’t need money. And neither does the baby right now.”
“There are things you’ll need. And days you might not feel up to working. I’ll see my lawyer and set something up.”
“That is not necessary, really.” He started to rebut, but she held firm. “If there are things you want to buy for the baby, that’s up to you, but I do not want financial help, especially not before she’s born. Thank you, anyway.” She smiled to sweeten the edict, but was careful not to appear to waver, because Dean Kingsley could be stubborn.
He took her words in, not liking them much, though he nodded his acceptance. He raised a brow. “‘She,’ huh?”
“Or he.”
“When it’s time to pick out names, do you mind if I help? At least with the middle name.”
Baby names. Rosemary blinked in surprise. He wanted to pick out baby names? She nearly laughed aloud at the irony.
Years ago, when she and Neil had still been in college, they’d gone to Canon Beach for the weekend. Two darling chubby toddler girls in tiny bikinis had played in the sand next to them, and Rosemary had asked Neil what he might like to name a little girl if they ever had one. He’d leaped from their blanket as if the sand had caught fire, ran into the ocean and returned twenty minutes later, dripping wet and silent.
Back in Portland, Rosemary had relayed the story to Vi, who told her that playing “What Do We Name the Baby?” with a man was like “handing him a knife and inviting him to cut off his own testicles.” Rosemary had not broached the topic again until they’d been married three years.
Now she managed a wry smile. “As long as your favorite names are pronounceable and have nothing to do with states, cars or local tributaries, I think we can work it out.”
For the first time this evening, she got a glimpse of the more relaxed Dean, the one who laughed easily. “Aww. I was hoping for Montana if it’s a girl and Nissan if it’s a boy. I guess I can bend.”
“Montana is kind of pretty, actually.”
They shared their first un-tense moment since the night they’d met. Rosemary hated to ruin it by introducing another issue, but she’d come here with an agenda that had to be addressed.
“What?” he said when she hesitated. “You’re frowning again. Whatever it is, why not get it over with fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid?”
“I usually use a wet towel and soak a Band-Aid off.”
“Sounds time-consuming.”
She nodded.
“Gotcha.” He reached for his orange juice and settled back. “Okay, take your time.”
She took a deep breath. No matter how much time she took, this was still going to be awkward in the extreme. Her heart thumped heavily. If only she knew more about him….
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“All right,” she breathed, gripping the table’s edge as if she were hanging from a cliff. “You asked me once if I was married before. I was. My plan was never to be married again. When I moved to Honeyford, I wanted to focus on my career and the community. I like it here. A lot.”
From her first word, Dean gave her his full attention, as usual. His face was a mask of polite interest, using neutrality to invite her to keep speaking.
“Being a single mother will change how I feel about the town,” she continued, “and how the town feels about me. I’ve had half a dozen people describe the scandal of the interim librarian.” At his puzzled expression, Rosemary explained, “She had a pierced lip and tried to introduce the book club to erotica.”
Dean’s mouth twitched.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to moving away.” She saw Dean tense perceptibly, so she stated quickly, “I’ve decided that I want to stay.” Like magic, his shoulders relaxed again. “At least for now,” she added cautiously. “But being the single pregnant librarian doesn’t sound like a good idea, especially when people discover that you’re the father.”
Placing his glass on the table, Dean shrugged. “Why? I don’t like to brag, but most people in town find me pretty likeable.”
Rosemary looked at the thick, earth-brown hair he kept neatly trimmed, at the features that were classically handsome and aging like fine wine, at the blue eyes that smiled even when his lips hadn’t moved a bit, and she knew that although he was being facetious, he had told the truth. Women probably faked all manner of ailments merely to visit the pharmacist for advice.
“It’s going to seem ridiculous that a librarian and a pharmacist didn’t have the sense to use birth control, don’t you think?” she said.
Dean’s eyes darkened. “Obviously ‘sense’ is not my forte when you’re in my arms.” He paused. “Past tense, I mean.”
The temperature in the tavern—or simply inside Rosemary—shot up ten degrees. Concentrate on the topic. A gentle, ironic smile curved his lips, and suddenly she remembered exactly how they felt pressed to hers…and to other parts of her body. Concentrate.
