by Wendy Warren
Her breath caught in her throat almost painfully as she realized another first: the first time she referred to herself as Mama. the image of herself holding a baby with hair as soft as kitten fur, teensy fingers with teensy nails and toes that looked like bay shrimp filled her with a flood of emotion that made tears spring to her eyes. Instantly, however, worry chased the love. Her mind began to reel with What if and Oh, no statements.
What if she had a daughter, and her wonderful, beautiful, tenderhearted girl had the same rotten luck with men that Rosemary, her mother and sisters had? Oh, no!
What if she had a son, and he sensed that his mother was weak, confused and cynical about men? Oh, no!
What if she and Dean disagreed about parenting techniques, and their child grew up confused, angry and disillusioned? Oh, no, no, no!
The nausea returned so strongly Rosemary was sorry she’d told Abby to take her break.
Scrabbling for the peppermints again, she sucked air like a fish in cloudy water. This settled it: she had to establish a good relationship with Dean. One that was open, mutually respectful and, above all else, sane. The youngest of her sisters, Rosemary didn’t remember their father at all, but Lucy had once purchased two Siamese fighting fish, housing them in a small bowl with a clear divider. The fish would puff their fins and glare at each other as if they’d like to bust through the plastic separating them and rip each other’s heads off. Lucy had named them Mom and Dad.
“And look what happened to us,” Rosemary muttered, wondering what her patrons would think if she put her head between her knees to calm the dizziness.
Slipping Dean’s card into the pocket of her cardigan, she knew they would need to talk, to map out exactly how they planned to parent, how to conduct their relationship, and precisely how to end it when the time came. And they needed to arrive at these understandings quickly, before they could harm their child in any way. Nothing should be left to chance or the whims of the day.
It began to occur to Rosemary that life was handing her an opportunity she had given up on completely—the chance to be someone’s mother and to do it well.
A sense of wonder began to rush like an un-dammed river through her veins. She had already resigned herself to reading The Dr. Seuss Sleep Book during library story hour, but never with a sleepy, pajama-covered bundle of her own tucked beneath her arm. She’d stopped imagining making animal-cracker zoos and Lego Ferris wheels. Out of a sense of self-preservation, she had changed her goals and told herself it was…okay. Now the dreams she had relegated to the discard pile could be pulled out again.
Where nausea had dominated only moments before, Rosemary now felt like a balloon, so filled with joy she might pop. She covered her belly with both hands.
“It’s going to be so good, sweet darling baby. You’re going to have the best life. And you don’t have to worry about your father and me. We’ll find a way to do this so everyone gets along.” Her promise was a solemn whisper. “We’ll never, ever, ever hurt you.”
The Honeyford Inn occupied a three-story brick building downtown. Hotel rooms comprised the top floor, with a restaurant serving Eastern European cuisine making up the main and lower levels.
Rosemary had heard the food was excellent and was actually looking forward to her evening with Dean. In fact, she hadn’t felt as queasy today and was hungry as a bear.
After work yesterday, she’d driven over an hour to Bend, where she’d hit every major store selling anything related to babies, children, pregnant women or parenting. Onesies and adorable knit hats, a doll-size snowsuit in fire-engine red, a Boppy pillow for breast-feeding, Winnie the Pooh bookends and the most current parenting books filled the shopping bags she had lugged to her car.
She hadn’t been able to resist the maternity stores, either, and handed the maître d’ her coat to reveal her first maternity-related purchase for herself—a silky, V-necked dress in variegated swirls of hot pink and red. The dress had a stretchy tummy panel (so cute!) and a gorgeous drape. The extra folds of material looked fabulous now and would expand as necessary to accommodate her growing belly. Her budget took a hit when she wrote the check to Angel Kisses Maternity for a garment she didn’t strictly need yet, but it was worth it. Oh, mama, was it worth it! This dress was a celebration.
“Your party is waiting for you in the cellar,” the maître d’ informed her formally.
