by Webb, Peggy
"Hello, Gretchen. You look good." She was dressed in yellow, her favorite color.
"I've always thought this color gave my skin a little glow."
He followed her into the living room, thinking of another woman, other skin that didn't need help glowing. Rosalie. Desire rushed through him so strong, he had to clench his hands into fists.
"Sit over there, David. Can I get you anything? I have wine chilling."
Wine. He hoped she hadn't thought his visit was to be the resurrection of a dead marriage.
"No thank you. This won't take long."
"Well, why did you bother to come? If you're just going to say your piece, then run out the door, why didn't you say it over the phone?"
He sat down. "I didn't mean it that way, Gretchen." That's the way it had always been with them. Two minutes in each other's company, and he was on the defensive, apologizing for something he hadn't even done.
He supposed that was why he had never apologized to her for Stephanie. Two years earlier he'd figured that he'd done enough apologizing to Gretchen to last a lifetime.
She sat in a chair opposite him and crossed her legs. She'd always had great legs. Two years hadn't changed that.
He studied her face. She was waiting to see his reaction. He kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Gretchen, I came today to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for betraying you. I'm sorry for that one time with Stephanie. ..."
"Do you have to keep bringing up her name?" Gretchen stood up and began to pace. "I don't want to hear her name again as long as I live. She destroyed my marriage."
"No, Gretchen. We destroyed our marriage. It was over long before she came into the picture. I had asked for a divorce. Remember?"
"Do you think that makes what you did all right?"
"At the time I suppose I did. But I was wrong. I broke sacred vows. And for that I'm truly sorry. I should never have hurt you in that way." He went to her and took her hands. "I need your forgiveness, Gretchen."
Anger flashed in her eyes. "You want me to tell you it's all right? That I didn't cry my eyes out for three weeks in a row after you admitted it? That I didn't nearly lose my mind after the divorce?"
"No. I know it wasn't all right. But for that one thing I'm taking all the blame . . . and I'm asking your forgiveness."
"You're not asking that we start over? Try again?"
"No." He squeezed her hands. "You're a beautiful woman, Gretchen, a desirable woman, and I know that someday you'll find someone to love."
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Before or after the divorce?"
He released her hands and started toward the door. She caught up with him and grabbed his arm.
"I'm sorry, David. Really, I am. I guess I wanted to hurt you."
He turned to her. "Try to be happy, Gretchen. Try to put the past behind you." He kissed her cheek. "That's what I'm doing."
She struggled for composure and won. "Good luck, David," she said, squeezing his arm.
He knew it was the closest she'd ever come to forgiveness. He could accept that.
"You too."
o0o
It was two more weeks before David could arrange a short leave of absence from his work. Leaving Rover with Hubert and June Franklin, he boarded the bus for Tupelo.
The house next door to Rosalie's was still vacant. It was a stroke of good fortune he hadn't counted on. The owner was willing to rent it for one week, another stroke of luck.
David paid his week's rent, then took a taxi to Madison Street. When Rosalie's house came into view, he almost shouted for joy. The late afternoon sun slanted on the stained-glass window in her attic room, sending a colored rainbow across her front porch. She would be inside, putting on her pink uniform, getting ready for her evening stint at the cafe.
As the cab drew closer, he noticed the empty driveway. Was Rosalie's car in the shop? It certainly needed repairs. Or had she gone to work early?
David paid the taxi driver, then entered the creaking old house and stowed his duffel bag. A light came on in Rosalie's house. He hurried to the window.
She was there, moving about her bedroom. He held his breath, watching her. She had done something to her hair. It was shorter, curlier. He felt a moment's regret. He had loved the way she had of reaching to secure her hair in its ribbon.
He leaned closer. Something was not right. Rosalie was too thin. Was she sick?
He had planned to surprise her at the cafe. To take flowers and champagne, then to escort her home and make slow, sweet love to her upon his bed. But seeing her now, so thin, he knew he couldn't wait. He had to find out what was wrong.
She turned just as he started from the window. David clutched the windowsill until his knuckles were white.
The woman staring at him from across the way was not Rosalie. Frantic, he searched her bedroom. Rosalie's dressing table was not there. Neither was the pink robe she always kept hanging on the closet door.
The woman in the house next door jerked her shade down.
"Fool," David said. "Did you think she would be there always, waiting for you?"
He stood at the window, staring at the house. If he hadn't been so excited about seeing her, he would have noticed the subtle changes. There was a wreath of dried flowers on the back door and a brand-new swing on the front porch. Rosalie could never afford such things, not on her tight budget.
He turned from the window and picked up his coat. There was only one thing left to do, one place left to look. Turning his collar up against the chill, he set out for the Edge of Paradise.
o0o
Table two was empty. It was too early for the Friday- night crowd. He pulled out his chair and sat down, his eyes searching the room. Rosalie was nowhere in sight.
Big Betty Malone wiped her hands, untied her apron, fluffed up her hair, and left the kitchen for table two.
"Hello, David. Are you just passing through?"
"I'm glad to see you, Betty." He smiled at her. "No, I'm not just passing through. This is a planned trip."
