by Webb, Peggy
"Your body has already said yes. Eventually, your heart will too." He found her eyes in the mirror. "I'm sticking around for your answer."
"And until then?"
"It's up to you, Rosalie. I don't think there's any doubt in your mind that I want you. . . ."
A hot blush colored her cheeks. "No doubt whatsoever."
"But I'm willing to live like a monk, if that's what you want."
"I thought I knew what I wanted . . . until you walked through the door." She felt the hot press of tears clogging her throat. She couldn't cry now; she had to stay focused, strong. "I guess I don't know what I want anymore."
"We both settled for an affair the last time." The muscles in his arms bulged as his hands tightened on the dressing table. His hot body, pressed so close against her back, branded her. "It won't be enough this time, Rosalie."
She didn't answer him, couldn't answer him. He held her with his fierce blue eyes until she finally had to look away.
"I have to go," she said.
"I'll be waiting." He dropped a quick kiss on her bare shoulder, then walked out the door. It clicked shut behind him.
o0o#
Waiting where? Waiting when? She had been too confused to ask him.
She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. If thirty minutes in David's company had her this unfocused, what would seeing him on a daily basis do to her? She had scales to practice, music to learn—in foreign languages, for goodness' sake!
Jerking up her uniform, she began to dress. She buttoned her blouse up wrong—twice.
"Dammit," she said. She was going to have to learn to kick furniture. Maybe she could call it artistic temperament and get by with it.
She grinned. She could just hear what Jack and Jimmy would have to say about that.
Jack and Jimmy. Oh, my Lord.
She put her head in her hands and groaned. They were sacrificing for her, taking out loans that would have to be paid back.
Resolve filled Rosalie. She couldn't let them down, wouldn't let them down. Furthermore, she couldn't let herself down, not this time.
With that decision made, she hurried into the restaurant. She just hoped her resolve would stay strong in the face of David.
"Did your friend find you back there, Rosalie?" Murphy asked as she passed through the kitchen.
"Yes. Thanks. I didn't mean to take so much time."
"You deserve it. The crowds have been great since you started singing here. Anyhow, I thought seeing an old friend might cheer you up."
Murphy threw a slab of ribs on the cutting board and hacked it into serving pieces. "You've looked like you could use it lately, and Betty said if I let you get down in the dumps, she was going to come up here and personally skin me alive."
"You're safe, Murphy. He cheered me up." And then some. Her body was still tingling and her skin was still on fire. She hoped nobody would notice.
Tying on her apron and taking up her pad, she went into the restaurant and started waiting tables. She glanced around the room, searching for David. He was nowhere in sight.
She tried to feel relieved about that, but she didn't quite succeed. What she ended up feeling was anxious.
When the time came for her second set, he was still nowhere to be seen. By force of will, she got through her set, then headed back to her dressing room. She half expected to see David waiting for her there.
Her disappointment was almost a tangible thing. She could feel it in the sluggish way she changed her clothes.
"So much for undying devotion," she said, taking her coat off the hook.
It was time to go home.
She stepped outside and pulled her collar up against the chill. It was always colder late at night. Brighter, too, on nights like this.
Rosalie lifted her face to the stars. They were sprinkled like bright confetti across the dark night sky.
"Wish upon a star, Rosalie."
David stepped out of the shadows and stood before her, his eyes blazing into hers.
"I thought you had gone."
"I told you I'd be waiting." He touched her face. "Always, Rosalie."
Her hands trembled as she covered his hand with hers. With his warm fingers on her skin, she felt almost as if she could have it all—David, a career, motherhood, marriage. She kept his hand on her cheek awhile longer, then moved out of his reach.
"Can you get a late train back?"
"No."
She sighed. "Then I suppose you'll have to stay at my apartment tonight."
He moved in and tipped her face up with the back of his hand, studying it by the light of the stark bulb that shone over the door.
"What's this I see? Fear?" His voice was gentle as a caress. "You don't ever have to be afraid of me, Rosalie. I won't do anything you don't want me to do."
"That's just the problem. If you're there, I'll want you to . . ."
"Then I'll find other lodging for the night."
"It's late. This is a small town."
"I can sleep at the station."
"Oh, David." With a smile of resignation, she took his hand. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Home." They set off down the street together, holding hands. "Just this once," she said.
"Your mind is made up, then?"
She stopped under a streetlight beside a maple tree. "Don't you see? I've waited all my life for this. This is my big chance, David. If I don't make it this time, I never will."
"I would never stand in your way, Rosalie. I want to help."
"I know that." She put her hand on his cheek. "Don't you think I do?"
"Then, what?"
She took his hand. "It's cold. Can we finish this conversation inside?"
They walked in silence the rest of the way. Inside her apartment Rosalie brewed hot tea, then curled up on the sofa beside David.
"Having you here, sitting beside me on the sofa, makes all this very hard to say," she told him.
"I'll take heart from that admission."
"Don't. Please don't." She set her cup aside and ran her hands through her hair.
David watched it catch the light of the lamp. Honey and cinnamon. He had always loved her hair, from the very first day he saw her.