Rosemary followed him down a short staircase to “the cellar,” a wonderful room with brick walls, thick wood pillars and five linen-cloaked tables, each a comfortable distance from the next, providing an eminently private and cozy setting. There was even a fire snapping in the wood-burning fireplace.
Dean rose as Rosemary approached.
A twinge of anxiety threatened as she wondered if he was still upset about the prenup, but the look in his eyes calmed her.
“You look…stunning.”
His expression reflected every woman’s dream response to her dolling-up efforts. His gaze took in her hair, her face, the dress, and his slow-spreading smile made her feel like the only woman in the room even though every table was filled with diners.
“You look nice, too. I like your suit.”
He smoothed his tie. Dean looked, she thought, like an ad for Yves St. Laurent for men. Compliments traded, they sat. Rosemary told herself that all she had to do tonight was enjoy the company of the man she had, on one fateful night, found too delicious to resist. Tonight she would be cordial, engaging, interested, but a whole lot calmer. And, of course, she’d keep her clothes on this time, because they were in public, and she didn’t want another episode like the one in his apartment.
It was a good plan, and it didn’t even sound that difficult.
All she had to do was keep a clear head.
Accepting the wine list, Dean lifted a brow at his dinner companion. No alcoholic beverages for her, though they were the only two people present who knew why. Dean hoped she would let him rectify that tonight. He’d done a lot of thinking since their kiss on his couch, and now he had a goal and a plan. It was time to go public with their relationship.
After they ordered drinks and dinner, he kept the conversation light and upbeat, telling her about Honeyford’s illustrious history (founded by a family of Italian beekeepers named Castigliano, many of whom were terrified of bees), the upcoming spring festival—Honeyford Days—and the fact that his limelight-loathing little brother had been roped into being Grand Marshal.
“Fletcher was in the rodeo. Back then he was meaner than some of the bulls he rode, but he’s got a movie-star puss the women loved. He wound up doing clothing ads, a few TV commercials. He’d signed on for a role in a movie, a Western, before he had an accident that laid him up for months and finally brought him back home.”
“Wait a minute.” Rosemary sat back from the bread pudding she’d made a sizable dent in. “Fletcher Kingsley is your brother? Fletcher Kingsley, the Tuff Enuff jeans model?”
Dean winced. “Yeah, let’s not refer to him as a ‘model’ at family gatherings like Thanksgiving or Christmas, though, okay?” He winked. “Best to keep peace in the family.”
“Okay, but you have to let me get a signed photo for my friend Vi. She set her TiVo for those jeans commercials.”
He laughed then lowered his voice way, way down. “You seem to be feeling better. How’s the morning sickness?”
Rosemary didn’t seem to mind the topic change. “Better since yesterday.”
“Good. According to the book, it gets better after the first trimester, and you’re almost there.”
“You’re still reading the book?”
“I like to follow along, imagine where you’re at.” Again, he’d spoken softly and was pleased to see that she didn’t mind the references to her pregnancy.
“I do feel a hundred percent better,” Rosemary offered, spooning up another taste of the custard sauce beneath the bread pudding. “I went shopping in Bend last night as a matter of fact and ate at The Olive Garden. I’m not even going to think about
how many breadsticks I had.” She leaned over the table and smiled in a way that made Dean’s heart skip. “Maternity clothes have this fabulous expandable panel in the front. All pants should be made that way.”
He glanced toward the couple at the table closest to them. The Marsdens had greeted Dean when they’d first arrived twenty minutes earlier. Currently they were occupied with the pierogi appetizer and appeared no more interested in Dean’s conversation with Rosemary than Dean and Rosemary were in the pierogis.
Dean knew, however, that he was about to make them much, much more interested. He crossed his fingers that he was doing the right thing.
“More coffee?” The word emerged hoarsely. Damn. When was the last time he’d been nervous? Couldn’t remember. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Coffee?”
Setting her spoon on her plate, Rosie leaned back in her chair and held up a hand. “Lord, no, I’m stuffed to the gills. Making up for lost time, I guess. Everything was delicious.”
