by Wendy Warren
Dean longed to take offense. Before Rosemary, he’d have argued that his emotions were present, simply calm and sane, unlike Fletcher’s. Now he knew better. Now he knew what passion was.
“I can’t tell Rosemary about the will, not yet. I’ve started my family with more baggage than we can handle. I’ve got to get rid of the problem, and that means forfeiting the building.”
Once the words were out, Dean felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “I’ll talk to Doug and the rest of the city council, try to make them understand how necessary the clinic is for the underinsured. Maybe they’ll do the right thing and donate the building for the clinic.”
“Will you tell Alberto?”
The weight pressed down again, like a lead yoke. “I’ll have to. But not until I speak to Gwen and the others. And look around for another venue if I have to. Alberto has the most riding on this.” His stomach began to churn, and he wondered if love made that a continual state of affairs. “He’s got to make sense of his daughter’s death.”
Fletcher’s sober gaze skewered his brother. “And Rosemary? What’s next?”
“That’s easier,” Dean said, praying he was right. “We get married. Fall in love and have a baby. In that order.”
Dean and Rosemary sittin’ in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes marriage, then comes love, then comes Dean Jr. in a baby carriage….
Rosemary stared at the skinny platinum band that had joined her engagement ring four days ago, the singsongy lyrics of the old children’s melody playing in her mind as she wondered what to wear. Dean would be home…home to her house…in half an hour.
She had dinner—chicken, shallot and baby portabello casserole in a sublime Burgundy sauce—bubbling in the oven. She’d set the table with multicolored braided tapers and the blown-glass stemware she’d purchased after regifting Vi with her wedding crystal. Three potential outfits were laid out on the bed, awaiting her decision. A lot had changed in four days.
She had married Dean in Reno on Saturday. They had “honeymooned” for a couple of days then returned to Honeyford last night. This evening he was going to begin the process of moving into her place.
Rosemary stood at the foot of her queen-size bed, trying to decide between jeans and a boat-necked pullover in powder blue or a more formal skirt and sweater combo, when the phone rang.
Checking the caller ID, she smiled. “Hi, Daph. I was going to try you tomorrow.”
“That is way too late.” Her friend’s voice sounded muffled.
“Watcha doin’?” Rosemary asked, holding the blue sweater up and tilting her head at the mirror. “You sound funny.”
“I’m eating coconut-milk ice cream,” she said around an apparently large mouthful. “It’s sooooo good. Have you ever tried it?”
“Which flavor?”
“Coffee chip for dinner. I had Almond Joy as a midafternoon snack—that was good, too—piña colada for lunch, and triple-fudge-brownie for breakfast. My commitment to celibacy is going really well.”
Rosemary smiled. “Sounds like it.”
“So how about you? You’ve been married four whole days…and nights. Are you still celibate?”
“Yes.”
“Bummer.” Daphne shoved another spoonful of coffee chip into her mouth. “How was the wedding?”
Rosemary returned the sweater to the bed and moved to her dresser to pluck a pair of turquoise drops from an earring tree. “It was nice. I thought we’d get married at city hall or next to a blackjack table, but Dean found a chapel that was actually kind of sweet. Pitched roof, white gingerbread trim, pansies out front….”
“Awwww. Were you married by a minister?”
“I don’t know. He had teased hair and offered an Elvis option. Does that say minister to you?”
Daphne laughed. “From the church of Elvis, yes. Did Dean kiss you?”
“Um, chastely.”
“Darn. What did you do after you got married?”
“Well—” Rosemary poked the earrings into her lobes “—as we left, the minister’s wife tossed birdseed and then handed us a pamphlet of their services, which include but are not limited to shuttle service to and from local casinos, infant baptism and marriage-dissolution counseling should the need arise.”
“Sounds like every girl’s dream wedding.”
“Yup. Once we were alone, there was a moment of, shall we say, extreme awkwardness outside the chapel. Then Dean kissed my hand and said, ‘Thank you for marrying me. Let’s go somewhere else for the infant baptism.’”