"I'm not afraid of you, David, of your lack of support or even of your love. I'm afraid of me." She picked up her cup and held it with both hands. It gave her a sense of purpose. "You see, I had plans once, big dreams, and I let my love for Joe Mack sidetrack me. We kept saying, 'Someday we'll have our dreams.' But our love made us comfortable, complacent. We kept putting it off until it was too late."
"You were young then, hardly more than a child."
"And then there was Harry. I thought I was in love . . . and I got complacent again. And then I got trapped."
"It would be different with us. We know what we want and where we're going."
"I don't know where I'm going, not yet. And until I do . . ." She set her cup on the coffee table. "I can't see you, David, not for a casual affair, not for a courtship, and certainly not for a marriage."
"I'll accept that ... for a little while." He reached for her shoulders, drawing her close. "You're the woman I've waited all my life for, Rosalie. The one I thought I would never find. You are my life. A miracle." He looked deeply into her eyes, and she thought she was drowning. "I'm not going to let you go."
"Stubborn Irishman," she said.
"Damned right." He released her, and she stood up.
"I'll get your things. You can sleep on the couch."
o0o
The couch was old and lumpy. It made his back hurt, but it wasn't the cause of his sleeplessness. Rosalie was. The apartment walls were thin. He had heard her at her bath, then later at her dressing table, dipping into jars and dropping her brush.
Though he had never seen her lose her temper, it sounded as if she might be banging a few things around. He considered that a good sign.
Sighing, he rolled over. The blanket tangled around his legs
, leaving his feet sticking out. He just left them there, flapping in the breeze. Might as well add that discomfort to the rest of it—his jaw clenched so hard, his teeth hurt, and his desire so uncomfortably evident, his whole body felt as if it were on a stretching rack.
He rolled over once more, banging his head against the sofa arm. What was the damned thing made of anyhow? Brickbats? He was going to be in great shape tomorrow at the precinct, bleary-eyed and out of sorts.
Well, what had he expected? He had walked away from her without a word. Hadn't even told her where he was going. Did he think he could fly into town and she would come running back to his arms?
He remembered the back room at Murphy's. That didn't count. It had always been like that between them—swift, unbearable need that swept them along in its currents. What he wanted now was commitment, sacred vows that would never be broken. And love.
She had never said she loved him. What if she didn't?
He kicked at his tangled covers and swore. If she wasn't in love with him, he'd just have to see that she fell in love . . . somehow.
"David?"
Her soft voice brought him straight up off the couch. She was standing in her doorway, backlit by a single lamp that burned beside her bed. She was a vamp with a face like an angel and innocence disguised as sin.
He was beyond words. His skin caught fire, and his heart thundered.
"I couldn't sleep." She crossed the room until she was standing beside him. Her diaphanous pink gown brushed against his legs.
"It must be catching. Neither can I." He was surprised he could talk, a man in his condition.
Rosalie bent down and lifted back the tangled covers. "Hold me, David. Just hold me, please."
He opened his arms, and she came into them. They lay back against the lumpy couch, pressed so close together, they felt like one. He smoothed her hair back and rocked her in the tender cradle of his arms, giving his love freely and unconditionally.
"What's wrong, Rosalie?"
"I'm afraid." She pressed her face into the curve between his neck and shoulder. Her breath was warm against his skin. "I'm afraid of making the wrong choices."
"We're all afraid about something, sometime. It's natural."
She squeezed him so hard, he felt the tremble in her arms. "I don't want to lose you, David. . . ."
"You won't. I won't let you."
"And yet ... I don't want to lose this chance." She sighed. "I don't know what to do.”
"Shhh . . . shhh . . ." He soothed her with his hands, with the gentle rocking motion of his body. "Sleep, Rosalie. Sleep, my love."
o0o
They took the same train the next morning. Sitting side by side, with the scenery flying by and the wheels singing their urgent travel song, Rosalie and David didn't talk.
He stared out the window, hoping, and she stared straight ahead, wishing.
At the station he took her hand. "I'll leave you now, Rosalie. I'm going to give you some time."
"You're sweet, David. . . . Thank you."
"You know where to find me if you need me ... for anything. Any time of day or night. I’llbe there for you." He leaned down and brushed a light kiss across her lips. "I love you, Rosalie. Remember that."
"I will."
He turned and walked swiftly away, tall and proud and wonderful. With her hand on her lips, holding on to the lingering warmth of his kiss, she watched him go.
They never said good-bye. Was that because they knew they would be seeing each other again . . . somewhere, sometime?
Rosalie watched until he was out of sight, then hurried into the street to hail a cab. Her voice coach was waiting.
Chapter Twelve
Mirella Tagliovini stood by her window, looking down on her private courtyard. One slender hand clung to a silver-handled walking cane, and the other worried at a gold watch pinned to her shirtfront. To the ordinary observer, she might have seemed to be lost to her garden view, but Rosalie was no ordinary observer. She knew that her voice coach was totally alert to everything that happened to the music room.
"Good morning, Rosalie," she said, with her back still turned to the door. "You're five minutes late."
