by Wendy Warren
Rosemary tried to swallow, but there was nothin’ doin’. Her throat had frozen up on her. She croaked out a weak, “Well…” then cleared her throat and started to perspire. “What would you call it?”
His eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on her. “Astonishing. Inimitable. Transforming. Scorching.”
Oh. Scorching. Good adjective. Yes, definitely scorching….
Do not confuse sex with love. Do not confuse sex with love. Do not confuse sex with love.
Rosemary recalled the eleventh commandment in her mother’s home, imparted with all the gravitas of Moses on the Mount.
“All I meant,” she said, speaking slowly and laboriously since she didn’t have a drop of spit left in her mouth, “when we started this conversation was that if Len is serious about getting to know Daphne, then he shouldn’t care whether she’s fully clothed or bottoms-up naked. That’s all.”
Dean looked at her. A long time. Finally he said, “With all the books in that library of yours, there’s got to be one that explains the natural science of man and woman.”
Rosemary bristled at the implication that she didn’t have a grasp on male-female relationships. Which, okay, she didn’t. Even though she’d been married ten years, and that made the situation especially sad. But she did know about lust. She knew that it could start a relationship and that it could end one. What it could not do was make a relationship last.
“I understand physical desire,” she insisted. “I know that lust can start a relationship. It can also end one. But it can’t make a relationship last, which is why focusing on personality is important.”
“Personality is job one,” he agreed easily. Putting his elbow on the back of the couch he leaned against one bent knuckle and regarded her at length. “The thing is, if I had you naked, with that dark, curly hair falling around your shoulders—” he was back to the low, velvet voice that gave her shivers “—and those big cat eyes staring up at me, and if you were willing, I would not be concentrating on your character traits, as much as I admire them.” He reached out to loop one of the loose curls around his finger. “I’d be taking the opportunity to get to know you intimately…very intimately…and most definitely involving every part of that gorgeous body. More than once. So—” he continued to play idly with her hair, and Rosemary felt the combustion from the desire building inside her “—your friend Daphne is probably right. If she wants Len, or any man, to know her mind and heart first, then celibacy is a good idea.”
All the while he talked about celibacy, he caressed Rosemary with his eyes and toyed with her hair, winding the curls around his fingers until he reached her jawline. Then he burrowed his fingers through the thick brown strands behind her ear and at her nape. His palm cupped the back of her head.
Rosemary’s vision began to blur. Hang on, Rosemary, hang on, she encouraged herself, but deep down she feared she was about to become fodder for The Learning Channel: Internal Combustion—Real or an Urban Legend? He looked at her as if she was already naked. Damn it, kiss me already. They were going to set the city on fire.
She leaned forward. He did, too.
“Fortunately,” he said, “I’m already in touch with your personality. So if you’re really, really concerned about celibacy being fattening…”
“I am,” Rosemary breathed, “I really am.”
Dean smiled. “Well, then I’m going to help. I refuse to allow my wife to worry unnecessarily.”
He tugged her all the way toward him, and Rosemary went. Willingly.
Chapter Twelve
“You did it. You did the naughty bump with the pharmacist.”
“Vi, for heaven’s sake—”
“You did. I can hear it in the way you say his name. ‘Dean,’” she sighed, her voice high and breathy.
“I don’t sound like that. I’ve never in my life—”
“Was it recreational sex or are you hoping this marriage is going to go live?” She didn’t let more than a couple of seconds elapse. “Oh, my God, you’re hoping. So much for carpe diem dating.”
Rosemary considered knocking herself unconscious against a bookshelf in the Travel aisle. The library was going to open in ten minutes. She shouldn’t be having a conversation about this now, but Daphne had phoned Vi to give her the details on the wedding, and Vi had called Rosemary to heckle her and to ask whether there was going to be a reception.
There was, at the Honeyford Community Center, in one week’s time. Both she and Dean had tried to talk his…their…sister-in-law, Claire, out of planning the party, but she had a cadre of townspeople working with her, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Moreover they wanted to stage this shindig soon, because the Honeyford Days spring celebration was coming up in late April, and the community center would be unavailable.
