by Webb, Peggy
"She likes pink," David said, then he realized he was talking to himself. A dangerous habit. He definitely needed a dog.
He studied Rosalie, undetected. Her gown looked soft to the touch, soft and silky. And underneath . . . Would she be soft and silky too? Would her feminine curves fit his cupped hands? Would she be relaxed and languorous when he touched her, or would she be tight and hot and sexy?
Suddenly, Rosalie turned on her chair and looked straight at him. David broke into a sweat, as if she could read his mind.
Trapped, she stood on her chair, and he stood at the window. His sweat inched down the side of David's face as they stared at each other. Finally, Rosalie smiled and lifted her head in greeting, breaking the spell that bound them.
He nodded his head and gave her the briefest of salutes, then turned quickly and left the kitchen. He didn't stop until he had gone into a small room on the far side of his house, as far away from Rosalie as he could get. It was an unfurnished room full of cobwebs and dust.
David waited in the dust, not hiding, merely avoiding that long, hard fall into sweet temptation.
He had fallen once, after long years of a loveless marriage, after the loneliness had eaten away his soul until he didn't think there was anything left. He had fallen so hard that he had broken all the rules. The result had been disaster—and a scar so deep, it had ripped out his heart.
Sweating, praying, clenching his fists so hard, the skin felt as if it would crack, David waited in the unused room until he heard the sound of Rosalie's car leaving the driveway. Only then did he come out.
He showered, dressed, then went to his back porch to gather the things he had made in the last three days. It was time to earn a few bucks. Just enough so he could keep on running.
o0o
Randy Prescott, owner of the Puss 'N Boots Pet Shop, looked at the array of birdhouses and doghouses spread out for his inspection. They were beautifully crafted, the woodwork smooth and the paint elegant. They looked more like the work of an artist than a carpenter.
"I’ll take them all, Mr. Kelly."
"It's a deal." David Kelly pocketed the money Randy handed him.
"This is good work, better than factory-made." Randy lifted a birdhouse to inspect it closer. "Would you be interested in supplying these to me on a regular basis?"
David didn't want anything to tie him down to a certain schedule, a certain town. And yet, he had to eat. His savings wouldn't last forever.
"I can supply you as long as I'm in town," he said.
"And how long will that be, Mr. Kelly?"
Until I decide it's time to go, David thought, but didn't say it. "At least the rest of this month." His rent was paid up that long.
"A vagabond, huh?" Randy Prescott said, smiling.
"You could say that." Though it was far too glamorous a description of the way David's life felt to him.
"Then we have a deal." Randy offered his hand. "I'll buy everything you make for as long as you're iIn town. All I ask is that you let me know when you decide to leave."
"Done."
After David left the pet shop, he walked five blocks to the animal shelter to see if he could find a companion. The pedigreed black Labs in the pet shop had taken his eye, especially the one that kept thumping his tail, but David had far more in common with the misfits at the dog pound.
He selected a small brown dog with floppy ears, a sad face, and a long pink tongue that constantly licked his hand.
It was the next-best thing to love, and not nearly as risky.
Rover, he called the dog.
o0o
He and Rover were sitting side by side on his front porch steps, enjoying the late afternoon breeze, when Rosalie's old car came up the street. Coming home from work, he supposed.
He started to get up and go inside but then decided she had probably already seen him, and he didn't want to look as if he was avoiding her.
The car coughed to a stop, and Rosalie got out, smiling and waving. David thought to wave back, then vanished into his house, but Rover had other ideas. He dashed down the steps and began to lick Rosalie's legs.
Lucky dog.
"You precious little thing." Heedless of her skirt and stockings, Rosalie squatted beside the dog and began to pat his head. "You sweet old cuddlebum." Laughing, she scratched under his chin.
One of the ways David had always judged women was by how well they liked children and dogs. His ex-wife, Gretchen, had liked neither. That should have tipped him off.
