by Webb, Peggy
"Hey, Kelly. You got big plans for tonight?"
Wayne Maycomb, the precinct's resident Romeo, looked up from his work. He was big, burly, and friendly, and he made David's transition to the NYPD an easy one.
"Nothing except a good hot soak in the tub."
"With a woman, I hope."
"Not a chance."
"You need major rehabilitation, man." Wayne shrugged into his New York Yankees jacket. "How about coming with me tonight? I know at least three women who would be glad to put a smirk on that ugly mug of yours."
"Thanks, but not tonight, Wayne."
Wayne ran a pocket comb through his mop of unruly red hair. "Then I'll catch you later, pal. Happy Valentine's Day."
"Yeah. Same to you."
David shrugged into his jacket and turned his collar up. He rammed his hands into his pockets and walked out into the street. Going home alone. It wasn't what he expected to be doing.
He passed a drugstore on the way to his apartment and stopped to look in the window. Red hearts and boxes of candy tied with red ribbon filled the window, reduced, LOVE AT HALF PRICE, the sign said.
David walked on. He would take love at any price. Rosalie's love. How much longer could he endure before he bulldozed his way into her life again?
He kicked at an empty beer can in the street, then stooped to pick it up and throw it into the nearest garbage. He had told her he would give her time, and that's what he was going to do. Even if it killed him.
A huge poster for Mystic Persian Potion decorated the window of a sleazy store offering aphrodisiacs, guaranteed to work. The lovers on the poster were in a clinch.
David hurried on by, jealous of painted people on a cardboard poster. He was going to do a hundred sit-ups when he got home, and then get in a cold shower.
"Dammitall," he muttered when a cat streaked out of the alley by his building and tangled between his feet. It was a big yellow torn. "Go on, cat. Go get yourself a girl. Everybody else has."
He went into the lobby of his apartment building. The long climb up the stairs did nothing to improve his mood. He rattled the key in his ill-fitting lock, then pushed open his door.
Instantly, he was alert. Someone was in his apartment. He could feel it, smell it. Moving quietly, he reached inside his jacket to his shoulder holster.
The faint scent of roses wafted over him.
"Happy Valentine's Day, David." Rosalie stepped out of the shadows and flicked on a lamp. "Surprise." Smiling, she held her arms wide.
In two strides he was across the room, wrapping her in his arms, hugging her so close, she feared for her ribs.
"David." She laughed, leaning back to look up at him. "You don't have to hold on so tight. I'm not going anywhere."
"How did you get up here?" he asked, leading her to the sofa.
"By lying. I told the landlord I was your sister, and I had come all the way from Alabama with news I knew you'd want to hear."
He leaned just far enough back so he could look into her eyes. What he saw there made him dare to hope. "And what is this news, Rosalie?"
Tenderly, she traced his face with her hands, starting with his eyebrows and ending with his lips. "That I love you, David. That I loved you in Tupelo, and I loved you in New Jersey, and I love you in New York."
Smiling, she pressed her lips to his for a kiss that was so sweet, he thought he heard angels singing.
"You're my last and my best love, David."
There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. But she was in his arms, her eyes gleaming, her lips beckoning, and already his skin was on fire.
He pulled her so close, he could see her soul through the shining center of her eyes.
"You told me you've started celebrating holidays," she whispered, her mouth only inches from his.
"Because of you." He ran one finger along the moist inner lining of her lower lip.
"I think it's past time to celebrate Valentine's Day, don't you?" She pulled his shirt out of his pants and ran her hands over his chest.
"Do you have anything in mind?"
"This . . ." she said, pressing her lips into the hollow of his neck. "And this ..." She reached for his belt buckle.
"Say it again, Rosalie," David told her as he slowly peeled away her clothes.
"Happy Valentine's Day."
"No. The other." He lowered her to the sofa, and she smiled at him, honey and cream, fire and smoke.