Rosemary’s first wedding reception had taken place at the Governor Hotel in downtown Portland. She’d had a wedding planner, a caterer, several other people on cell phones orchestrating the entire thing, plus Vi, Daphne and Ginger running interference between Rosemary and her weddingphobic family.
“Daphne says Dean wants a real marriage, open-ended,” Vi said, her voice subdued for her. “Do you think this guy is the real deal?”
It was an unusual question for Vi. As long as Rosemary had known her tough, independent friend, Via Lynn Harris had assumed that no man was the real deal regarding love and fidelity. Pressing Fodor’s Italy neatly on the shelf so its spine aligned with the other titles, Rosemary closed her eyes, allowing mental images from the past two days to shimmer tantalizingly behind her closed lids….
She and Dean making love, with tenderness and with abandon, with humor and with utter earnestness. Appropriate adjectives? Stupendous, staggering, indescribable, astonishing.
The non-naked hours had been just as good. Better, because those were the hours that were making her a believer again.
Dean had discussed parenting philosophies with interest and opinions. He was, he told her, going to be front-row-center for all ball games and dance recitals.
“What if we have an introverted child who isn’t into sports teams or performing? she had asked.
He’d given that some thought. “We’ll start Team Kingsley with his cousins. No pressure. Pure fun and physical fitness.”
“What if she doesn’t want to be in a dance recital?”
“Every kid likes to perform for her family. Fletcher and I will build a stage on the ranch. She and Rozzy can put on plays. I’ll hang the out-to-lunch sign and run over for a noon performance.”
He would, too.
Rosemary had stared at his gorgeous, smiling, gonna-be-the-proudest-pop-on-the-block expression, and…oh, good golly. Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
They hadn’t talked only about children, either. In fact, up to that point he had spoken directly to her tummy only once, a quick, “Hellooo. How’s the view in there? Everything is A-OK up here.”
Hanging around the house in the evening, they had discovered a shared fondness for Shakespeare and had both seen the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s production of Much Ado About Nothing, which they’d happily dissected. Oddly, they had both chosen the actor in the smaller role of The Friar as their favorite performer. “He had a great grasp on the language without seeming stiff or less human,” Dean had said.
“Hmm.” Rosemary had thought back to what made the actor so appealing to her at the time. Daphne and Ginger had wanted to wait outside after the show to get his autograph. “He seemed to truly care about Hero. And I loved the way he calmed everyone down and told them how to fix the mess they were all in.” Just the way you would. “He seemed like the kind of guy you’d want around during a natural disaster. And that voice! When he took charge…” She’d shivered conspicuously. “Quite a looker, too, as I recall.” She’d peeked at Dean mock shyly as she’d washed a bowl in the kitchen sink. “Daphne and Ginger were crushing.”
Dean had narrowed his gaze. Under her guidance, he’d been rolling chocolate-chip cookie d
ough into balls and setting them on a baking sheet. He’d been quite dutiful about it, too, eating only every other dough ball, but now left his post to advance on her with exaggerated gravity. “And you, Mrs. Kingsley? Were you ‘crushing,’ too, or is your interest strictly thespian?”
“Oh, my interest is arts-related, for sure.” She’d nodded broadly. “And he was some work of art. I wonder if he lives in Oregon? I could invite him over—”
“That does it.” Dean had grabbed her round the waist, burying his mouth against her neck and nuzzling the spot that gave her goose bumps from head to toe. “The next play you go to is The Trojan Women.”
Grinning, Rosemary had turned her head until their lips met. Dean hesitated not a second before kissing her more deeply than he ever had. Soon she had turned against his chest, and they were clinging to each other—arms, lips, legs tangling. Rosemary’s bones had melted on the spot as she’d realized she loved everything she knew about the man: the way he spoke to people—so focused and considerate; the myriad collection jars he displayed on his counter at work and the fact that he helped fill them up every night; his kindness toward Honeyford’s elderly population; and his humor.