"Is he yours?" Rosalie looked up at him, smiling.
"Yes. Got him today."
"What's his name?"
"I call him Rover, but he seems to like sweet old cuddlebum better. He's never licked my legs like that."
"Oh . . ." Rosalie stood up, reaching for the ribbon in her hair that wasn't there. "Well . . . my goodness." She actually seemed to be blushing. A woman her age. It was extraordinarily refreshing. "I'm just a sucker for babies and dogs," she said. "I always meant to have a houseful ... of both."
That's when David knew he was in real trouble. He glanced around his porch, but there was no way to escape without seeming cowardly and obvious. Besides that, he didn't want to hurt Rosalie's feelings.
"Do you and Mr. Brown have children besides the twins?" A funny look crossed her face. "Your boys are fraternal twins, aren't they? They seem to enjoy the special camaraderie of twins."
"Yes, they're twins." She licked her lips. "But not Mr. Brown's. My boys belong to my first husband. Joe Mack Westmoreland." Her voice softened when she said his name.
And where was Joe Mack now? Divorced? Dead? And what about the absent Mr. Brown?
The need to know came unexpectedly to David, just as it had Sunday afternoon when Rosalie had stood in his yard with her home-baked apple pie.
With another man's name on her tongue, Rosalie stood looking at him, her eyes shining and her mouth soft and vulnerable. A quick pain stabbed at David's heart. In a moment of self-discovery he realized he was feeling envy.
Perhaps there was also hope.
"Well . . ." Rosalie said, looking at him expectantly. It must be his turn to say something, but all he could do right now was wonder at his envy for a man who was no longer around. "I'd better go in and change," she finally added. "I usually go for a walk when I get home, if the weather's pretty."
Her shoes crunched on the gravel as she walked away from him. The sun tipped its bowl of gold over her, setting her aglow so that the warmth of her squeezed his heart.
"Walt," he called, surprising both of them.
She glanced back over her shoulder, a dreamy look still on her face.
"We'll go with you, if you don't mind. Rover could use the exercise."
"I'll meet you here in a few minutes, then."
With a little wave of her hand, Rosalie left him. David watched her until she went inside her house. Was she as sweet, as trusting, as she seemed? What kind of woman didn't even hesitate when a man she knew nothing about suggested they walk together on streets that would soon be dark and empty?
And what kind of man asked? Here he was, deceiver of women, betrayer of love, reaching out for a woman he had no intention of inviting anywhere close to the vicinity of his heart. Gretchen had already labeled him a bastard, and now he labeled himself foolhardy as well.
"Selfish bastard," she had said. "You murdered our marriage, you murdered our love. You destroyed everything we had."
He guessed he could add lying to his list of sins and tell himself his motive for imposing on Rosalie's walk was need for exercise. He hadn't done much of it since leaving the police force. Two years ago he could have run across town and not been winded, but now he'd be lucky to run two miles before needing to rest.
Just because his heart would never be in shape again was no reason to neglect his body.
He smiled at Rosalie when she came to collect him for the walk. No need to inflict his dark secrets and black mood on her.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready."
They started down the street, side by side. David let her set the pace. Rover bounded along In front of them, his tongue hanging out with joy.
"Am I going too fast?" she asked, her cheeks already turned rosy by the early October breeze.
"No."
"Too slow?"
"Just about right."
"Good. I mean ... I'm not used to having a companion on these walks, so I don't know about keeping together."
"Neither do I." David adjusted to her pace. Keeping together. It felt good.
She cast him a sideways glance. Her eyes were especially beautiful with the late afternoon sun shining in them, the color of pansies and summer seas and moonlit skies all rolled into one. For the first time in many years, David longed to have an artist's brush in his hand.
"Why don't you know about keeping together, David?"
Her question took him by surprise. So did the fact that he wanted to give her an answer.
"I've been a loner for two years now."
"Divorced?"
"Yes." Among other things. "You?"
