Something Unexpected

by Wendy Warren

  Stunned, Rosemary poked as gently as she could at her sister’s huge, gaping, utterly unexpected wound. “Was Dustin Phillips the lawyer who got engaged?”

  Lucy had worked for Dustin’s father’s firm since her college internship. Dustin was very into civic action, and Lucy had hammered nails alongside him for Habitat for Humanity. Five years ago, Rosemary noted that her sister hadn’t been able to take her eyes off Dustin at the annual Phillips, Phillips, Arnold & Locke company softball game. She’d hovered around him, fetched bats and lemonade, laughed too loudly, nodded too hard. Rosemary had wondered then if her sister was finally smitten, but Evelyn had insisted Lucy was merely trying to score points with the boss.

  Now tears filled Lucy’s eyes, an occurrence about as frequent as a Sasquatch sighting. She tried heroically to sniff them back.

  “Aw, gee, Luce.” Rosemary made to rise, but her sister shook her head, using the side of her fork to massacre the cheese ball.

  “Don’t romanticize it, Rosemary.”

  Right.

  Sinking back into the corner of her couch, Rosemary tugged the collar of her sweatshirt up over her chin and sighed. Lord knew that in the Jeffers family romanticizing anything—men, women, snow geese that were faithful for life—was a sin punishable by a lifetime of regrets. Hadn’t Rosemary proved that point? Twice?

  Releasing the sweatshirt, she plunged her hand into the cheese puffs, stuffing a handful of their all-natural selves into her mouth.

  After descending on Gwen, she and Dean had returned to the cottage. Midnight had come and gone with Dean explaining how conflicted he had been about relinquishing the building, how responsible he felt for the success of Clinica Adelina and how that had informed his original decision to comply with his father’s nutty will.

  “I’d never been in love. Not really.” He had looked sad and gorgeous, like Hubbell Gardner telling Katie Morosky he couldn’t be what she needed in The Way We Were. “I honestly thought there was something broken inside me. So I resigned myself to a marriage that was sensible and figured everyone would be happy, myself included…or happy enough.”

  Too agitated to sit despite the late hour, Dean had logged multiple laps across the living-room floor while Rosemary huddled on the sofa in her reception dress, her brain hurting from confusion, her hands ice-cold though the gas fireplace hissed and blazed. “Then I went to Tavern on the Highway and saw you, licking salt off the pretzels and trying to be cheerful for your friends…. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  He had stopped dead center of the couch, gazing at her with sorrow and longing, making her wish they were upstairs, spooned with one of his big, warm hands on her breast and the other on her belly, the way they had been for a small collection of the most delicious nights of her life.

  “I wish I knew how to love you better.” His voice cracked. “The way you deserve to be loved. I’m not even sure what that means, that’s the damn truth of it.”

  It was the most vulnerable statement she’d heard a man utter. Though her body felt stiff and as fragile, she had wanted to hurl herself off the couch and into his arms. To kiss and reassure him that she had enough trust and courage for the both of them.

  He said he loves you, the romantic in her encouraged. You’ll be all better now. You’ll be fine. They would make love every night, spend weekends at the coast, go on a hundred second honeymoons—

  Stop. No one present said, “I love you.” The practical, Jeffers side of her gave the romantic one upside the head, knocking her off her fluffy cloud. That’s beside the point, anyway, isn’t it? Do you want the pain that comes with the kind of love you’re mooning about? You think your heart’s going to keep beating when it’s that swollen and sore? When Dean lets you down or lies or decides he doesn’t l-o-v-e you anymore? Will you be glad then that you tried again? Right, didn’t think so.

  Instead of diving for Dean’s chest, Rosemary had stared at her husband of three weeks, her heart shuddering like an engine struggling to keep working just before it ran out of gas. Her throat had ached and suddenly she’d wished she had spent her thirty-second birthday at a Buddhist monastery or a verbal-fast retreat on Whidbey Island or just about anywhere but Tavern on the Highway.