She also liked the way he glanced over to see if she was looking before he popped more cookie dough into his mouth; the lingering looks at her bottom (one of her better features if she did say so herself) and then the grin and raised brows when she caught him.
She loved the way he smelled, too, the pure physical yumminess of the man. Every pore of her body opened to let him in, and she didn’t want to—she couldn’t—stop it.
Kissing him back with no reservation was like turning a key in the ignition of a race car that had been waiting for the chance to go from zero to a hundred. Dean roared to life. He’d kissed her back with a hunger that sucked her onto the speedway with him. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was hang on for the ride.
She wasn’t sure how long they’d stood in the kitchen, wrapped in and around each other, but when he’d picked her up and headed out of the room, she was more than ready. Their lips had connected the entire way with Dean muttering between kisses, “No actor playing a friar is going to make love to you the way I’m going to.”
Rosemary had grinned, kissing him hungrily until he practically sprinted up the stairs. Never had a discussion about classical theatre been more gratifying.
“Hey, you there?” Vi prodded.
“I’m here.” Rosemary opened her eyes and straightened away from the shelf she’d been leaning against. She checked the clock above periodicals. Two minutes to opening time. Dean had developed a habit of dropping by for lunch. She couldn’t wait.
“Vi, I’m going to tell you something, but don’t respond with anything sarcastic or even teasing, okay? I’m very sensitive lately.” She took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing—I think I’ve been given my second chance at the picket fence. Dean seems like that too-good-to-be-true guy, except that he’s also authentic and dependable. He loves kids, and he’s so good with them, Vi. And I know it’s too early to be sure, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would play around. He has integrity.”
“How is he in the sack? Wait, scratch that. Insensitive.” Vi sighed heavily. “Okay, I’m glad it’s happening for you. And I’m not being sarcastic. The whole ‘happily ever after’ thing… I guess I just stopped buying into it. But if you believe it, I’m on board.”
Rosemary could see Mrs. Spinelli-Adamson waiting at the door with her customary shopping bag full of books to return. She cradled the phone and spoke softly. “Vi, that year you spent studying in Rome…we all knew there was a special guy, but you’ve never said why you broke up other than that he didn’t want to move to America. When are you going to tell us what really happened?”
There was a brief silence then a too-brittle laugh. “When pizzas fly, cara.” Before Rosemary could say anything else, Vi said briskly, “So what’s the 411 on your reception? Daphne, Ginger and I are driving down together.”
“Oh, my gosh, no. Don’t—I mean, really do not—come all the way out here for this thing. It’s just a little get-together at the community center. My sister-in-law had to book it between Friday night bingo and a Sunday meeting of the Honeyford Succulents Garden Club. We’ll probably have a cactus on every table. Don’t come. I’d rather keep things low-key and very, very brief.”
Vi made a rude buzzer sound. “Uh-uh. You’re having a wedding reception, and you think your three best friends in the world aren’t going to come? Especially when I was the one who encouraged you to sleep—I mean, dance—with the man in the first place? Guess again, little mama-to-be. Now, you tell me the when and where of this shindig, and we’ll make it a party befitting the potential last husband you’re ever going to need.”
Claire had promised Dean and Rosemary a “simple,” “low-key,” “modest” wedding reception.
“Don’t even think of it as a reception, then,” she had urged when Rosemary begged her to keep it small. “Think of it as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood party, just an opportunity for people to stop in and say hi and acknowledge that you’re a couple now. Not a big deal.”
So Rosemary envisioned the multipurpose room of the Honeyford Community Center dotted with a few balloons, a bouquet of spring flowers from Geri Evans’s garden, a portable CD player—perhaps with “Because You Loved Me” on repeat mode—a cake from Honey Bea’s and some punch. Maybe thirty people with nothing better to do on a Saturday evening would show up at the community center.
Low-key. Where she and Dean and their so-new relationship would not be held up to scrutiny.