"Widowed. Twice."
So the absent Mr. Westmoreland and the absent Mr. Brown hadn't left her by choice.
"I'm sorry. It must have been very hard for you."
"Losing Joe Mack, my first husband, was like losing my heart, my soul. The boys were so young— only five. And I was hardly more than a child myself." She took a long breath, then turned to look directly into his eyes. "Losing Harry was a relief."
"If you want to tell me why, I'm a pretty good listener."
"Sometime . . . perhaps. But not today. I don't want to let bad memories spoil the walk."
Bad memories. Blood everywhere. Puddled in the alley. Squishing underneath his shoes. Covering his hands.
He wouldn't think about that right now. Couldn't think about that right now.
"David? Are you all right?"
Rosalie stopped and put her hand on his arm.
He looked at that small, fair hand with the brave red nail polish. Hard work had marked it. The knuckles were chapped, and the one on her empty ring finger was enlarged.
"David?" She patted his arm. "You made a sound ... as if you were in pain."
He hadn't had anyone care about him in a very long time.
Memories washed over him once more, and with them came his twin enemies—guilt and rage. They jousted at his embattled spirit, and he gently removed Rosalie's hand from his arm.
"It must have been something in the air." He cleared his throat for emphasis.
Guilt smote him anew as Rosalie folded her hands tightly together. She was the last person in the world he wanted to hurt.
"Autumn allergies," she said. "Some people who have never had them develop allergies when they move to Tupelo. Perhaps we should go back."
"No . . . thank you. I don't want to spoil your walk."
"You didn't."
She smiled tentatively. He smiled hesitantly.
Dry leaves fluttered off the trees and rustled to the ground at their feet. A mockingbird high up in a chinaberry tree pretended to be a blue jay and crowed at them for tarrying. The sun, making its final lap toward its resting place, sent a rose-gold benediction over them.
A warmth that had nothing to do with the sun's rays stole over David. Like a weary traveler who finally catches his first glimpse of home, he drew a deep breath of relief. Reaching out, he clasped Rosalie's hand.
"Why don't we finish our walk?"
She glanced briefly at their entwined hands, and for a moment he thought she was going to pull away. Who could blame her if she did?
"Yes. Let's do. I'll tell you about the town."
With her small hand nestled in his, Rosalie described her town with pride and affection. The warm glow of an Indian summer evening combined with the musical lilt in Rosalie's voice lulled David into a sense of contentment. For a brief while he imagined that he was young and invincible and full of dreams. He imagined that happy endings could be forged with love and goodness and strength, and that evil could be kept at bay with a force of will.
Their walk came to an end before they were ready, and they found themselves standing in front of their houses. At the same time they glanced self-consciously at their joined hands, and simultaneously they let go.
"Thank you for the walk, Rosalie."
"Thank you for going with me." She looked up at him from under her lashes, not in the bold manner of worldly women but in the manner of a graceful, gracious woman who doesn't realize her own appeal. The look was so unexpectedly sensuous that David clenched his fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out and embracing her. "I walk almost every evening, if you'd like to join me."
"Thank you." It wasn't much of a reply, but he wasn't in much shape to reply. If he said yes, he would be playing with dynamite, and if he said no, he would be shutting the door on the first emotions he had felt in two years. He certainly had no intentions of getting involved with Rosalie, of using her for his own purposes, but it felt good to realize that he was, after all, human.
Rosalie smiled at him, gave that jaunty little wave he was becoming accustomed to, then turned and walked into her house.
She never lingered over good-byes, and that was just as well, for David hated long good-byes.
Rosalie was humming when she went inside her house. Humming felt so good that she put on a tape and began to sing along.
Across the way, the music drew David to his window. Her voice was clear and haunting, incredibly beautiful. And she was singing a love song. He knew the music well. "All I Ask of You" from Phantom of the Opera.