"I love you, David." She reached for him, and he came to her, sliding home where he belonged. "I love you ... I love you," she chanted softly, keeping time to the slow, bluesy rhythm of their loving.
A week of separation had made them hungry, and they were soon racing toward that final destination, their voices lifted in triumph when they reached the goal.
He shifted so that they were facing each other on the narrow couch.
"Marry me, Rosalie."
"I didn't come here tonight to tell you I would. I merely came to say 'I love you."' She kissed the side of his jaw, then found the scar on his back. Tenderly, she traced its jagged line.
"Are you afraid of my profession, Rosalie? Afraid the next knife will find my heart?"
"I was afraid of everything . . . until we came together again on this lumpy sofa."
He laughed. "We can do something about that." Scooping her up, he carried her into his bedroom, finding the way in the dark. In the glow of neon from the pool hall next door, he bent over her and searched her face.
"I won't settle for an affair this time, Rosalie."
"Are you asking me to leave?" she whispered, cupping his face and pulling it down to hers.
He took her lips in a kiss that seared their souls. "I'm asking you to stay . . . forever."
"Only tonight, David."
"And tomorrow night?"
"I’ll come again after my lesson, before I take the tram back to New Jersey."
"And the night after that?"
Seeing how complicated it would all be, she bit her lip. "I don't know. Maybe you can come to my place."
"My place or yours. Is that what you want, Rosalie?"
She laced her hands into his hair and pulled his head down to her breasts. "I want you, David."
As always with them, passion burst quickly into full flame. David took her deep into his mouth, knowing that for now that's all he had of Rosalie, her part-time love.
With the blue neon from next door veiling her skin in mystery, he savored her, slowly and completely, finding every curve, every hollow that he loved so dearly. He branded the soft, satiny skin from her breasts all the way down to the juncture of her thighs.
"Love me, love me, David," she whispered, offering herself to him—the musk and honey of her body, the tender music of her soul.
He took her, all of her. With her fingernails dug into the sheet, she urged him on with desperate whispers. Her world splintered into bright pieces, then came together in one burning star, and that star was David. He burned in her and through her and around her, far into the night.
And when the first pale rays of morning washed over the windowsill, she fell asleep, exhausted, in his arms.
David cradled her, watching her sleep. She had come to him. After one agonizing week of waiting and wondering, he had found her in his apartment, willing to be in his arms.
It wasn't all he wanted, but it was a start. He held her until the sun sent a shaft of light over his covers. He didn't have to look at the clock to know it was time to go.
He reached for the tangled sheet and tenderly pulled it over her. Then he set the clock so she wouldn't miss her lessons and headed for the station.
o0o
"You look like hell," Wayne Maycomb said. "Rough night?"
David smiled.
"Well, go ahead. Keep secrets after I offered to share," Wayne teased good-naturedly.
"She's special, Wayne. And if I'm lucky, she'll be wearing my ring one of these days."
Wayne groaned. "Not the old ball and chain.
I thought you were a better man than that. An artist, for crying out loud."
"Painting is just something I do."
"My sister loved that watercolor of yours I gave her for her birthday. Said she was going to show it to a friend of hers who has a gallery."
"I appreciate that. Tell her I said so."
"If I know Becky, she'll be down here thanking you. She considers herself a patron of the arts, and she loves discovering new talent."
"I don't know that I'm 'new talent.' I'm just a police officer who loves to paint."
"Don't tell that to Becky. Tell her you live and breathe for art. Tell her your soul would shrivel and die without it. That's the kind of thing patrons love to hear from artists."
The only thing David would shrivel and die from was losing Rosalie. But he didn't tell Wayne that. He merely went about doing his duties as an officer of the law.
o0o
Although she had had very little sleep in David's apartment, Rosalie's voice didn't suffer. In fact, she had never had a better lesson.
"You are competing with the angels today, Rosalie," Mirella said, smiling her approval.