“Here we are.” Holding a silver tray, Josef and Annette, owners of the Honeyford Inn, approached the table. “A special dessert, just for you.” With great care, Annette set before Rosie a china plate with a thick square of darkest chocolate topped by a marzipan rose. A gold ribbon bow sat on the edge of the plate.
Rosie looked at the creation with something approaching alarm, but recovered well and smiled charmingly at the pair that hovered over the table. “It’s beautiful. Did you make it here?”
“Yes!” Annette nodded eagerly. “One of a kind. With a surprise inside.”
“Mama, shh.” Josef patted Annette on the arm then pointed a gnarled finger at the plate. “Taste.” He waggled his thick gray brows.
Dean grimaced. Subtle as a sledgehammer.
Rosie looked slightly sick at the thought of more dessert. “That dinner was so fabulous, and the bread pudding was amazing. I don’t think I have room for anything else right now.” She lifted the plate to hand it across the table. “Maybe Dean—”
“No!” Josef and Annette both stretched out a hand. Startled, Rosemary clunked the plate back onto the table.
Dean narrowed his eyes at the duo.
“We want you to try it.” Josef looked at her appealingly. “Dean, he’s been coming here since he was young. It will mean more if you tell us how you like it.”
“Oh. Well…I suppose there’s always room for a tiny bite.” Picking up the small silver fork sitting on the plate, she sliced a piece of the dense chocolate and chewed obligingly. Her smile was only a little strained. “Delicious.”
Josef looked worried. “No, eat the rose.”
Dean shook his head. “Maybe you could give us a minute—”
But Rosie was already dutifully forking up a marzipan petal and raising it to her lips. “Mmm.” She looked as if she could barely swallow. Once she’d managed the feat, she set down the fork and sat back. “It’s a lovely dessert. Are you putting it on the menu?”
Annette and Josef looked at each other in grave concern. Annette began to wring her hands. They both turned to Dean.
It was hardly the way he’d envisioned the moment. Reaching for the plate, he pulled it toward him. Nestled amidst the formed flowers, was the object of the whole dessert. He plucked it out of the marzipan, stood and didn’t even bother to try to exile Annette and Joseph.
“Excuse me,” he said, shouldering past them. When he reached Rosie, he knelt. Her eyes turned into huge hazel moons as he held the ruby ring out to her.
“It’s taken my entire adult life—and no small part of my adolescence—to find you,” he began. “I’ve imagined what life would be like with a woman who was my best friend, my partner in all that’s good and my bulwark against the tough times. I’ve imagined what it would be like to be that person for someone else, and I’ve never trusted that I could be, not a hundred percent. Until now.”
He reached for one of her hands, resting limply in her lap while she gaped at him. Holding her fingers and the ring, he gazed steadily into her eyes, unmindful of the whispers that circled the room.
“Rosemary Josephine Jeffers,” he said, “will you be that woman, that partner and friend, and allow me to be yours? Will you believe in me when the going is rough and trust that I believe in you, too? Because more than anything in my life right now, I would like to be your husband.” He took a breath and hit the bull’s-eye. “Will you marry me?”
Josef sniffled. The room went utterly silent, save for a watery “Awww” in the background. Dean’s heart pounded the seconds as he awaited a response from the woman who appeared, currently, like a photograph taken immediately after someone had jumped out and yelled, “Surprise!”
Well, he thought, swallowing around a knot in his throat that felt as if he’d overtightened his tie, that went well.
The first time a man had asked her to marry him, she’d choked on a pepperoni. Choked in joy, of course.
Rosemary had been dating Neil for three-and-a-half years. At the time of the proposal, he’d been preparing for his second year of law school, and she had recently packed all her worldly goods to move to Seattle, where she was going to earn her Master’s degree in Library and Information Sciences.
“Maybe we should get married,” Neil had said over a large pie—half pepperoni and green pepper for her, half kitchen sink for him (if only she’d realized then that he had trouble discriminating).