Stephanie had loved music. She used to play that tape over and over when they were on patrol together. Sometimes she even tried to sing. Her voice wasn't good, and they both knew it. They would laugh good-naturedly at the high notes missed and the notes sung flat.
One rainy night she had turned to him in the car after the last of the song had died away, her face earnest and open.
"Will you always take care of me, David?"
"Of course. That's what partners are for."
"Till death do us part?"
Till death do us part. The words from the past haunted him.
From the house next door Rosalie's voice soared like an angel, full of triumph and hope and—God help him!—a genuine emotion that sounded like love. He gripped the curtain, crushing it between his balled fists.
"Don't," he whispered. "Don't fall in love with me, Rosalie. I can't fall in love with you. I won't."
Her magnificent voice lifted and swelled in the shadows of his house. He closed his eyes. The music sliced into his heart as surely as knives had sliced into his back.
David groaned with the pain of love lost and love forbidden, and his agony had a name.
"Rosalie . . . Rosalie," he whispered, over and over.
o0o
For the rest of the week David studiously avoided being around when Rosalie came home for her evening walk. He set up his tools in his empty room, building his doghouses and birdhouses away from any view of the house next door. Away from temptation.
By Friday evening he was weary from fighting repressed emotion and edgy from denial. When he heard Rosalie's old car pull out for work, he knew what he was going to do.
With his mouth fixed in a grim line and his heart beating overtime, he set out for the Edge of Paradise.
o0o
When David stepped into the cafe, Rosalie almost dropped her pad and pencil. Excitement and confusion made her whole body flushed and hot. She was sure the customers would notice.
And David. What if he noticed? With a death grip on her pad and pencil, she tried to concentrate on what Mr. Hank Willie was saying.
"Make that three hot dogs instead of two, Rosalie . . . and heavy on the pickle relish." Her customer, the owner of the local hardware store, was an old-timer who had been coming to the cafe for as long as Rosalie could remember.
"You bet. Hank," she said, trying
to keep her eyes off the table where David was sitting. It was impossible. He filled her vision, filled her senses. Their walk came back to her as clearly as the song she had sung Monday night—the way his hand had felt wrapped around hers, the sudden jolts of awareness when his shoulder accidentally brushed against hers, the feeling of togetherness that had lingered even after they'd parted.
"How are the boys?"
"Great. Lively as ever. Enjoying college." David, David. Why have you been avoiding me? And why do I care?
"The next time those devils are in town, you tell them Old Hank said hello."
"I will."
"And tell them for me that their mother is still pretty as a speckled pup."
"Thank you, Hank." David was looking her way. She turned her head so her hair hid her face from him. She didn't want him to see her flushed cheeks and get the wrong idea. Or any ideas at all.
Hank patted her hand. "Thank you, Rosalie, for brightening an old man's evenings for might’ nigh twenty years. No matter what kind of day I've had, I know I can always count on one of your smiles to cheer me up."
"It works both ways, Hank. You always cheer me." David was looking. She could tell by the crawly feeling at the back of her neck. Please don’t, her mind screamed, even as her heart said please do.
Her hands trembled as she left Hank's table and headed for the kitchen. She did want David Kelly to get ideas—and that was the whole trouble.
She placed Hank's order ticket on the carousel, and Betty looked at her as if she were a visitor from a foreign land.
"What's wrong, Rosalie?"
"Nothing." Rosalie pushed her hair back from her hot face.
"You look like you've been bargaining with the devil, honey. Are you sick?"
"No . . ." She glanced back over her shoulder. David had not let up his steady, unsettling study of her. "It's just that David Kelly is at table two."
"The neighbor you told me about last week?"
"Yes."
Betty leaned across the pass-through from the kitchen so she could get a better view. When she saw David, she pursed her lips in a silent whistle.
"You didn't tell me he was a dreamboat."
"It doesn't make any difference. Not one little bit." Rosalie retied her apron strings that didn't need retying.