"It's because of David." She spoke his name out of the joy that overflowed her heart, but she instantly saw her mistake.
"David?" Mirella frowned. "Who is this David?"
"A good friend . . ." she said, seeking to avoid further discussion. Then, feeling disloyal to David, she added, "Actually, he's more than a good friend. He's the man I love."
"Ahhh . . . love." Mirella walked to her window and stood gazing at her courtyard.
Rosalie waited, wondering what would come next. Was she to be dismissed because she dared to love?
Mirella's eyes glittered as hard as the diamonds at her throat and on her fingers when she turned back to Rosalie.
"I cannot tell you how to live your private life. Would that I could!" She threw her hands up in one of her dramatic gestures. "But I will tell you this," she said, tapping her cane on the floor for emphasis. "Let no man come between you and your art, Rosalie. If you do, you are courting failure."
o0o
Later that evening Rosalie thought of Mirella's advice as she let herself into David's apartment with the spare key. Joe Mack had come between her and her art. Not deliberately, of course. But being in love and having the twins to care for had taken priority over everything else, including an operatic career.
She paced David's small apartment. Was she capable of handling love and the demands of launching a singing career at the same time? While she was working so hard to establish herself in the world of opera, she would be a part-time wife at best. Would that be fair to David?
Maybe it would be easier for both of them if she just left. In time they would forget the high, bright passion they felt for each other. In time their love would fade. He was an artist; she was a singer. Pain could be metamorphosed into beauty in art.
If she hurried, she might catch the next train back to New Jersey. She was reaching for her purse when the door opened.
David stood just inside the doorway, piercing her with his fierce blue eyes. He looked tired.
"Were you leaving me, Rosalie?" he asked, looking at the purse in her hand.
"Yes."
They stood facing each other across the room. The pain in his eyes flayed her heart. Her hands tightened on her purse, and her tongue flicked over her lips.
David didn't move. He merely stood there, quiet and magnificent, waiting for her.
Her purse slid to the floor as she ran across the room and launched herself into his arms.
"David, David," she whispered, pressing her face against his chest. "I'm so selfish."
"You're just scared." He cradled her in his arms and pressed his lips to her hair.
"Hold me, please. Don't let go."
He held her, gentling her with his hands, soothing her with soft whispers of love. Sighing with contentment, she burrowed close, feeling protected and comforted and cherished.
As always with them, the hot press of passion soon would not be denied. He opened his buttons and ran her hand inside his shirt. He pushed her skirt up and spread his hands upon her warm skin. Urgently, she moved against his fingers, and they fell victim to their desires.
"Rosalie." He spoke her name with fervor, as if the very sound of it was too erotic to bear.
"Take me, David," she whispered. "Now."
In the hard, bright stillness of that room he took her quickly, bracing her against the wall. They loved with desperation and fierceness, as if they feared that this time would be their last.
And when it was all over, David quietly lowered her to her feet and rearranged her clothes. Rosalie stood very still, letting him take care of her.
"I love you, David," she whispered. "Please don't ever doubt that."
"I love you, Rosalie." He traced her cheeks with his fingertips. "I could paint this face in my sleep. These cheekbones . . . this skin . . . these lips."
Rosalie held her breath, trying to stop the minutes that were hurrying by. David pushed back her damp hair, then bent to kiss her forehead. She felt tears gathering at the back of her throat.
"The noblest part of loving is letting go." He got her purse off the floor and placed it in her hand, curving her fingers around the handle, then holding on. "I'll take you to your tram."
"Yes."
She had her sets to do at Murphy's Place. The rest of the world didn't stop for love.
o0o
They were silent as they made their way to the tram station. And when the gleaming tracks came into sight, and the hulking mass of steel that would take her back to New Jersey, she squeezed his hand. It seemed to her that she and David were always going in different directions, always parting without saying good-bye.