Daphne laughed. “I like your husband.”
Happy bubbles, reminiscent of the champagne she hadn’t been able to drink, floated up from Rosemary’s stomach. “I like him, too,” she whispered, so softly she wasn’t sure her friend heard until Daphne whooped.
“Details, please!”
Rosemary smiled. She and Dean had “honeymooned,” otherwise known as Making the Marriage Look Real, by driving to Virginia City, where they had shopped, played slot machines (Rosemary won forty dollars on an old-fashioned nickel machine) and ate excellent chili at a little hole-in-the-wall. They returned to Reno at night, went to their—separate—rooms, changed and attended a performance of Cirque du Soleil. And they talked.
They talked about Dean’s college days and hers, about their favorite childhood hobbies (bug collection and tennis for him; cooking in her Easy-Bake Oven and ice skating for her), and about child-rearing philosophies (they had both purchased Patrice Moore’s Back to Basics and loved the common-sense approach).
Every night, Dean walked Rosemary to her hotel room, held her hand, kissed her cheek and said, “Thank you.”
Every night, she imagined how it would feel if he stayed.
When she admitted that out loud, Daphne’s voice filled with wonder. “Honestly? You’re falling for him?”
Rosemary closed her eyes. “I’m weak. Tell me I’m weak and that I’m conducting my life like a romantic comedy and that carpe diem dating is the only good idea I’ve had since I bought the Barbie-and-Ken wedding suite.”
“Carpe diem dating is a really good idea,” Daphne said dutifully, “in theory. In reality, it’s kind of like crocheting a zip line. You can try and try, but it’s never gonna hold. We’re die-hard romantics, Rosemary.”
“But you’re committed to celibacy. That’s a plan to keep from being hurt again. It’s okay not to want to be hurt, right?”
On the other end of the line, Daphne sighed. “Well, I’m still planning to date, so I’ll probably still get hurt. I’m just trying to weed out the real contenders from the phonies.”
“Which makes excellent sense!”
“Yes. For me. But, Rosemary, what if you’ve already found your real contender? What if Dean Kingsley is your destiny, and you keep resisting until it’s time for you to split up and then it’s too late?”
Rosemary felt hiccups coming on. “If Dean Kingsley were my destiny, I would know for certain, wouldn’t I? I mean, I would be feeling peace right now.”
“I don’t know. Destiny could be like coconut ice cream. You’ll never know how right it’s going to be unless you dive in and take a bite. Then…kismet.”
“Kismet,” Rosemary murmured.
“One more thing you might want to consider,” Daphne said, and Rosemary could tell she was enjoying the ice cream again. “This whole celibacy thing?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s really fattening.”
Dean arrived bearing a suitcase and a gift for his bride.
“Crystallized ginger,” he announced, handing her a package of cellophane-wrapped candy. “My sister-in-law swears there’s nothing better for morning sickness. If it works, we’ll start carrying it at the drugstore. And these—” he whipped a bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed yellow roses out from beneath his arm and lowered his voice to the intimate caress that sent goose bumps racing down her arms “—are for the beautiful lady of the house.”
“Thank you.” Rosemary accepted both gifts, le
ading the way into her cottage-style home. Nerves rattled her bones. Dean always managed to appear utterly sincere when he said things that made him sound as if he’d walked out of a Frank Capra movie. In fact, he looked as if he’d walked out of a Frank Capra movie.
His chestnut hair was thick as turf; his jaw looked as if a master sculptor had formed it. Broad shoulders, a flat stomach and a perpetual smile in eyes as blue as a Honeyford summer sky could make any woman feel good about being alive. But with Dean, Rosemary often got the feeling that his sole purpose was to make her feel good.
Smiling shyly over her shoulder, she caught sight of his suitcase—evidence that he truly was moving into her home.
They had discussed it, of course, while in Reno, and both agreed that moving into her larger two-bedroom cottage made the most sense over the next couple of years. Still, her heart thumped heavily at the prospect. She had never lived with anyone other than her family and ex-husband. Leading Dean through the living room, she paused in the small square hallway that opened onto the downstairs bedroom, the stairwell leading to the upper floor and the sole bathroom in the house.