  Instead of reliving last night’s final moments with Dean, Rosemary now demanded of her sister, “Tell me about Frank.” Frank. They never referred to the man who had sired them as Father. Or Dad, Daddy, Pop or any other name that might identify him as family. “Tell me about the day he left.”

  Lucy coughed, spitting a little cheese onto the table. She swore beneath her breath. “God, Rosemary, what is it with you? Ever since we were kids, you’ve wanted to hear about it like it’s a freaking bedtime story or something.”

  “I want to remember.”

  “What for? It’s not one of your fairy tales.”

  “I know that.” Not that there was anything wrong with the fairy tales that, yes, okay, had given her hope and comfort during the dark childhood fears. Fairy tales were kind…ultimately. The bad stuff happened mostly before the declaration of true love. Once the hero and heroine found each other, you knew nothing would tear them asunder. Ever. Sure, Cinderella had to return to the cellar and wait for the townies to try on her shoe, but that was a small price to pay for lifelong devotion, a castle full of adorable singing mice and, eventually, babies.

  On the other hand, Lucy had a point. Rosemary did like to hear the story—in excruciating, full-color detail—of the day her father had left their family for good. For decades now, she had examined the fine points like a CSI picking over evidence, sure she’d find something that could have prevented the crime.

  Had she been in charge of the situation, she might have found a word, a touch, a promise to alter the outcome. She’d clung to that idea, using it to convince herself that she could dodge the land mines of pain that had detonated in the wake of her parents’ divorce.

  I romanticize everything, because reality scares the crap out of me.

  Clutching the bag of cheese puffs like a teddy bear, she stared, wide-eyed, at her sister. “Luce, do you think you, Evelyn and I might be in good relationships today if we’d grown up in a healthy family? Or do you think everyone gets driven through the wringer when they love someone? I mean, I used to think people who were compatible and madly in love had easier relationships. But lately I wonder if it’s this hard for everyone, and some people just have a higher pain tolerance.”

  With a look that begged the universe to stop the torture, Lucy, previously her nutritionist’s star client, ripped a white roll in half, shoved the entire piece into her mouth and chased it with pie. “Thith ith the motht deprething aftuhnoon evuh,” she mumbled through the mouthful.

  Rosemary sighed. With Dean standing before her, openly confused and vulnerable—not at all the absolutely certain, fear-slaying, unequivocal man she’d always imagined—she had panicked.

  Wait. Rewind that. She’d been panicking all her life, and with Dean in front of her, as perplexed by relationships as she was, she hadn’t known what to do with her fear. Neil had always told her not to worry. About anything. Prince Charming was supposed to kill the nasty dragons, right?

  That is so yesterday, the Jeffers voice taunted. Remember—

  “I know, I know. Don’t romanticize.”

  She had believed the right man would provide a lifetime guarantee. But that kind of thinking was as magical as believing she could protect herself from pain by remaining alone.

  She shook her head. Real life was about as clean as an oil spill. Last night, when faced with the possibility of accepting Dean and their marriage as the works in progress they were, she had cowered on the sofa and whispered, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just…can’t.”

  Dean had stayed at his apartment above the pharmacy last night, and Rosemary, confused and conflicted, had slept not a wink.

  Okay, big girl, it’s time to face facts: if you want a guarantee, go shopping. Relationships do not come with the Good Hou
sekeeping Seal. More’s the pity, but there ya go.

  Wow. That wasn’t the Jeffers or the romantic voice. It was just…her.

  Perhaps a person could hedge her bets by falling for someone who was as willing as she to keep the fires burning during the tough times or when love temporarily went MIA. Someone who believed in relationships and fidelity and trust. And by learning to forgive when one—or both—of them messed up.

  Someone like Dean.

  “I’ve got to go,” she breathed.

  “Wha?” Lucy lifted her head from the container of salad. “Where?” Understanding dawned. “No! Don’t you dare. I…I…forbid it!”

  Rosemary cocked her head. “Seriously?”

  Lucy’s customary certainty faltered. “Yes. I’m your sister and…your lawyer.”