This time was no different. He put her on the train with a light kiss on the cheek, then stood by the tracks watching her leave. She pressed her face to the window and kept it there until he was a speck in the distance.
"Good-bye, my love," she whispered.
o0o
That evening, sitting on her solitary stool at Murphy's Place, she sang "As Time Goes By." Tears wet her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she remembered the final scene of Casablanca, Bogart saying good-bye to Bergman.
She couldn't have it all. Not this way. Two days of taking late trains to New Jersey proved that. She would be exhausted. And what about David? She couldn't let him be the one to take the late trains—or the early morning ones, depending on whether he stayed the night. His work was too dangerous. What if another drug-crazed kid came out of the alley while David was mentally and physically drained? He would be dead. And it would be her fault.
Love wasn't supposed to kill.
After her first set. Murphy stopped her on the way to the dressing room.
"Something bothering you, Rosalie?"
"Yes, but I'll try not to let it affect my work."
"It's not that. You're doing a fine job." He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to a quiet spot in the kitchen. "Time for tea and sympathy, honey," he said, pressing a cup of hot tea into her hand.
"Thanks, Murphy. You're a friend."
"Heck, I've grown about as attached to you as my sister has." They sipped tea in silence a while, then he patted her hand. "Just remember this, honey. Ain't nothing wrong that a little old-fashioned determination can't fix."
o0o
Old-fashioned determination. Rosalie thought about Murphy's advice the rest of the night and all the way into New York the next morning.
She looked out the window of the train at the countryside rolling by. Until a few months ago all of it had been unfamiliar to her, almost a foreign land. She had been born Southern, brought up Southern, and lived Southern. All her life had been spent with the safe, the familiar . . . until David had given her the old-fashioned determination to reach out for more. He had given her back her music, her dreams, and her desire to reach for them. He had opened another world to her, a world filled with
brilliant explosions of beauty and passion.
But most of all he had given her an explosion of self, a fierce, startling discovery that she was a person with potential, a woman of possibilities. Her life would be exactly what she made it. That, and no more.
When the train pulled into the station, she was the first one to get off. The nearest phone booth was only a few minutes away. She headed toward it, walking with a new confidence. With her hands tight on her purse, she pushed open the door and slid into the booth.
"This is Rosalie Brown," she said after Mirella Tagliovini picked up the phone. "Could we possibly reschedule my lesson today? I have something very important that I have to take care of."
o0o
David was in the records room, going through old files, when Wayne stuck his head in the door. "Hey, Kelly. There's someone to see you."
"Can you take care of it, Wayne? I'm covered up back here."
"I'd handle it personally if I was you."
"Yeah? What's it all about?"
"Why don't you let the lady tell you herself?" Grinning, Wayne stepped aside.
Rosalie stood in the doorway, as bright and fresh as the morning. Slowly, David laid the records aside.
"How about if I leave you two alone? I'll even shut the door." Wayne gave the thumbs-up sign before he left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Rosalie," said David, being careful not to let the wild hope that roared like a river through his soul show in his voice.
"David." She smiled at him, almost shyly. Then she shrugged off her coat and lifted her arms to rearrange her hair, as if the train ride in the closed car from New Jersey had mussed the shining strands.
Seeing the pulse of pale blue veins under skin, he fell in love with her all over again.
"Is something wrong, Rosalie?"
"No. Everything is . . . almost perfect."
He dared not touch her, dared not fan that flame that would burn so quickly out of control. With great force of will, he stayed where he was, keeping the filing cabinet between him and the object of his obsession.
"Can I get you some coffee?" he asked. "Tea?" She shook her head. "Can I do anything for you?"
"When we were in Tupelo, life seemed so simple. I would go to the Edge of Paradise while you waited at home, painting one of your beautiful pictures, or building one of your birdhouses." She took a step toward him, then stopped. "Every day I knew that you would be waiting for me, that I would go to sleep at night with you at my side and I would wake up in the morning with your head denting the pillow next to mine."