"I'm sorry." She knew better than to make excuses, for they didn't work with Mirella Tagliovini. Instead, she stood on the polished wooden floors to a patch of sunlight, waiting.
Mirella turned around and unexpectedly smiled. "It is of no consequence. You will work hard and make up for lost time." She walked to a velvet- covered Victorian chair and sat down. "Today you will sing Puccini—"Vogliatemi bene . . . Oh! quanti occhijisi.'" She ran her fingers over the watch at her breast. "I've asked Rodolfo to come to and sing with you."
The great love duet from Madama Butterfly. Rosalie clenched her hands and hid them in her skirt. How could she sing of love when she had just walked away from David? How could she sing at all when she had just let the music walk out of her life?
"Ready, Rosalie?"
She nodded.
Mirella Tagliovini clapped her hands, and the acclaimed Rodolfo walked through the door. He had sung in London, Rome, and Paris. He had sung with all the great sopranos of the world . . . and now he was going to sing with Rosalie.
She unclenched her fists and forced herself to relax. This is why she had come to New York, why she was risking all her savings, why she was working with Mirella Tagliovini.
"Are you surprised, Rosalie?" her teacher asked.
"Overwhelmed is a better word."
"You want to be great? You work with the best. . . . Now, it is time to begin." Mirella Tagliovini leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was her signal.
All the fullness of Butterfly's heart possessed Rosalie as she beseeched her partner, "Love me with a little love, a childlike love." Her voice soared, blended with his, then took flight again, pouring out the yearnings of her own heart.
When the music ended, Mirella opened her eyes. Rosalie held her breath as her teacher sat perfectly still, staring at them.
Slowly, the old woman left her chair and came to Rosalie. "Tears, my child?" she asked softly, placing her hand on Rosalie's cheek.
"I couldn't help it. I felt the song in my soul."
"My dear . . . don't apologize. I heard the anguish of your heart. It was superb . . . magnificent."
"The pain was real," Rosalie said quietly. "It is good for an artist to suffer."
o0o
Rosalie suffered for days. She tried to drown herself in work, but the harder she pushed, the more she missed David. In desperation she splurged on a long-distance phone call to Betty Malone.
"Rosalie! Is something wrong, honey?"
"How did you know?"
"You don't usually call during the middle of the day."
"Why didn't you tell me he was coming, Betty?"
"He wanted to surprise you. You know what a romantic I am. Been through three husbands and still believe in true love. Ain't it a hoot? It must be the influence of that old country and western song Mickey Gilley sings. You know the one—'True Love Waits."'
Rosalie gripped the receiver, wondering how long David would wait for her.
"Rosalie . . . are you still there, honey?"
"Yes. I'm here. I know this is silly of me, but I guess I wanted to listen more than I wanted to talk. You always had a way of making me feel that everything was going to be all right . . . even when I knew it wasn't."
"I don't understand what's got you all in a bother. David said he loved you, wanted to marry you. . . ."
"That's just the problem. I can't marry him."
"I'd like to know why in tarnation not? Two's a mighty comforting number. Much better than one. Shoot, I always figured I'd find somebody again one of these days and give it another whirl myself. . . . You haven't changed your mind about him, have you?"
"No. I still love him."
"Then, honey, for goodness' sake, I don't think you've got a thing in the world to be blue over . . . except maybe you're lonesome for
the Edge of Paradise." Betty laughed at herself.
Though she was no closer to a decision than she had been before, Rosalie felt cheered. Betty had always done that for her, cheered her up when it seemed the world was crumbling around her feet.
"Thanks, Betty. I feel better."
"Great. How's the singing coming along?"
"My voice coach says I'll be ready to start auditions in a few months."
"You'll do great, honey. Just think of Big Betty down here pulling for you."
They chatted for a while longer, talking about the boys and the cafe and the latest doings at the theater.
After she hung up, Rosalie headed for Murphy's Place. She chose the songs from Carousel for her first set. As she sang, she searched the crowd for David.
It had been a week since she had last seen him, last touched him, last kissed him. How long would he stay away? Would he grow tired of waiting?
With one leg hooked around the stool, she leaned into the microphone and crooned the beautiful song "If I Loved You." In song she vowed time and again that she would tell her hero she loved him.
When the last note of music died away, she looked out across the restaurant, still searching for David. She had never told him that she loved him. Remembering all the times she could have, should have, she was extraordinarily sad.
"Expecting someone, Rosalie?" the pianist asked.
"No, Bill. I guess not."
Back in her dressing room, she pulled off her costume and sat at her dressing table. A single pink rose, drooping and dying, stood in a bud vase on the edge of the table.
"Happy Valentine's Day," David had said.
She lifted the rose carefully out of the water, dried the stem with a tissue, then laid it on the table. One perfect rose. David had used it to mark all their significant occasions together.
I'm celebrating holidays now. His eyes had been shining when he'd said that.
Tomorrow would be Valentine's Day. A perfect day to celebrate love.
Without any warning, the blues that had plagued her for days vanished. Smiling, she leaned over and touched the rose.
"Happy Valentine's Day, my love," she whispered.
o0o
David sat at his desk in the stationhouse, cleaning up some last-minute paperwork.