  Smiling gratefully, Rosemary tucked the bag of cheese puffs between the chicken and the apple pie then rose, slipped her feet into purple flip-flops and headed for the door.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Lucy, who made feral cats look relaxed by comparison, half rose, sat back down and rose again. “Change your clothes, at least,” she called after her baby sister. “And brush your hair!”

  “No time! But thanks.”

  Grabbing a set of keys off a hook and her Oregon Ducks cap from the coat tree near the door, Rosemary smashed the hat onto her head, unfortunately making her curls stick out like clown hair, and raced into the spring afternoon with Lucy’s conflicted “Good luck” following her out the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Because the pharmacy was closed on Sundays, Rosemary took the alley staircase to Dean’s apartment, hoping he was there. If not, her plan was to let herself in with the key he’d given her and wait. Regarding what she would say… Uh, yeah, not a clue.

  Her heart, which had done more emotional aerobics these past few months than ever before in its life, thumped with nerves and excitement. She was nearly five months along in her pregnancy and had thrown on leggings with an oversize Oregon Shakespeare Festival T-shirt that masked her growing tummy, but did nothing for her fashion sense. Oh, well. If Dean wasn’t there, then she’d take the time to freshen up a bit, maybe scrunch some gel, if he had any, into her curls while she waited.

  Reaching the landing, glad there was no one else in the alley this afternoon, Rosemary raised her hand to knock on the glass-paned door. Noticing a movement inside, she hesitated, pressing her nose closer to the glass. Her busy heart skidded to a momentary halt.

  Dean was inside the apartment, tall and handsome and tempting as always. But he wasn’t alone.

  “What?” Rosemary breathed, blinking as if she could make the scene inside disappear.

  Seated on the leather couch that faced the alley windows, Dean gazed at an exotically beautiful woman as she leaned toward him, speaking animatedly.

  Instantly, Rosemary reverted to the little girl who’d wondered endlessly why her father hadn’t stayed. And to the wife who felt betrayed and foolish when her “perfect” life had turned out to be nothing more than an empty shell.

  The urge to bolt came on strong. In the past twenty-four hours, she had gathered enough circumstantial evidence against Dean to write him off for good. If Lucy were here with her fork, she’d stab first and ask questions later. But the evidence was only circumstantial.

  Fortunately for Dean, she was not one of her sisters. Or her mother. Or her friends. She was, finally, just Rosemary, and she knew exactly what she needed to do.

  Her entire girlhood had been steeped in the quiet and desperate fear that she might end up alone. Her adulthood until two years ago—an exhausting exercise in trying to keep that from happening. More recently she’d attempted to tame the anxiety by convincing herself she embraced being alone.

  Now she dived straight into the heart of the terror and discovered something amazing: the longer she stood inside it without flinching, the more it dissolved, like clouds. Behind the fear was the far more substantial soul she had never learned to trust.

  Rosemary raised the hand holding the apartment key. Her other hand drifted to her abdomen, eyes narrowing speculatively as she patted the baby. “I can’t fix the past, but I can do things differently now. Watch this, kiddo. Mama’s going to show you how it’s done.”

  Slipping the key into the lock, she moved swiftly, claiming the element of surprise as she burst into Dean’s living room.

  The gorgeous Latina woman with the sexy, straight black hair jumped, as did Dean, although when he saw who the intruder was, his surprise turned to, at first, concern and then bemusement. And finally, hope.

  He stood, his attention all on Rosemary. The last thing he’d said to her the night before was, “I’ll be waiting. For as long as it takes you to forgive me, I’ll wait.”

  This afternoon all he managed was a surprised and questioning, “Rosie?”

  She almost felt sorry for him. If he expected a quick and easy reunion this afternoon, he was in for a bit of a shock. I’ve got a much better plan than that.

  Stomping forward, she halted only when her knees hit the coffee table then stabbed her index finger at Dean’s admirable chest.

  “Don’t you ‘Rosemary’ me, bub. I come over here to bring you home, and what do I find?”

