Edge of Paradise

by Webb, Peggy

  "You've been sitting there all night?"

  "Yes."

  "Sitting there awake, watching me sleep?"

  "I think I dozed a couple of times."

  It was then that Rosalie knew she loved him. Groaning softly, she pressed his hand close to her heart. Life was a prankster. Love was supposed to come riding in on a white charger with banners unfurled, not sneak in the back door while she dreamed. Love was supposed to be announced with music and roses, not with a hangover and wrinkled clothes that had been slept in.

  "Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you something?"

  "An aspirin, please. I have a terrible headache."

  David left the room swiftly. Rosalie pulled the blanket around her shoulders, shivering. There had been music and roses, music sung from the heart and one perfect rose given from the soul.

  "Oh, David, David," she whispered. "What am I going to do?"

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she angrily brushed it away. No tears for her. She was going to be strong this time, strong and brave and wise.

  "I brought you two. And a glass of water." David sat on the edge of the bed, handed her the aspirin, and held the glass to her lips.

  She drank. The water was cool going down, but his hand on her chin was hot, hot with the passion that always rose between them so quickly, so unexpectedly.

  "Thank you," she said.

  He took the glass away and set it on the bedside table. Then he got off the bed and sat down in his awful chair.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  "Almost two."

  "I should go home."

  "It's cold outside . . . and raining."

  "Are you going to stay there ... in the chair?"

  "Yes. You might need me again."

  I need you now, David, lying beside me with your arms wrapped around me.

  "If you're going to sit on that hard chair the rest of the night, I'm going home." She bit her lower lip. "I probably should anyhow."

  "Nothing is going to happen, Rosalie. I promise you that."

  Did he know how she felt? Could he tell? Did it show in her eyes?

  "That's the least of my worries," she said, trying to sound breezy. "What I am worried about is you sitting in that hard chair. It's not good for your back."

  He smiled. "Are you trying to tell me I'm not young?"

  "Well . . . are you?"

  "No. Forty."

  "That settles it then." With a bravado she was far from feeling, Rosalie scooted to the far side of the bed and patted the mattress. "Hop in. No need to remove your clothes. It would break a pattern."

  "The chair is fine."

  "Don't be foolish, David. We're both adults. You're perfectly safe with me." He arched one eyebrow. "Not tonight, honey," she teased. "I have a headache."

  He laughed. "Rosalie, you're the damnedest woman." His shoes hit the floor with a plop. "That's twice you've conned me."

  "Wait till the next time, mister." She stretched out on her side of the bed, drew the blanket up to her chin, and tried to look calm. The bed creaked and the mattress sagged when David climbed in on the other side, fully dressed except for his shoes and his belt.

  "Good night, Rosalie," he said, turning his back to her and pulling his half of the covers up to his waist.

  "Good night."

  o0o

  In spite of being up most of the night, David woke early. Rosalie was curled against him, one arm draped over his waist, one leg wedged between his, and her enticing curves pressed into his back.

  It would be so easy to roll over and gather her into his arms, so easy to kiss her, so easy to get her to kiss him. They were already in the bed. If they got started, there would be no stopping this time.

  David clenched his jaw against the passion that threatened to unseat his reason. Gently, so as not to wake her, he eased her hand off his waist. That small task was relatively painless.

  Unwrapping himself from her body was the hard part. He suffered a thousand regrets as he untangled himself from her exquisite legs.

  The mattress squeaked as he eased off the bed. David cursed silently. Finally, he was upright. standing beside the bed looking down at her. His breath came in short, harsh gasps.

  Rosalie slept on, curved sweetly upon his bed, her hair spread upon his pillow and her hips pressed into the warm spot where he had been. He was either a fool to leave her or the most noble man God ever put upon the earth.

  Moving in the pale half-light of dawn, David tiptoed around the bed and found his shoes. He didn't slip them on until he was outside the bedroom door.

  "Narrow escape," he whispered, leaning against the doorframe.

  When his breathing returned to normal, he went into the kitchen to make breakfast for two.

  o0o

  Joy zinged through Rosalie when she woke up, and she didn't understand why until she looked at the pillow next to hers. It was dented. Two in the bed together. It had felt so good.

  Smiling In spite of a slight twinge in her head, she got out of David's bed and made what repairs she could to his bathroom. Her clothes and her face both looked as if they had been slept to.

  She was too happy to care.

  She found him to the kitchen, setting out orange juice for two.

  "You made breakfast for me?"

  "Good morning, Rosalie." He pulled out a chair at the table. "I thought you'd have time for a big breakfast before you leave for work. It should be a welcome change from cereal."

  "How did you know?"

  "Detective work."

  Spying through the windows. She'd done a lot of it herself.

  "You're sweet to do this, David." Rosalie sat to the chair he offered, and had breakfast with the man she loved. The only problem was that he didn't love her back

  o0o.

  After she left his house, David headed toward the shower. On the way through his bedroom he passed by the bed. Her fragrance lingered there, and the covers still bore the impression of her body.

  He picked up her pillow and pressed it to his face, inhaling. Need washed over him, need and desire so great, he groaned aloud.

