“What? No, I can’t call back tomorrow. I’m flying to Nassau in a few hours for a big shoot.” A short silence followed Jasmine’s annoyed tone.
“You’ve seen Lorelei, how beautiful she is, right?” The voice was softer now, coaxing. “She probably captured your heart immediately.”
Rosie squeezed her eyes closed. I’m trying not to care. But it’s hard.
“If you truly want what’s best for her, try to see my side of this. I’m her mother. Don’t I deserve to have her a few days each year?”
“I . . .” Fear she’d say the wrong thing and jeopardize Sam’s case chased away the cobwebs in Rosie’s brain. “I don’t know you, but I do know Sam. He’s doing what he feels is best for Lorelei.”
“I’m her mother. How can keeping her from me really be what’s best?”
Rosie couldn’t answer that one. Sam had asked for her trust, and he had it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t voice an opinion if the occasion arose.
“I’ll think about it, but can’t promise anything.” She replaced the receiver with a shiver of apprehension. Something about that woman didn’t sit right.
Then again, maybe it was good old-fashioned jealousy rearing its ugly green head.
From the digital numbers on the microwave, she discovered it was three o’clock in the morning. She’d be dead on her feet tomorrow.
Remembering she’d left a clean nightshirt on the dryer, she stepped into the adjacent laundry room and slid it over her head. Should she return to Sam’s bed? Tempting, but she hadn’t intended to stay there this long.
Though she most likely wouldn’t realize the significance if Rosie did spend the night, Lorelei’s presence had to be considered. Staying in her own bed meant Rosie could honestly tell the court she and Sam had never spent the entire night together—should the question arise.
Sleepovers signified a commitment and permanence in their relationship that didn’t exist.
She mustn’t let herself forget that.
The connecting door creaked slightly as Sam pushed it forward and walked in wearing low-slung pajama bottoms. “Hey, I wondered where you’d gotten off to.” His voice was thick with sleep. He stretched, then gathered her into his arms, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. You smell good.”
“Fabric softener.”
“Uh-uh. It’s you.” He pushed aside tangled curls and nuzzled her neck. “Come back to bed.”
“I’d like to, but it’s not a good idea. I need to get some actual sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day at work.”
“I thought we were sleeping. Was I snoring too loud?”
“No. The phone rang. Besides, it’s not a good idea for Lorelei to wake up and find me in your bed.”
“She’d have to escape her crib first, but I guess you have a point. Whoa. Wait. Who called at this time of night? Is everything okay?”
Dang. She’d kind of hoped he hadn’t heard that part.
“Rosie?”
“It was Jasmine.”
A whispered expletive exploded into the room. Sam released her and took a step back. “What did she want? How did she get your number?”
Rosie shrugged. “Information, I suppose. It’s listed.”
“Was she . . . how did she seem?”
“Upset. Worried about this custody thing.”
“An act for your benefit, I assure you. What did she say? Try to remember. It could be important.”
“She tried to convince me she needed time with Lorelei. At least a few days a year.”
“And?” he prompted, dark eyes glittering, his expression hard.
“And she has a point, don’t you think? Maybe the two of you could come to an agreement about—”
“No. I can’t trust her.” Sam’s tone brooked no argument, but he hadn’t heard the tears and frustration like she had.
“Why, Sam? I know what you said about her dumping Lorelei on you and neglecting her. But maybe she had postpartum depression or something. Maybe she was scared she’d fail as a mother. Not every woman dreams of having children.”
“I thought you were going to trust me on this.”
“I’m trying to. The things you told me were serious, disturbing even. But with counseling and supervised visits, maybe—”
“I thought,” Sam interrupted, then broke off, spearing his fingers through his hair, jaw clenched. “I thought you would understand and support me. What are you trying to do? Squirm out of our deal?”
God, he was livid! Somehow she had to keep her cool, make him understand. “No. I’m committed to our agreement. I just think—”
She broke off as his lips tightened into a thin line. But why? She hadn’t said anything to further provoke his anger.
“You think I should hand my daughter over several times a year to someone I know will neglect her while I hope for the best?” His voice rose at the end, and he turned to pace.
“Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow after I get home from work, when we’re both calm.”
“Maybe you’re trying to avoid having a relationship with my daughter. Is that it? Do you even like kids?”
“Sam!” Rosie stared at him, aghast. She couldn’t formulate an answer against such a surprising accusation.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m trying to understand, but you don’t have anything to do with her. You never touch Lorelei or get close to her unless you have to. What happened to the two of you getting comfortable with each other in case the judge wanted to see you together?”
“I don’t want her to get too attached to me and end up hurt.” Please stop this, Sam. Don’t go down this road.
“That sounded pretty good the first time, but now that I think back, it’s more like you just ignore her. I thought you’d be a doting aunt too, but I don’t see you inviting J.T.’s kids over.”
“I’m busy. I work. They’re doing their own stuff.” Rosie gripped the edge of the counter, her knees shaking. Her response was lame, and she knew it. He was asking too many questions. She had to make him stop.
