Sex with Rose Kenneally was not civilized. Making love with Rose was like coming face-to-face with a tornado and being swept up inside its swirling vortex. Jesse closed his eyes, the better to relive that Saturday afternoon, the way she had looked in the green dress. The way she had looked out of it. The way she had wrapped herself around him and closed her eyes in ecstasy.
A loud bang at the back of the room brought him abruptly back to reality. Amanda stopped reading. Jesse opened his eyes and located the perpetrator, and leveled a long, cool stare at Richard Boucher, who was bending to pick up the book he’d dropped on the floor. “Sorry, Mr. Lindstrom,” the boy said.
Amanda sighed theatrically. “Mr. Lindstrom,” she said with righteous indignation, “how can I possibly read my report with Richie making all that noise? I’m going to have to start all over again.”
Amid a chorus of groans, Jesse dropped his feet to the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, and was saved by the bell. As Amanda stood with her arms crossed and her lips pursed, her classmates, like rats deserting a sinking ship, scurried around her to freedom.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “You have it all written down?”
Her eyes lost some of their exasperation. “Right here. All twenty-two pages.”
A little light weekend reading. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll look at it over the weekend.”
She bit her lower lip. “You won’t take points off? I worked real hard on it.”
“I won’t take points off. It’s not your fault we ran out of time.”
“Gee, thanks, Mr. L.” She handed him her precious scribblings. The pages were damp, the edges curled. She paused to bestow a toothy smile upon him, and then she gathered up her books and rushed out the door.
And he was alone. Jesse tossed Amanda’s report into his briefcase, on top of the essays from his third-period senior honors class. This was his favorite time of day, when the turmoil was ended and he was alone at last with the smell of chalk dust and the magic of paper and glue and ink that turned ordinary words into books. He took his time, as he did every day, straightening desks, erasing chalkboards, tidying the bookshelves at the back of the room, making sure the class hamster had fresh water and food. When he was done, he took a last look around his little kingdom to assure himself that all was ready for tomorrow. And then he turned out the lights.
Mikey was waiting in the parking lot. Jesse tossed his son the keys and was rewarded with an ear-to-ear grin. In two more weeks, Mikey would be taking his driving test, and the prospect of his son out there behind the wheel alone had given Jesse more than one sleepless night. But he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to grow up in rural Maine, where every male past his sixteenth birthday held a driver’s license, and only nerds and freshmen rode the school bus. So he’d swallowed his fear and allowed Mikey to spread his wings. So far, his son had shown every sign of turning out to be a cautious and responsible driver. But it still kept him awake at night.
The house was stuffy and oppressive. The two-hundred-year-old Colonial was in need of new insulation. One more thing he simply hadn’t gotten to. As a result, it was drafty in the winter, and on hot summer days it held the heat long after the evening had cooled outside. Jesse threw open a couple of windows, dropped his briefcase on the desk in the den, and pressed the button on his answering machine.
He unsnapped his briefcase and yanked off his tie as the machine played back two hang-ups and one sales pitch for vinyl replacement windows. But the fourth call made him do a sharp left turn back toward the machine.
“Jesse? This is Rose Kenneally. Rob’s sister. We met at the wedding.” She paused, perhaps to give him time to remember who she was. As if he could forget. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Would you mind giving me a call?” She reeled off her number, and he grabbed a pen and scribbled it on the back of Amanda’s opus. “Thanks,” she said. “Um…I guess I’ll be talking to you.”
The machine clicked off, and the room was silent. The memory came rushing back at him, the feel of her, the taste of her, the sweet liquid pleasure of merging with her on a hot summer afternoon as the gulls cried overhead and the river flowed quietly by.
Her sunburst pendant still lay on his bedroom dresser, where she’d set it before using his shower to wash away the damp sand that had managed to infiltrate every crevice of their bodies. Like Cinderella after the ball, she’d left it behind when she fled his castle. Much like that same fabled young maiden, Rose had made her appearance in his life, seduced him with her charm, and left him holding little more than a memory. Like the fabled prince, he’d been tempted to track her down and ensure that the shoe fit. Or, in this case, the pendant.
But to what end? Cinderella and her prince had gotten their happily-ever-after, but that had been a long time ago. This was the dawn of the twenty-first century, and life wasn’t as simple as it had been in those days of yore. He was a small-town schoolteacher, and Rose was a big-city career woman. There were a thousand logical reasons why a relationship between them would never work, and Jesse knew every one of them. He should know them. He’d based his entire life on logic.
And look where that had gotten him.
Jesse Lindstrom was satisfied with his life. If something was lacking, he’d tried not to dwell on it, choosing instead to concentrate on the good things, the things he was grateful for. His son. His career. This wonderful old house, where he’d grown up, and the money to buy it from his parents when they moved to the sun belt. Being alone wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a man. As a matter of fact, it was infinitely preferable to the icy tension that had characterized all the years of his marriage to Colleen.
But his afternoon with Rose Kenneally had forced Jesse to reexamine his life, and the result had not been pretty. The truth was that he’d been living a monochromatic existence for so long that he’d been blind to the lack of color in his life, the lack of spontaneity.