“I’m not going in,” she said stubbornly, ducking behind a large planter of Cordyline as she peered in horror at the festivities inside. Twinkle lights festooned the room. Irene Gould walked by in a floor-length gold lamé skirt, hauling Henry Berns, the baker, along with her toward a makeshift dance floor. A crystal ball rotated slowly overhead while a live band—not Celine Dion via boom box but a live band for pity’s sake—played Faith Hill’s “This Kiss.” A fountain of punch graced the center of a table bearing the weight of chafing dishes and platters of hors d’oeuvres.
“This is no good!” Rosemary hissed at Dean from her spot behind the plant. “I’m getting fatter by the second! We were supposed to let a few people guess the truth and then spread it around town while we look the other way.” She gestured angrily toward the door. “Half the town is in there right now!”
Standing with his hands in his pockets, lips compressed and eyebrows raised, Dean obligingly glanced inside the noisy room. “Nah. The community center can’t hold half the town. And it’s against the fire marshal’s rules. There’s probably no more than…one third in there.” He sniffed the air, redo-lent with the aroma of food. “I smell Josef’s cabbage rolls. The Honeyford Inn must have catered. Let’s go.” Rosemary groaned, which elicited a sympathetic smile from her husband. “Did you bring your ginger?”
“I’m not worried about that!”
He approached the planter. “Rosie—”
“Go away. I’m not coming out. Tell them I have the flu.”
“Again? That’s what we told everyone the night I proposed. And didn’t you tell everyone at the library you had the flu when you threw up?”
“All right, all right! Then say I caught a terrible cold.” She coughed as an example of “terrible.” “You go in. It’s dark. I’ll stay close to the bushes and run on home.”
Dean grabbed her as she commenced her great escape and pulled her in for a hug, stroking her hair with the soothing touch that made her feel immensely comforted. “You’re only showing a little, Rosie Jo.” When she began to protest, he cut her off. “It looks like a lot to us, because we’re excited about the baby.” In fact they had spent much of last night looking at the bump from all angles in the mirror after a steamy, sexy shower. “But to the people in there, that tiny mound could look like nothing more than too many of Claire’s Honey Bunz.”
He nuzzled
behind her ear, and Claire melted against him. She was so easy. “I just don’t want to be asked a lot of questions that have private answers.”
“Stick with me kid. I won’t let the paparazzi get you down.”
Claire smiled against his lapel and socked him lightly in the ribs. “Fine. I’m making too big a deal of it. I plead the hormone defense.”
“Plead any defense you want.” He kissed her long and deep then murmured, “Let’s get this over with so we can go home.”
Putty to his sculptor’s hands, Rosemary followed without another word. Going home at night had become her favorite part of the day. Sometimes she beat him to the cottage and made dinner; sometimes he arrived home first and had her favorite mac and cheese waiting for her. But almost always before they ate, they satisfied the other, stronger hungers that had built up during the hours apart. Though his baby grew inside her, they were newlyweds experiencing all the excitement and wonder of setting up house.
“There they are!” Someone—Rosemary couldn’t identify the voice—shouted above the music to draw the crowd’s attention to the door as she and Dean walked in.
“This Kiss” changed to a surprisingly sincere rendition of The Captain & Tenille’s “Muskrat Love,” with the band, Honeyford’s own Crystallized Honey, a group of sixtysomething musicians who had come out of retirement for Dean’s brother’s wedding, altering the lyrics to “Muskrat Rosemary, Muskrat Dean, do the jitterbug in their muskrat dreams…”
Dozens of people flocked to the door, shaking Dean’s hand, hugging Rosemary and telling her how thrilled they were that one of the town’s favorite sons had finally found his bride.
“Love couldn’t happen to a more deserving man,” Dolores Schenk sighed, holding Rosemary’s arm in a grip made tight partly from emotion and partly because the nonagenarian refused to use her walker. “He gives me all my medications at cost, bless his heart. I’ve prayed every day that he would find himself a good woman. And now he has. A librarian.” She waxed eloquently about the importance of education for a woman until her great-granddaughter eased her away.