“And what about the birth control conversation we had? Most women without a lover for significant spans of time don’t continue to protect themselves against pregnancy. Is there a medical reason for you to take contraceptives?”
He had no right to ask her these things. No right. She was merely trying to help reunite a mother and her child. How could things have gotten so skewed?
Her silence snagged his attention. He stopped in front of her, his eyes full of dread.
She looked away before he could see the same in hers and question it.
“Answer me. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She was a fool. After all that had happened tonight, all they’d shared, somewhere in her heart she’d begun to believe things might change for her. That there might be a little magic left in the world. But that was . . . next to impossible.
And selfish.
Incredibly, shamefully self-indulgent.
She’d never told anyone the whole, ugly truth, had never managed to get the words past her lips. Saying it aloud would be like admitting the emperor wasn’t wearing any clothes. Everyone would see her differently.
But she could answer his question truthfully. “No. There’s no medical reason for me to be on birth control.”
He’d leaned in to hear her soft admission, close enough she could hear him breathing.
When she refused to look at him, he made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “I guess I should be grateful you’re—how did you put it?—‘committed to our agreement?’ Sorry if it pains you to interact with my daughter, but that’s part of the deal I’m paying dearly for. If you hurt her or make her feel unwanted . . .”
“I won’t.” She flashed him a determined look and strode from the room.
The next morning, she discovered the neat pile of clothes and the clogs she’d left in his bathroom now perched on her kitchen counter, the connecting door securely closed. Sam hadn’t felt this unreachable when he’d lived in New
York.
At this moment she couldn’t even imagine getting through the next week, let alone a wedding ceremony and honeymoon. The next year promised to be a test of endurance.
CHAPTER TEN
“I still can’t believe you let me do this.” Claire played with the ends of Rosie’s new hairdo. Cut in a shoulder-length shag with wispy bangs, her hair’s natural curl created manageable layers. A few strategically placed highlights made the auburn darker, lending more depth.
At Rosie’s request, they were alone in the Curl Up & Dye after hours. The sidewalks of Sweetwater Springs had been rolled up, figuratively speaking, long before.
“Here’s what I cut off.” Claire placed an eleven inch auburn braid on the counter. “There might be enough here for Locks of Love to make two wigs.”
“Good.” Her head felt much lighter. Too bad her heart didn’t. She couldn’t forget that awful argument she’d had with Sam.
“You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that. Not many women would go through with a drastic makeover the night before their wedding.”
“Wedding charade. Remember?”
“You sure about that? Y’all looked plenty convincing at your birthday party, and that’s no pretend ring, I can assure you.” Claire fluffed one more spot before removing the protective cape around Rosie’s shoulders.
Rosie blinked back tears. Jeezus Pete, she’d been emotional all week, and it was getting tiresome.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You regretting the haircut already?” Claire’s concern made Rosie’s eyes leak even more.
Rosie shook her head, unable to speak. The haircut had been a long time coming. She had regrets aplenty, but they all stemmed from her blowup with Sam.
She cleared her throat. “We had an argument, and I don’t know how to get past it.”
What a mess they had made of things. The weekend following their blowup had been excruciating, posing for engagement photos her mama had insisted on, having to smile, hold hands, snuggle and kiss. Going out to eat with her parents to discuss progress on the wedding plans hadn’t been a slam dunk either.
Afterward, Sam had mumbled something about deadlines and spent every possible minute holed up in his office, tapping at that keyboard as if possessed.
Claire disappeared down a narrow hallway, then reappeared with a handful of tissues and a softly delivered offer. “I knew something was rotten. Want to talk about it?”
Rosie shook her head and dried her eyes.
“Then what do you say we head to my place for beer and pizza?” She shrugged. “The working girl’s version of an impromptu bachelorette party.”
“Sounds about perfect.” Rosie grabbed her purse on the way, a little surprised at the offer. Claire was the poster child for healthy eating. And while she would occasionally have a slice of pizza when Rosie felt the need to indulge, she rarely, if ever, drank alcohol.
“We’ll have Luigi make us a pepperoni deep dish to go and buy a six-pack of Killian’s on the way.” Claire tucked her arm through Rosie’s until they reached her ancient, neon pink Volkswagen bug.
“What brought this on?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had my own man troubles this week. Now, about tomorrow. Are you showing off the new do or going with something classic like a French twist?”
Did Claire’s man trouble concern Travis, her very own love-’em-and-leave-’em brother? The question begged to be voiced, but she squashed it. Claire wasn’t prying. Why should she?
“I think I’ll pull the sides up into a plain barrette. I’m wearing a small circlet of flowers with trailing ribbons instead of a veil.”
“Sounds pretty, and very you. Great job pulling this together, by the way. You’ve thought of everything.”
Except how to reconcile things between the bride and groom.
Her eyes burned, tears welling again as they parked outside Luigi’s. She’d done a lot of thinking about that night, and maybe, just maybe, she should apologize. Not that Sam didn’t owe her one, too. But someone had to go first.
“Hey, Claire?”
Big green eyes regarding her knowingly. “You’d rather I take you home?”