“I’m leaving for U of W in two weeks,” she had protested (admittedly weakly) once the pepperoni had gone down. Washington had one of the top-ranked Library Sciences programs in the country. She’d been planning since high school to get her degree there. She’d had an apartment, her student loans and a part-time job at a local public library all lined up. Neil had known that. They’d talked about it, talked about how they would navigate a long-distance relationship.
“You can get your Master’s in Portland.” His goofy smile had massaged the cavalier comment into something romantic, daring almost. Give up your plans for me, baby. Love will make it worth the while.
And she had seen it then, if she’d been honest enough to admit it—his fear that the “the long-distance thing” would not work. He had known he would stray.
At the time, however, Rosemary had told herself Neil couldn’t wait to marry her, that he was itching to be a family man. She’d insisted to herself and her sisters and mother that true love really did exist and that marriage wouldn’t hold them back; it would be the wind beneath their wings.
It hadn’t even bothered her that her student loans had not transferred, that she’d wound up working full-time in the Multnomah County Public Library System—first shelving books and then as a clerk—while she went to school, that she had developed migraines, or that she’d slept an average of four hours a night for two years. What difference did any of that make, she’d told herself, in the long run? She and Neil were bound to start a family soon, anyway; she’d be staying home for several years once their first baby arrived since no way was she going to repeat her own childhood. She would get her degree now and use it in the future.
She and Neil had gone ring shopping together and purchased what they could afford at the time—Black Hills Gold bands with a diamond chip for each of them. He’d lost his on a river-rafting trip (white water, after all) before their second anniversary. She had cherished hers until the day she’d taken it off for good.
Now, a good decade after that first proposal, she stared at what appeared to be a diamond-crusted platinum band with a heart-shaped ruby nestled in the center. Yowza. Unless Dean’s morning cereal had come with an unusually good piece of costume jewelry, this was the real deal, and it was a ring like nothing she had ever imagined on her finger. The only thing that brought the confection down to earth was the marzipan gumming up one row of tiny prong-set diamonds.
“Will you…” he had just asked on bended knee. With a great preamble.
What he had not said: Will you marry me, Rosemary Jeffers, mother of the baby we did not plan, even though we’ve
already agreed we’re going to divorce before we’ve picked out a preschool?
He knew and she knew they were going to get married; he needn’t have bothered with the trappings of a proposal.
A muffled whimper cut through Rosemary’s thoughts, and she glanced beyond Dean to Annette, who clutched Josef’s hand and compressed her lips so as not to sob out loud.
Unlocked, Rosemary’s gaze traveled the intimate, candlelit room to see that the customers at all five tables in the Honeyford Inn’s cellar were glued to the action as if it were the final rose ceremony on The Bachelorette.
Surely the news would travel upstairs to the main dining room before the end of the evening. By tomorrow more and more people would know that the hometown pharmacist had proposed to Honeyford’s new librarian as prettily as any man deeply in love.
And suddenly Rosemary realized: he’d done it this way to get the ball rolling. By the time people discovered she was pregnant, the myth that she and Dean loved each other to distraction would be the stuff of local legend. Their child could grow up in Honeyford and never hear that he or she had been “an accident.”
She looked again at the man who knelt before her. In the dim light Dean’s blue eyes looked like a calm sea, steady and eternal. Take your time, his gaze told her. I’m not going anywhere.
Surely she was supposed to speak now. A small dining-roomful of people waited for her to complete this über-romantic moment. But über-romantic dialogue required some emotional investment, and she had no idea what her emotions were at present. Was it normal to feel numb and sort of dazed and that was all when a man said all the right things and then presented you with a ring that would rock the world of any girl who had grown up staging and restaging her engagement with Barbie dolls?
Finally Rosemary had a good proposal with which to entertain her children and grandchildren. Dean’s proposal was one she could recite again by heart for their fiftieth anniversary party at the Governor Hotel in downtown Portland. It was a proposal from which tender excerpts could be culled for inclusion on side-by-side tombstones.