The lack of courage.
It wasn’t easy for a man to admit that he was a coward. But the truth was so clear, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t stumbled over it years ago. Jesse had formulated a life plan back in high school, and he’d never deviated from the road map he’d created for himself. He’d attended the local university, gotten married, then settled down to teach high school in Jackson Falls. There’d been a few surprises; back when he’d been making that plan, it was Casey he’d expected to be sleeping beside for the rest of his life. Instead, after she eloped with Danny Fiore, he’d married her younger sister instead. His marriage to Colleen had not been a match made in heaven, and the divorce hadn’t been part of his plan, but he’d managed to navigate that bump in the road without running too far off track. Aside from that, his life had been smooth. Safe. Responsible. Boring as hell. He’d traded his soul for security, and he wasn’t happy about it.
Only through his writing was he able to unleash the turbulent emotions he’d spent a lifetime learning to keep hidden. Through Dallas Quinn, his fictional hero, Jesse vicariously trod perilous paths, confronted evil, vanquished villains, and emerged triumphant. The fact that he’d been wildly successful at it didn’t matter. What mattered was that only in his books had Jesse been able to escape the confines of his constricted life and color outside the lines. In the real world, Jesse Lindstrom played it safe. Dallas Quinn walked on the wild side.
He slammed the briefcase shut. There were things Jesse wished he’d done differently in his life. Things he couldn’t change. Things he’d failed to do because he was too much of a coward to take risks. Someday, he would look back at his life, and his biggest regret would be the risks he hadn’t taken.
But this time, the risk was here for the taking. And he’d be damned if he was going to add Rose Kenneally to that list of regrets.
He picked up the phone and dialed her number.
***
She was cleaning the oven when Devon blew in, flung her school books on the kitchen table, and went immediately to the refrigerator.
From behind the freezer door, her daughter said, “What’s with you? You’ve been in a cleaning frenzy for a week.”
“I’m tired of living like a barbarian.” Rose pulled her head out of the oven and rocked back on her heels. “What’s wrong with that?”
Devon closed the freezer and peeled the paper off a Popsicle. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s just not like you.” Her brows furrowed as she studied her mother’s face. “You’re still looking kind of pale. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
Rose rubbed the tip of her nose with her forearm. “I’m feeling better now,” she said, touched by her daughter’s concern. “Where’s your brother?”
Devon slumped into a chair and stretched out coltish legs. “How should I know? I don’t keep track of that little dweeb.”
How could the plump, laughing child she’d dressed in ruffles and velvet ribbons have evolved into this slender, sullen teenager? Two weeks ago, Devon had come home sporting a new look. She’d chopped off all that lustrous dark hair a mere inch from her scalp, then bleached the tips, giving her a striking resemblance to a calico cat. She now dressed exclusively in black, and wore enough black goop around her eyes to give Cleopatra a run for her money. A clip-on nose ring, black fingernail polish, and black lipstick completed the ensemble. The only thing missing was a studded dog collar.
Rose had held her tongue. Doing so hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. If Devon was trying to start World War III, it wasn’t going to work. It would be a cold day in hell before she would say word one about Devon’s new image. She’d learned early that with kids, you had to choose your battles. Her daughter could be doing worse things. She should know. She’d done a few of them herself.
When the phone rang, Devon dove to answer it. “I’ll get it!” she cried. “It’s probably Kyle!”
Rose’s head shot up so abruptly she slammed into the roof of the oven. Kyle who? Certainly not the same Kyle who’d referred to Devon’s own mother as hot?
She didn’t have time to ponder. “It’s for you,” Devon said, her lower lip protruding in disappointment. “Some guy.”
Rose’s tummy began doing flip-flops as she pulled the rubber gloves from her hands and deposited them in the sink. “Try not to be too long,” Devon told her. “I’m expecting a call.”
Scowling at her daughter, she snatched the receiver from Devon’s hands and said, “Rose Kenneally.”
“Rose? This is Jesse. Jesse Lindstrom.”
His voice was the same as she remembered. Quiet. Low-key. Sexy as hell. She reminded herself that sex was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. “Can you hang on a second?” she said. “I have to change phones.”
Rose handed Devon the receiver and said, “Business call. I’ll take it in the bedroom. Hang this up for me after I pick up.”
She locked the bedroom door behind her. “I’ve got it,” she said into the receiver. “Don’t forget, homework before TV.”
Her daughter uttered a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Mother.”
Rose waited for the click that said Devon had hung up. Only then did she let out the breath she’d been holding. “Jesse,” she said briskly. “Thanks for calling back.”
“I would have called weeks ago,” he said. “But I got the distinct impression that you didn’t want me to.”
Rose closed her eyes and swallowed. In about thirty seconds, he would undoubtedly regret that he even remembered her name. “Look,” she said bluntly, “there’s something I have to tell you. It’s not the kind of thing you want to say over the phone, but you’re there and I’m here, and—” Oh, crap. This wasn’t coming out right.
“Sounds ominous.”