  The woman, who really was lovely, jumped to her feet. “Oh, no! No, this is not what you’re thinking—”

  “Save it, sister.” Adopting a growl that had never before emerged from her mouth, Rosemary realized that the poor woman was ready to whip out her iPhone and key in 9-1-1. Sorry, she tried to communicate telepathically. But I have to make a point here.

  Gesturing toward her husband, she said, “That is my man. Mine. And I don’t share.”

  “Oh, but, really, I’m not—”

  Rosemary gave her a talk-to-the-hand. “Please,” she said. “Believe me, I understand why you want him.” Dean deserved some grandstanding after all he’d been through the past couple of days, and, by golly, he was going to get it. “He’s gentle, he’s kind, he’s incredibly patient. Except for a little trust issue regarding his father’s will and my ability to love him in spite of it—and I do love him in spite of it—the man is near perfect.”

  She turned to Dean, and their gazes locked. “Perfect enough for me, anyway. It took a while for me to figure out that I can’t put my faith in anyone else until I’ve put it in myself, but I think I get that now. And just for the record, I like that you haven’t fallen in love easily in your life.” She smiled, her heart in her words and in her eyes. “Because I know this one’s for real.”

  She paused, wanting to soak in Dean’s expression in that moment, the awe and the pleasure, the hope that looked so boyish and dear on his handsome face, and—oh, yeah…lookee there—the lust. They would have to take advantage of that soon. Very, very soon. She had only one more point to make….

  “I don’t want a fairy tale, anymore, Dean. Really. Well…I wouldn’t mind the singing mice…but trying to live in a fairy tale is exhausting. What I need is a man I love and respect, who loves and respects me. I expect our marriage to be the shelter and strength for our family. So I’m not going to run away anymore. This is my life, and I intend to stand and fight for it.”

  She put both fists on her hips. “Now. You’re coming home with me, Dean Kingsley. And don’t get lippy about it. You give me any guff, and you’ll see what angry does to a librarian.”

  His eyes glowed a deep spring-blue she wouldn’t mind looking at every day for the rest of her life. Stepping around the table, Dean stood close enough to swap pheromones and sent his gaze appreciatively up and down his very adamant wife. “I love it when you go gangsta.”

  Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her, that honey-pouring, knee-melting, I-know-you-and-love-you kiss that she’d like to bottle for use every day when they were apart for more than, say, ten minutes. This was what she had almost given up.

  When he lifted his head, he remembered they had an audience of one. Keeping a hand on Rosemary’s back (and making sensuously
slow circles that could drive a girl crazy), Dean addressed the woman who, at the moment, looked as if she’d been in a bad episode of Punked. “Esmeralda, this is my wife, Rosemary. Rosie, this is Dr. Esmeralda Duran. She’ll be working with Dr. Gill until Clinica Adelina is up and running. Then she’ll head the health center.”

  “Oh, hello! A pleasure to meet you.” Rosemary leaned forward to offer her hand, which Dr. Duran took warily.

  “Uh-huh. Why don’t I leave you two alone….” Esmeralda edged to the alley-entrance door. “Sounds as if you need some time. Dean, thanks so much for showing me the apartment. I’d like to move in a couple of days from now if that’s all right.” Her coal-black eyes shifted to Rosemary, who understood her hesitation immediately.

  “Here’s the extra key.” She offered it to the other woman. “And no copies have been made. Promise.” She was definitely going to have to make a second first impression on Dr. Duran.

  Esmeralda plucked the key gingerly from Rosemary’s fingers. “Okay, thanks. Well.” She nodded again, halfway out the door. “Have a really…interesting evening.”

  “We will.” Rosemary waved. “’Bye.” When the door shut behind the beautiful physician, Rosemary cocked her head. “Is she an ob-gyn, by any chance? I could use someone local.”

  “Hmm,” Dean studied his bride. “We may have to shop around.”

  “Okay.” She smiled up at him. “So you’re renting your apartment.”

  “I thought I would, yes. I had hoped to live with my wife till death we did part and all that. But then she realized what a lame-brained jackass I’d been—”