by Olivia Dade
She hoped his second wife had taken some of his money in the divorce, unlike Rose.
Two more pictures featured Annette and Alfred themselves. One had been taken when they’d been attending some sort of charity ball. Annette could have been a queen, her posture regal in black satin and lace, her silver hair swept into lush waves, as Alfred—an aging James Bond in a formfitting tux—gazed down at her in admiring devotion.
In the other, Annette was laughing and batting her sweaty husband away as he hauled her into his arms at the finish line of a 5K.
They swam with piranhas, but their happy marriage had remained entirely inviolate.
Barton’s mother had taught Rose all about donning an icy-calm demeanor to deter human predators and protect her privacy, but Annette had never let that knowledge stop her from loving Alfred, Rose, or even her awful son. Never let it stop her from displaying that love openly, whether through expensive dinners and designer clothing, or through calls to the school board and photos on her Chippendale table.
Annette loved in full view of the public. Which meant she could be hurt there. Had been hurt there.
Definitely by Barton. Probably by Rose too, and the way she’d continually forced Annette and Alfred to chase her company after the divorce. To scheme and maneuver, all for the dubious pleasure of her presence.
Others had surely seen Annette’s pain, including unfriendly witnesses.
But Alfred would have comforted her. And had anyone dared feel sorry for her, dared mock her, even for an instant, she’d have poured the liquid nitrogen of her scorn over the schadenfreude of her detractors and shattered them with a flick of her elegant finger.
Why hadn’t Rose learned that lesson too?
Because—Jesus, she was going to need to buy stock in lotion-soft tissues—the last two pictures were of her.
Her in-laws didn’t have any recent photos, so these originated during her marriage. But Barton was nowhere to be found in either image. In the first, she was twenty-five again, a Christmas bow slapped off-center on her head as she posed, beaming, with a black cashmere sweater-dress they’d given her. Then she was maybe twenty-eight, dignified and resplendent in ebony satin for an arts charity event, standing in the middle of Annette and Alfred.
By that point, her marriage was already falling apart. But the evening had been wonderful anyway, especially once Annette had one glass too many of champagne and kept hiccupping through her giggles, while Alfred rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.
She’d forgotten the event.
She’d forgotten this picture.
In it, both of them were looking at her like…
Well, like Martin looked at Bea. With affection and pride and ineffable sadness, as they watched someone they loved slipping bit by bit out of their immediate orbit.
Please let someone love you.
“My dear, we had no idea you were—” Alfred stopped in the doorway. “What happened? Are you ill? Hurt?”
“I—” She stifled a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Alfred.”
Then he was holding her tight, that familiar expensive-cologne smell a blanket surrounding her. “Shhhh. Rosie, dearest, stop crying. Calm down, and tell us what’s wrong.”
Us. Because Annette had arrived too. Was holding her too. Was whispering that everything was fine, Rosie dearest, she didn’t need to keep apologizing, if she could please stop crying they’d both be very relieved, please please please stop crying.
When Rose resurfaced, she was sitting on a silk brocade settee, one former in-law on either side of her, still apologizing in a cracked voice.
“—basically had to buy my company, and I’m so sorry. You’ve always loved me, and I love you, so why I can’t seem to show that, I don’t—”
“Enough,” Alfred interrupted sternly, and Rose hiccupped into silence.
“Alfred is right.” When Rose opened her mouth, Annette shook her head. “No. Let us speak for a minute while you calm yourself enough to tell us what’s wrong.”
More tissues. So many tissues.
Annette raised an elegant forefinger. “Point number one. You’ve never wanted us to pay for you. We have to enact a Cheltenham tragedy each time we meet to spend money on you, so acquit yourself of making us buy your company. That’s unfair. To all of us, not just you. Do you really think we’d be fools enough to love you like we do if we had to purchase your affections?”
When Annette phrased it like that, it did seem a bit insulting.
Rose hiccupped loudly, as she often did after crying, and Alfred patted her back.
“Well said, Nettie.” Alfred cast a fond look over his wife, but his expression turned stern once more as he faced Rose. “Point number two. We’ve never doubted your love for us. Whether or not you said the words, you’ve behaved toward us with clear affection from the start. Do you think we didn’t know who bought our gifts? Who sent us cards? Who forced our son to call weekly?”
Annette sighed. “All that started when you married Barton, and all that ended when you divorced Barton.”
Barton Buckham: total dick. How he’d emerged from the DNA of such wonderful parents, Rose had no idea.
“After the divorce, yes, you were hard to reach sometimes,” Alfred admitted. “But our son hurt you. You needed time. We understood that.”
They were being kind to her, as she might have expected. Too kind. “But we never just…hang out. And you’re always the ones who call me about getting together.”
“My dear, hanging out is all well and good, but I need a shopping partner.” Annette plucked at the fluted hem of her black linen jacket. “Without your help, how could I keep upstaging those other biddies?”
“And if I’m going to hang out, I’d much rather do so at restaurants with tasting menus.” Alfred sniffed. “You would not believe the inferior canapés I’ve consumed while hanging out with our country club acquaintances at their homes.”
They used that phrase as if it were in quotes, or italicized for its foreign origin.
Annette slipped an arm through Rose’s. “You could call us more often, though. We know you’re busy with the school year, but we miss your voice.”
“And we are getting quite old,” Alfred added.
Annette’s hunch reappeared. “Also feeble.”
“Quite, quite feeble.” He raised his voice. “Rogers, my cane!”
The butler hovered near the door. “Sir, you don’t own a cane.”