“You remember those girls in college who were completely comfortable living in coed dorms and diving into swimming pools in their underwear at parties?” she asked.
Bemused, Dean nodded. “Uh, yeah. I do.”
Rosemary broke the sad news. “I wasn’t one of them.” She opened the glass door that closed the attic bedroom off from the rest of the house. “I’m putting you upstairs. I moved my things down here so I can use the bathroom and kitchen a little more easily once my pregnancy progresses. Since I’m an early riser, I thought I’d take my shower first in the morning. Or, we can talk about it. It’s actually a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment… I hope that’s okay.”
He nodded.
“I usually start a pot of coffee first thing, too. You’re welcome to share if you’re a coffee drinker in the morning.”
Another nod.
“All right.” She wished for a little more from him. Making plans was very calming. Why did men not get that? “Well. Then generally I take a walk—I pack my breakfast and bring it along—and I wind up at work.”
Dean mulled over what she was telling him, but made no comment other than a noncommittal, “Ah.”
“When the baby comes,” Rosemary persisted, certain her tension would subside once all strategies, present and future, were neatly laid out, “I can have the crib in my room. All the floors are hardwood with the exception of the upstairs bedroom, but when the baby starts serious crawling I’ll go rug shopping for something soft on the knees. And we might need to replace this glass door.” She tapped it. “A solid wood panel would be much safer. Or we could use a baby gate down here and install a door to the bedroom upstairs for privacy. What do you think?”
He smiled gently. “I think you’re an intelligent, conscientious woman who is understandably ambivalent about having a roommate she didn’t anticipate. Now you’ve got the next two years planned out down to the minute. You’re remarkable. But I find that where you’re concerned, Rosemary Josephine, I’ve got my hands full just taking it one night at a time.”
From someone else that could have been a put-down, but Dean wasn’t telling her not to plan, just saying he needed to evaluate things in the moment. Rosemary realized he possessed the quality of stillness. Even on that first night, as he’d flirted with her, there had been something steady and unshakable about him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t cared about the outcome, but rather that he trusted the outcome to be okay, whatever it was.
“Wow,” she whispered, “that was such a nice way of saying I’m uptight.”
He leaned toward her, or maybe she was imagining it, because she wanted to be several inches closer. “I like you uptight. Gives me an excuse to try to relax you.”
Rosemary licked her dry lips. “Do you have a plan to accomplish that?”
The smile in his eyes expanded to a grin. “Why, yes, Rosemary. As a matter of fact, I do.” He raised his suitcase. “I’ll show myself upstairs and put this away. Meet me back here in fifteen minutes.”
She laughed at the notion of specifying a place to “meet.” The entire first floor of her cottage occupied eight hundred square feet. “Okay, fifteen minutes.”
Rosemary watched him head upstairs, easygoing, relaxed, taking this next step in his life with enviable calm.
I hope the baby has his personality.
Her breath pinched in her chest. It was the first time she’d thought about whom the baby would take after or whom she hoped the baby would take after.
Placing a hand on her stomach, she felt a near-overwhelming urge to follow Dean upstairs and show him the little mound of her belly.
Here, she would say, feel. That’s her, little Montana Jeffers Kingsley. And Dean would laugh and argue lightly. You mean little Nate Jeffers Kingsley. Then he would put his warm, gentle hand on her stomach, and his expression would change, assuming the serious, contemplative air she was coming to know. Their eyes would meet, the pressure of his hand would increase a bit, and she’d see again what she’d noticed several times already but had deliberately glossed over—desire. The hunger he had to touch her bare skin, to possess the woman who carried his child.
As if her feet had brains, they danced with the yearning to race him to the attic. And the queen-size bed. Would the sex be as good now as it had been that first night?
Gritting her teeth, she pivoted from the stairs, marched herself to the kitchen and grabbed a vase for the roses. Before she attended to the flowers, however, she turned on the faucet and stuck her arms beneath the stream of water, giving herself the cold shower she so desperately needed.