“Yeah.” She scrunched her nose. “Do you mind?”
“Nah. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. But you owe me a girl’s night out.”
“Deal.” Rosie contemplated the phone conversation she’d had with Jasmine while Claire maneuvered the little car onto the street. “Do you think it’s possible for a woman not to have maternal instincts?”
“Absolutely. Some women are born missing the mommy gene.”
“How can you be so sure? The concept seems foreign to me.”
Claire frowned, concentrating on the road more than was necessary on the nearly deserted streets. After a long silence, she shrugged. “Experience speaking, honey. During her sad, sorry existence, dear old mom—or Glenda, as she insisted I call her—never quite got the hang of raising a child.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s just the way it was. And to be fair, she was barely sixteen when I was born.”
Jasmine didn’t have that excuse. The more Rosie thought about that phone call, the more convinced she became that Sam might be smart to retain full custody. If only she could be sure they were doing the right thing.
Claire pulled beside the curb in front of Rosie’s Victorian and left the motor running. Illumination from a nearby street light made the roof appear nearly white, but left the covered porch in darkness.
Rosie gave her friend an awkward hug over the gearshift before they parted. As she let herself in the front door, the faint cries of a fretful child reached her ears. For a second, she was tempted to run upstairs and turn on music or bathwater to cover the sound.
* * *
Rosie’s knock on the connecting door came as a surprise.
For long seconds, Sam simply stared at her. All week he’d called himself a fool for missing her, for allowing her to claim a corner of his heart when he knew better, and for his role in the argument that kept them apart. He should be apologizing, but the difference in her appearance startled him into silence.
“Would you like some help?” she offered.
Sam nodded, trying not to look as grateful as he felt. He’d tried everything that had worked in the past to calm Lorelei, but she was having none of it.
A particularly high squeal of frustration from his daughter caused Rosie to wince, but to her credit she started toward the piercing noise. He followed.
Halting in the doorway to Lorelei’s room, Rosie squared her shoulders, arms stiff at her sides. She flexed her fingers repeatedly, took a deep breath and stilled.
“Sam, would you please bring that old rocking chair down from my bedroom?” She made the request without raising her voice over the din.
“Sure.” He sprinted through her home and up the stairs before it struck him that he’d never been in Rosie’s private quarters before. One of the four upstairs doors stood open. Inside that room he stopped short, his attention drawn to the wooden rocker sitting in the corner, with—of all things—a much-used and ancient baby quilt draped over the back cushion. He removed the quilt and placed it on her bed.
How strange that a woman who avoided children would have such things in her bedroom.
Hefting the rocker, he turned to leave and paused again. Above an antique dresser hung a large mirror, its carved frame crammed with small snapshots of J.T.’s boys. From grainy sonogram shots to hospital bassinet to missing-teeth photos, she’d created a hodgepodge chronology of their lives thus far.
Not every woman dreams of having children.
Rosie’s words. In his anger he’d thought she was projecting her own views. After one last look at the pictures, he readjusted his hold on the rocker, eased through the door and negotiated the stairs. Clearly, Rosie wasn’t as indifferent to children as she’d allowed him to believe.
Back in Lorelei’s room, he noted a marked difference. For one thing,
the decibel levels were lower as she was no longer crying. Rosie held her, pacing and talking softly. Telling a story about a little red-haired girl and a magic rocking chair, from what he could gather. Lorelei hung onto every word, her big brown eyes focused on Rosie.
Following the general direction of her gesture, he deposited the chair and waited. But the shooing motions she made clearly indicated he was no longer needed.
Fine. He could take a hint.
He fully intended to let Rosie deal with whatever arose, but soon the soft murmurs faded. Unable to resist, he padded down the hall in his socks to check on things.
In an attempt at stealth, he peeked around the corner to a sight that made his chest ache.
A small bedside lamp threw a soft glow over the duo. Rosie sat in the rocking chair with Lorelei tucked into the crook of her arm. His daughter’s thumb had slipped from her mouth, her lips parted in deep slumber.
With eyes closed and her head resting on the back of the chair, Rosie appeared to have fallen asleep too. Except one foot continued to keep the rocker in slow motion. Something glistened on Rosie’s cheek on the forward surge.
A trick of light and shadow?
No. There it was again on the backward glide.
Tears?
Rosie provided the answer when she roused and swiped away the dampness.
Sam ducked back into the hallway, rubbing a hand across his chest. He’d goaded Rosie into playing a role that could end in hurt for them all. Ordinarily, he had more control than to lash out in anger like that.
No. Not anger.
In all honesty, he’d been hurt that she wasn’t interested in more than what they’d agreed on and that wasn’t fair. When she’d sided with Jasmine, he’d lost it.
With Rosie, things swung from being complicated to surprisingly easy. Their coming together was icing on the cake, except she’d admitted to liking their temporary arrangement.
He should be grateful to her for keeping her head, for preventing him from saying something stupid in the heat of the moment. They were adults with grown-up needs and desires. Nothing said they couldn’t enjoy each other while they were together.
A Suitable Wife: A Sweetwater Springs Novel Page 12