  "Dammitall." He threw the pillow onto the bed and stalked into the shower. The water he turned on was cold.

  o0o

  David stood at his window watching Rosalie leave for rehearsals. It had been one week since she'd come to his house, one week since she'd slept in his bed, one week since he had felt her body pressed close to his.

  It felt like an eternity.

  He left the window and went to his easel. Rover padded along behind him, wagging his tail and smiling his doggie smile.

  He was going to have to do something about that dog. In five more weeks he'd be leaving. As soon as he saw Rosalie's stage debut, he would pull out of Tupelo and move on to another place, a town that didn't put him too close to the edge of paradise.

  David picked up his brush and began to paint.

  o0o

  Rosalie sat in the theater with the rest of the cast, wondering if she was, after all, too old for the stage. Rehearsals were long, and the director was demanding. She barely had time to squeeze everything into her day—work, memorizing lines and songs, rehearsals.

  The only good thing about the frenzied activity was that she didn't have time to think about how much she missed David.

  "Listen up, cast." Dennis Gossoway, the director, held up his hands for attention. "We'll start building and painting the set tomorrow night. Our backstage crew is terrific, but we can always use more hands. If any of you have time to help with the set, or if you know of anyone who does, let me know."

  Wayne Evans, who was playing the Artful Dodger, raised his hand. "I'm handy with a hammer. I’ll help with the carpentry."

  "Good. Anybody else? BJ Nanney will paint the backdrop, but he's always looking for help. Anybody here happen to be an artist?"

  Rosalie raised her hand. "I know someone."

  o0o

  She decided bribery was her best bet. When she
got home from rehearsals, she laid out the plates, the napkins, the silver, and the apple pie. Then she picked up the phone.

  He answered on the first ring.

  "David? I know it's late, but I saw your light on and thought you might still be up."

  "Rosalie? How's it going?"

  "Great."

  "I'm glad," he said.

  Both of them went silent.

  She hung on to the phone, wishing. Even the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line made her want him.

  "David ... I wonder if you could come over."

  "Now?"

  "If it's not too much trouble."

  "I’ll be right there."

  By the time she had hung up the phone and freshened her lipstick, he was at her door.

  "Come in, I have pie waiting."

  "Sounds good. I haven't had a taste of anything sweet in a long time."

  She poured coffee for two, then sat at the table and served the pie.

  "You look good," he said.

  "You too."

  They ate in silence, stealing glances at each other at every opportunity. When the air was so thick and heavy with thwarted passion, Rosalie thought she might stop breathing, she left the table and began to pace.

  "Something's on your mind," he said. "Is anything wrong?"

  "I hope not." She folded her hands together, then came to stand beside him, not close enough to touch but close enough so she could look into his eyes. "There's something I want you to do for me, David."

  "I'd do anything for you, Rosalie."

  She smiled. "That sounds like my song."

  "I listen to you practice. I guess the song's on my mind."

  Am I? Am I on your mind as much as you are on mine?

  "Tomorrow night we start building and painting the set for Oliver!" David's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt. "I told them you would help."

  "No." The chair scraped against the kitchen floor as he stood up. "I'm sorry, Rosalie. I can't do it."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Does it make any difference?"

  "Yes."

  "I'd do anything for you, Rosalie. You know that."

  "Except this?"

  "Except this. I'm sorry."

  "Why, David?"

  "I don't want to form connections in this town. I'm leaving in five weeks, and when I go. I want it to be a clean break."

  "Nobody left behind to mourn your going?"

  His expression was fierce as he came to her. She didn't back away. He cupped her face, ever so gently, barely touching her skin.

  "I can't make commitments, Rosalie. Not to the theater, not to Rover, not to . . . anyone."

  Her love was without a future. Rosalie knew it then. She guessed she'd always known it. The knowledge settled into her heart like a thorn, but it didn't stop her from loving him.

  "David ..." She took one of his hands between hers, cradling it with exquisite tenderness. "I meant to bribe you with pie. I was even thinking of ways I could blackmail you—by telling you that I had given a promise and if you didn't go, my word would be worthless." She laced her fingers with his and held their entwined hands to her cheeks. "Seeing you now, seeing the pain in your eyes, I don't ask that you do this for me. I ask that you do it for yourself."

  "Rosalie . . ."

  "Shhh . . ." She placed her free hand over his lips. "You can't run forever, David. I know you can't come back in one giant step, but I'm asking you to start back with one small step . . . just one."

  David ached. He ached with tenderness and desire and guilt.

  "I'll be going when it's over," he said.

  "I know that." She smiled. "Thank you, David."

  "How did you know I was going to say yes?"

  "Your eyes already said it."

  "You're a sorceress, Rosalie."

  "If I were a sorceress, I would cast you under my spell."

  "You already have."

  With their hands laced together, they gazed at each other, naked longing in their eyes. Rosalie flicked her tongue over her bottom lip. David stood staunch, dying a little inside.

  Chapter Eight

  The capricious Mississippi weather had turned warm again, so that November felt almost like spring. David and Rosalie formed a habit of walking to the theater together. While she was onstage rehearsing, he was offstage, helping construct a village in Dickens's England.