Betty's expression didn't change. Something was wrong. David felt it.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I'd like Rosalie."
Betty pulled out a chair and sat down. Premonition prickled the back of his neck.
"Is something wrong, Betty? Has something happened to Rosalie?"
"Rosalie's fine."
"Where is she?"
"Before I tell you that, you've got to answer a few questions."
David's first instinct was to trust Betty. She was Rosalie's closest friend in Tupelo, the nearest thing she had to relatives. Whatever Betty did, she would always have Rosalie's best interests at heart.
He went with his instincts. "If I can," he said.
"Why did you come back?"
"To see Rosalie."
"That's not good enough for me. It's not good enough for Rosalie. Lots of men would like to come and go as they please, spending a few weeks in her bed every time they passed through."
"She told you?"
"She didn't have to tell me. Any fool could see what was going on with the two of you."
"I didn't come back to spend a few weeks in her bed, then leave. I love her, Betty. There were some things in my life I had to deal with before I was free to tell her that."
Betty let out a sigh of relief. "Then I guess it's all right if I tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I guess she'd want me to."
Alarms began to go off in David's mind. He forced them quiet.
"She's gone. Left Tupelo. Gone off to carve out a career for herself in New York City."
Chapter Eleven
Rosalie was living in a small garage apartment in Morristown, New Jersey, working nights in a cafe owned by Big Betty Malone's brother and commuting days by train into New York to study with a voice coach.
Her life was full and busy. But sometimes at the end of the day when she got back to her empty apartment a
nd pulled off her shoes, she longed to be back home, close to her sons and near enough to Betty so that all she had to do was pick up the phone and say, "Come on over for a game of gin rummy."
But most of all, she missed David. She missed the poetry he used to quote to her late at night after they had made love and were cuddled together under the covers. She missed watching him paint. She missed waking up in the morning and reaching across her bed, knowing he would be there.
It had been a lovely dream while it lasted.
Shaking off her blues, Rosalie threw a coat over her uniform and headed for the cafe. It was only a three-block walk, but the wind whipped at her coat and hair. February in New Jersey was considerably colder than February in Mississippi.
She was glad to see the neon sign: MURPHY'S PLACE, GOOD FOOD, GOOD ENTERTAINMENT. She slipped in the back door.
"Hi ya, kid. How's it going?" Murphy hollered at her. He was big, burly, and gruff, but likable. Very much like his sister.
"If I had fifty years to study, I might be passable." She hung her coat on the hook and reached for her costume, a simple black dress with beading on the shoulders.
"You're good, kid. Get out there and wow 'em."
"I'll try."
She did two shows at night at Murphy's. Sitting on a tall stool on a small stage in the corner of the cafe with only a piano for accompaniment, she sang love ballads. Between sets she waited tables.
She walked onstage and leaned over the piano.
"Let's do the Oliver! songs tonight. Bill. Key of F."
"Sure thing." Bill was so talented, he made the eighty-eight keys sound like a full band.
Rosalie picked up her microphone and began to sing "As Long As He Needs Me."
Most of the diners kept eating, but a few of them laid down their forks to listen. Rosalie considered that an accomplishment.
She was into the second chorus when David walked through the door. Her voice never faltered, thanks to weeks of training with a demanding voice coach. But her heart almost stopped beating.
She clutched the microphone and looked straight into his riveting blue eyes. Was he still on the run? Was he just passing through?
He sat at a small table in the far comer, never taking his eyes off her. He didn't look as if he were passing through; he had the look of a man who had come to stake a claim.
She sang all her songs to him, for him. Oh, David, David. Why are you here?
When she was finished, she hurried from the stage to her small dressing room. She had thirty minutes of privacy, thirty minutes to change into her uniform and pull herself together before she went back into the cafe. Would David still be there? If she hurried, maybe she could catch him. Did she want to? Could she stand to have her heart broken one more time?
There was a knock on her door. Startled, she clutched her robe around her. No one ever came back there.
"Murphy?" she asked, jerking open the door.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Rosalie." David was standing in the door, holding a single long-stemmed pink rose and a bottle of champagne.
Rosalie's breath caught high in her throat, and she was afraid she might not be able to speak. She clutched the door with one hand and her robe with the other.
"How did you get back here?"
"I flashed my badge." He smiled. "You'd be surprised at how cooperative people are when they deal with an officer of the New York Police Department."
"You're in New York? Since when?"
"Since I couldn't find you in Tupelo . . . May I come in, Rosalie?"
How formal they were, and how sad it felt. Rosalie held the door wide.
"Yes. For a little while. I have to be on the floor in about twenty minutes."
"Murphy said to take as long as you like." He handed her the rose. "For you."
"Thank you." She held it to her cheek, loving the feel of the soft, velvety petals, loving him for choosing pink. "But it's not Valentine's Day yet."
"It will be next week." He stood close to her, so close, his legs were almost touching hers. She fought for breath. "I've started celebrating holidays, Rosalie."
"Oh, David." Her hand hovered near his face, without touching. If she touched him, she was lost. "I'm happy for you."