She wet her lips and peeled back a loose fragment of fingernail. “Jesse,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”
Absolute silence reigned at his end. Not a good sign. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wrapping the telephone cord around her finger, “having to tell you like this. This is so embarrassing. At my age. And we were together just that one afternoon…” She trailed off, uncertainty stealing away the words she’d been rehearsing in her head ever since the doctor had confirmed her suspicions. “I was going to say I can’t imagine how this could have happened.” She laughed nervously. “But that’s a little ironic, wouldn’t you say? I studied biology. I know how these things work.”
“Rose,” he said.
“I just want you to know that I don’t expect anything from you.” She knew she was babbling, but she had to get it all out as quickly and painlessly as possible. “That’s not why I’m calling. I’m capable of handling this on my own. Financially and emotionally. I just thought—”
“Rose,” he said again, more softly.
“—that since it’s your baby, too, you should know about it.”
There. She’d said it. The ball was now in his court. Let him do whatever the hell he would with it.
He cleared his throat. “You’re not—” Cleared it again. “You’re not thinking about having an abortion?”
“You must be joking. I’m Irish Catholic. Even if God forgave me, my mother never would.”
“Does she know yet?”
“Nobody knows. Just you, me, and my OB/GYN.” I will not cry, she vowed. I will not cry! And furiously swiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined your life.”
“You didn’t ruin my life. I’m just a little, ah—”
“Stunned?” she offered. “Thunderstruck? Suicidal?”
“Rose, it’s not the end of the world. We have to talk about this. Face to face.”
“I already told you, I’m not holding you responsible. I got myself into this mess, and I’ll deal with it. I just thought you had a right to know. That’s all.”
“I’ll be there in four hours,” he said. “You and I are going to talk.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“You’re carrying my child,” he said, as though that were the only consideration. “How do I find your house?”
Overwhelmed by an emotion she refused to identify as relief, she gave him directions. He read them back to her, and then they both fell silent. “Look,” he said, “we made this baby together. We’ll get through this together.”
When she hung up the phone, she was crying in earnest. She and Jesse Lindstrom were little more than strangers. He could have told her to take a long walk off a short pier. But he hadn’t. Jesse was going to accept his share of the responsibility for the child they’d created. He was going to accept the mantle of fatherhood that had been unexpectedly thrust upon him.
But that wasn’t what had made her cry. She was crying because he had never once questioned that the child was his.
***
The hoarse shriek of heavy metal terrorized the neighborhood, courtesy of the zillion-megawatt stereo system Eddie had bought Luke for Christmas. When the doorbell rang, twenty minutes early, she was still in the bedroom, trying to decide what to wear. Chauncey sprang up and began barking, and Rose looked at her watch in horror. “Luke!” she shouted, trying to be heard above the din. “Lucas!”
He didn’t respond. Music continued to shake the house to the rafters. Cussing under her breath, Rose splashed cold water on her face, tightened the belt to her robe, and trailed the frantic dog to the kitchen.
Chauncey was in a barking frenzy, racing around the kitchen and slamming his massive body against the door. “Get down, you fool,” she said, squaring her jaw as she dragged him away from the scratched wooden door. Gripping his collar in one hand, she flung open the door with the other, and went hot all over.
The shuddering house was scoring higher on the Richter scale than California during the Northridge quake. She was still wearing the faded blue bathrobe that Eddie had given her for their tenth anniversary. Luke’s music was threatening to shatter the sound barrier, and she was using all the strength she possessed to restrain one very large sheep dog from flattening the intruder and lapping him to death. He waited on her doorstep, the Viking god, perfection p
ersonified, immaculate in neatly creased jeans and a plaid shirt. A walking, talking wet dream.
“The least you could do,” she told him irritably, “is show up when you say you will. You’re twenty minutes early. I’m a wreck, the house looks like a war zone, Luke’s music is making me crazy, and Chauncey is about five seconds away from being vaporized.”
The corner of Jesse’s mouth twitched. Her knees went weak, and she reminded herself that she’d learned the hard way not to trust a man. Any man. “Who’s Chauncey?” he said.
Rose tugged mightily on the leather collar attached to eighty pounds of squirming, slavering dog. “This beast is Chauncey. Eddie’s biggest lie. When he brought this monster home, he told me it was a dog.” She brushed an errant wisp of damp hair from her face. “And I believed him.”
Jesse knelt on one knee and rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “Hey, dog.”
Clearly smitten, Chauncey wiggled his behind in ecstasy. “Traitor,” she said, and opened the door wider. “You might as well come in. Give me a few minutes to get dressed, and we’ll escape this asylum. We certainly can’t talk here.”
***
She took him to Sonny’s, a fifties-style diner that had red leather booths, a jukebox that played three decades of golden oldies, and the best pizza Boston had to offer. The clink of glassware and the tinkle of silver competed with Rod Stewart for supremacy, and the resulting din wasn’t so different from that of home. But here, they could blend into the crowd without fear of their conversation being overheard by the wrong ears.
And the smells. Oh, the smells! So wonderful, and so nauseating. She wondered how long it would be before she could eat pizza again. When the waitress came, she ordered tea, the only thing she dared. Jesse ordered coffee and they sat looking at each other while the jukebox asked the age-old question, Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?
Sleeping With the Enemy Page 4