  Dialogue was carried on amid the hammering and sawing, but when the actors sang, all carpentry ceased. Most of the set crew stepped outside to smoke, but David moved to the darkened wings of the stage to watch Rosalie.

  She had always been a beautiful woman, lovely to look at, lovely to touch, but onstage she was transformed. He stood in the wings, enchanted.

  Her voice soared through the theater. David pretended she was singing for him alone, as she had the night she had come to his house to announce that she had the role.

  Then, afterward, walking home with her in the dark, he liked to believe that there was such a thing as redemption.

  "Next week is Thanksgiving, David," she said, swinging their joined hands as they made their way home.

  It was late, almost eleven o'clock, and the moon was hiding behind a dark cloud that foreboded rain. But David didn't have to see her face to know what it looked like: He had it memorized.

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Then you obviously don't have plans."

  "No. I don't. I never celebrate Thanksgiving."

  "Why not? Or is that too personal?"

  They were passing under a streetlight. All the sweetness and warmth of her personality shone in her face. How could he deny her anything?

  "We never had money for a turkey when I was growing up. And then later . . . after I married Gretchen. it seemed I was always on duty. We never developed the habit of celebrating holidays."

  "Even Christmas?"

  "At first we did. But after it became clear that there was nothing left between us, we didn't even bother to go through the motions." She tilted her face up toward his. He wanted to kiss her. "Gifts should come from the heart, Rosalie."

  Rosalie remembered the rose he had given her. It was time to give him something in return.

  "Come to Thanksgiving dinner at my house, David."

  "Thank you, but . . ."

  "Please?" She put her hand over his lips. "Don't say no."

  "You'll have your family. Your boys will be home from school. I don't want to intrude on that."

  "You won't be intruding. I always invite Betty. She has no family."

  "You have the kind of heart that takes in strays, Rosalie."

  "I take in friends."

  He caught both her hands and stood facing her under the streetlamp.

  "Is that what we are? Friends?"

  He saw the slight tremor that went through her, felt it in her hands. He tightened his hold, pulling her closer.

  "I think we're more than friends, David."

  “So do I, Rosalie." He tipped her chin upward with the back of his hand. With eyes as bright and bottomless as a blue summer sky, Rosalie wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. She was so close ... so close he could feel the contours of her soft and inviting body gently brushing against him. "We are more than friends, much more."

  She moved closer, standing on tiptoe so that her lips were only a whisper away.

  "I can handle that, David."

  "I can, too ... as long as you're not in my house and I'm not in yours."

  Her cheeks flushed with memories. "I don't serve wine. I won't end up in your bed."

  "I’ll make sure that doesn't happen again." Her face never lost its lovely glow. "Don't you see, Rosalie? It's more than that, more than the possibility you'll end up in my bed. . . . It's the possibility that you'll end up in my heart. I can't let that happen."

  "I don't know why that makes me sad, but it does."

  Her warm, sweet breath caressed his lips, his cheeks. David held on to her, flirting with temptation and cursi
ng fate.

  "Don't be sad, Rosalie. Not over me."

  She sighed, then stepped back. David released her, feeling a powerful sense of loss.

  "If you change your mind, David . . . about the turkey . . . come on over."

  "I won't change my mind."

  A restraint came over them, as if they had both attended the burial of a dear friend and didn't know how to shed tears over his passing. By mutual consent they didn't hold hands the rest of the way home.

  When they reached her front door, Rosalie turned to David. "Tomorrow night, David?"

  He almost told her no . . . for both their sakes. Then he pictured her walking the dark streets to the theater alone.

  "Tomorrow night," he said, knowing he would be there only a few more weeks. He could be strong that long.

  o0o

  Thanksgiving arrived with bluster. There was a nip of frost in the air and a strong, hard wind that wrestled the few dry leaves in the oak tree to the ground.

  Inside her house, Rosalie put the turkey into the oven, then looked out her window. A single light burned in David's house, in his kitchen.

  "What are you looking at. Mom?" Jack came up behind her and gave her a bear hug. "That old squirrel?"

  "No. My neighbor, David Kelly. I invited him to Thanksgiving dinner."

  "Good. I enjoy a big crowd." Jack got the milk jug out of the refrigerator and the cereal from the top shelf, reaching it easily without a stool. Rosalie was proud of how tall her sons were, tall and sturdy and noble.

  She busied herself with congealed salad and green-bean casserole while Jack dug into his breakfast with the huge appetite of the young.

  "Is he anybody special?" Jack's casual question caught her off guard.

  "Who, dear?" she asked, buying a little time with her pretended ignorance.

  "Dear? Good grief, Mom. You sound like one of those antiquated television shows. Father Knows Best"

  Rosalie dried her hands on the dish towel, then poured herself a cup of coffee and joined her son at the table.

  "He's special. Jack. But there's nothing between us."

  Jack covered her hand with his. "It's okay, Mom. You're a beautiful woman. Men are bound to notice you. Just be careful, that's all."

  "He's not like Harry. I'm certain of that."

  "Jimmy and I were too young to do anything about Harry, but we're grown men now. Nothing like that will ever happen to you again. We’ll make sure of that."