Their gazes met, locked. Neither of them could let go. Slowly, David reached for her hand. She couldn't pull away. When he pressed his lips into her palm, her legs threatened to buckle.
"I've missed you so, Rosalie."
His lips were warm and moist and tender. She stole a few more moments of his touch before she pulled away.
"We can't go back, David."
"I don't want to go back. I want to go forward. With you."
She reached for her hair ribbon, only to discover that it wasn't there. She was wearing her hair a new way now, swingy and curved under, more stylish, more sophisticated, something in keeping with her new life. Turning her back to David, she moved away, to the dressing table.
"My life is different now, David. Betty is storing my furniture; the boys have the car. They took school loans so I could come up here and study with a voice coach. This summer they'll live with Betty and help her out at the cafe."
"I'm proud of you, Rosalie."
"It's what I've always wanted to do. Be an opera singer. My sons are giving me this chance." She picked up her hairbrush—mainly so she would have something in her hand—and began to draw it through her hair. "I can't let them down. I can't let me down."
David knelt In front of her and took her hand. "I'm not asking you to give up your dream; I'm asking that you make me a part of it." He pressed her palm to his cheek. "I love you, Rosalie." She started to speak, but he touched her lips with his fingers. "Shh, you don't have to say anything yet. ... I knew before I left Tupelo. That's why I went back to Red Bay instead of south to Florida."
"You've stopped running?"
"I've stopped running." He smiled at her. "Unless you move to Chicago or London or Paris. I'll run wherever it takes in order not to lose you, Rosalie."
If she had heard those words three months ago, she would still be in Tupelo, Mississippi, working in a law office by day and waiting tables at night, then hurrying home to David's arms, David's bed. She wanted him; she wanted him desperately.
But she wanted more, ever so much more.
"Oh, David," she said, leaning forward, forgetting to hold her robe. It gaped open, exposing the creamy satin chemise she wore underneath, and more, so very much more.
All David's carefully laid plans went up in smoke. He had planned to court her with flowers and champagne, to woo her with old-fashioned declarations of love. Seeing her soft skin shining in the lamplight, he knew he was lost.
Tension crackled the air, and time was suspended. They looked deeply into each other's eyes, and months of separation disappeared; weeks of wanting fell by the wayside.
There was a soft sound, like a kitten mewing, and Rosalie knew she had made it. Slowly, David slid his hands inside her robe, touching her skin with fingers that felt like flame. The need that swept through her was almost unbearable.
She was in his arms, kneeling with him on the floor, clutching his shoulders so hard, her nails dug into his skin.
"I've wanted you every minute of every day since I left." His mouth was on hers, hard, hungry, demanding.
And it was almost as if he had never gone away. Pressed so close that his shirt buttons bit into her breasts, she opened her mouth for the thrust of his tongue. Clinging to him, weak and wet with desire, she pulled him down to the rug.
When he was over her, propped on his elbows, his eyes blazing down into hers, she whispered, "Lock the door."
She died a small death when he left her there on the floor. The bolt slid shut with a click.
He was back, hovering over her, devouring her with his eyes.
"Rosalie?"
"Whatever else happens, David, I have to have you. This one time." She caught his face and brought it down to her breasts. "We're safe. No one will come back here."
He nudged aside the satin and took one creamy breast in his mouth. Pleasure seared through her, and her whole body throbbed with wanting. She arched into his hot, wet caresses, moaning.
With his mouth still on her breast, his hands roamed down her body, stopping to leave a flaming imprint in familiar erotic places. Rosalie went wild under him, shifting so that his hard body was cradled firmly between her thighs.
He trailed his lips across her throat and back to her mouth. They kissed as if they had invented it, kissed until they were panting, kissed until kissing was not enough.
Finally, David broke the contact. His face was tight with passion and the effort of holding back as he gazed down at her.
"I swore never to take you again without telling you I love you." He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheek. "I love you, Rosalie. Now and forever."
Her love for him was like a summer garden, lush and beautiful and alive. And yet she couldn't tell him, for hadn't love so often been her downfall? Hadn't it been the thing that killed her dreams?
She was so close now, so very close. She couldn't let love get in the way.
Tightening her hold on him, she pressed him down to her. "Please . . . David, please."
She didn't have to say more. With quick, urgent movements he was inside her. It was a glorious reunion of body and heart and soul that swept them along until they were limp and panting on the floor.
They lay still for a while, with his head resting in the curve of her shoulder and her hands under his shirt, making small, soothing circles on his back.
"David, David," she murmured.
"I'm back, Rosalie. Back to stay."
Shifting, she kissed the side of his neck. His skin was damp and hot.
"Time to go to work," she whispered.
"I'll wait here."
He helped her up, then straightened her satin chemise. Tenderly, he placed a hand on her burning cheek.
He had come to stay. Rosalie picked up her hairbrush and began to untangle her hair. She needed time to think.
He leaned down and braced his hands on the dressing table, trapping her against his broad chest.
"I want to many you, Rosalie, and I'm prepared to wait as long as it takes."
"What if I say no?"