“Ohhhh,” Rosemary groaned. “Mmm…amazing. I’m so glad I married you.”
Dean laughed. “Stick with me, baby. I’ve got connections.” He forked up another piece of the Double Trouble Chocolate Pie his sister-in-law, Claire, had baked for them.
After he’d come back downstairs, he’d handed Rosemary a DVD then went out to the car he’d parked in the gravel alongside her front yard and returned with the pink bakery box wrapped in string.
They’d watched the first half of The Music Man. “Featuring,” Dean had said, explaining his movie selection, “Marion the Librarian, in honor of the most beautiful librarian I know.” He’d kissed the tip of her nose.
They’d sat a thigh’s width apart on her green velour couch while Professor Harold Hill played his con game and wooed the übercautious librarian. When Marion sang “Goodnight, My Someone” to the soul mate she believed she might never find, Rosemary burst into wet blubbers, feeling as mature as a nine-month-old, and causing Dean to scoot over and put his arm around her. That arm had felt perfect, and she’d cried some more until he’d tipped her face up to his, wiped the tears and looked as if he was going to kiss her.
She’d waited, lips parted, hoping the leaky-nose issue was all taken care of, because she was so going to kiss him back. With the snuffling past, her libido went on the rampage again (horny pregnant women were obviously no old wives’ tale), and she waited for him to make the move.
Which turned out not to be a kiss.
He’d clicked off the movie, called “Intermission” and stood up to cut the pie.
Damn good thing it had two layers of fudge and a rich cookie crust, because extra shots of chocolate were the only way she was going to medicate her sexual frustration tonight.
She honestly couldn’t remember feeling sexually frustrated before. Ever. Dissatisfied, yeah, but climb-out-of-my-skin, gotta-jump-your-bones, don’t-talk-just-do-it-to-me-now frustrated? Uh-uh.
“This should be made an illegal substance,” Rosemary said, licking the back of her fork. “I’ll drop by the bakery before work tomorrow and thank Claire in person.”
“She’d love to see you, I’m sure.”
Tilting her head back against the sofa, Rosemary sighed. “Daphne was right. Celibacy is fattening.”
Vaguely su
rprised she’d said that out loud, she glanced at Dean, who had taken a sip of the decaf they’d made and now struggled not to spit it out. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “Daphne the cute blonde is celibate?”
Rosemary nodded. “Although I’m not sure I should have said anything. It’s probably too much information.”
Dean wagged his head. “Len is going to be very disappointed. He’s been all over me to get her phone number from you.”
“Don’t tell him,” Rosemary insisted, though she didn’t think Daphne kept her celibacy a secret. In fact, quite the contrary when it came to men, since she currently viewed the willingness to wait as something of a test. “Why is sex so important to men, anyway?” Rosemary wondered aloud.
“To men?” Dean’s mouth twitched. “It’s important to women, too, isn’t it?”
He was amused, which made Rosemary feel about forty years older than she was and not very sexy. She’d brought it on herself, of course, and considered dropping the subject altogether, but she was slightly drunk on sugar and for much of her sexually active life she had honestly wondered what the big deal was.
“What I mean is, making love can be…fun. But sex changes, like everything else in a relationship. I suppose it’s never been that important to me.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged.
“Describe sex in one word. An adjective,” he challenged.
“I can’t—”
“I bet you have a bachelor’s degree in English,” he guessed. She did. “Give me a word.”
“Well, it’s…nice.”
He set his plate on the coffee table. “‘Nice?’ Rosie Jo,” he said, his voice a velvet lion’s purr, “are you saying what we did at the motel was only ‘nice’?”
If she were a match, she’d be lit now. “No. That was more…that was…um…”
“Yes?”
“More than nice.”
Blue sparks of humor and challenge shot from his eyes. He seemed half amused, half disgusted when he shook his head. “Nope. You’re a librarian. Pick an accurate adjective to describe you, me and that king-size bed.”