“Then find me one.” Alfred nodded in gratitude. “Thank you, Rogers.”
Before poor Rogers was tasked with procuring a wheelchair and possibly a coffin as well, Rose put aside her tissues and made herself clear. “No need for theatrics. From now on, I’ll call more often. I promise. I’m sorry I haven’t done it before.”
“Unnecessary apology accepted.” Annette’s gaze turned searching. “Now tell us what’s wrong, Rosie. Is it about your young man?”
Rose hiccupped out a laugh. Bless them for calling a divorced dad in his mid-forties a young man. Martin would be so tickled when she told—
Oh, Jesus. She couldn’t tell him what Annette had said. She couldn’t tell him anything.
Because she’d let him walk away.
She’d fucked up. And if she ever stopped crying, she was going to have to explain to Annette and Alfred exactly how badly.
An hour later, Rose was still sitting on that settee, flanked by her former in-laws. Her tears had slowed now that she’d reached the end of her story, but she figured that was a temporary respite. Her body seemed to contain untold stores of salt water and mucus.
The couple was taking a minute to consider what they’d just heard.
Then Annette tsked. “My dear, your social armor was meant to protect you. Not keep everyone out at all costs, for fear they might damage it.”
Alfred reached across Rose and gently tapped his wife’s hand. “Dearest, Rosie’s history isn’t ours. Not her childhood. Not her marriage and divorce. I believe she’s had some justifica
tion for her concerns.”
The couple’s eyes met, and Annette conceded the point with a silent sigh.
“Still, I think we’re all in agreement that our Rosie has”—she blinked at Alfred—“how did she put it?”
“Fucked up,” Alfred supplied.
“Ah, yes. Fucked up.” Annette scrunched her powdered nose. “Normally, I don’t approve of such crude language, but the phrase does seem to fit her present situation.”
How comforting.
“How are you going to fix this, my dear?” Alfred sounded entirely convinced that Rose would, simply curious about the means she’d employ. “Do you need our assistance?”
Slowly, the bare outlines of a plan were assembling themselves for her.
It would have to be heartfelt.
It would have to be—goddammit—public.
And given the circumstances, it would have to be soon.
“Thank you for the offer.” She squeezed Alfred’s hand, then Annette’s. “But I think this is a problem I have to solve on my own.”
They seemed unsurprised.
“Let us know if that changes,” Annette said.
“However…” Rose gulped, pushed through the panic, and continued. “I may need your help with something else.”
Annette’s eyes went as round as the asparagus tarts they’d consumed several minutes before, even as her face crinkled into a huge smile. “Really?”
“Really. But that can wait until our conversation tomorrow. When I call you.” Rose got to her feet. “I need to head home now and make some plans. But thank you for welcoming me tonight. Thank you for listening and supporting me. And—”
Annette and Alfred had risen as well, and they both lunged for the tissue box as Rose’s tear ducts proved functional once more.
She choked out the rest of it. “And th-thank you for loving me.”
Annette’s arm around Rose’s waist provided support in multiple ways. So did Alfred’s loving kiss on Rose’s forehead.
“You may not have gotten a penny from our son in the divorce, but you kept us.” Annette blinked back her own tears. “We’re not going anywhere.”
During all her years as Barton’s wife, Rose had never felt so rich.
Not once.
Nineteen
As his students labored quietly on their end-of-year research projects, Martin checked his work e-mail for any procedural updates, which tended to arrive regularly as summer break approached. When a new message, one sent to the entire social studies department from Keisha, caught his attention, he braced.
The class rosters for each prep next year had arrived.
He and Rose—God, he could barely even think her name without doubling over—had tried their best to convince his honors kids to take her AP class next year, but it wasn’t the same as having her as their teacher for almost ten months, and they both knew it.
The attachment opened with a quiet click, and there it was.
Dale had fucked Rose over, just as he’d intended.
She had enough students for two classes of AP U.S. History next year, rather than three. A handful of Martin’s honors students had signed up, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
She was already missing the emotional connection formed through two years with those kids, the ones who reminded her of herself. The ones whose trust and willingness to push themselves—with her steadfast encouragement—she valued so intensely. The ones whose affection and respect brought meaning to her teaching career in a way that even her love of her other students, her love of her subject matter, didn’t.
And now Dale had damaged her AP program and possibly endangered its funding.
Before the school year ended, Martin was setting up a meeting with that asshole. Right was right, no matter the wounded state of his heart. Rose deserved better than Dale’s petty revenge, and Martin refused to let himself remain a bludgeon used against her.
Against Rose. Christ, Rose.
He rubbed two fingers between his brows as the analog clock on the wall ticked and ticked. All week, he’d been hustling out of her classroom at the end of second and seventh periods, much more quickly than he had the rest of the year. In return, Rose had been arriving much closer to the end of the five-minute gap between classes than she usually preferred.
They’d barely passed within spitting distance of one another for days. Not that he hadn’t seen her in the halls, chin high, makeup immaculate, eyes swollen.
Well, early in the week, anyway. The last day or two, she appeared to have recovered her normal equanimity. He supposed he was glad, since he didn’t wish suffering on her, especially not the sort of gut-twisting longing he was currently experiencing.
But shit, having the woman he loved get over him in three days kind of blew.
And now he was going to have to linger in her room, have to see her calm acceptance of their relationship’s end up close, because he couldn’t let Keisha’s e-mail go unremarked. Rose needed to know he understood the pain of such terrible news, and he needed to tell her he was sorry.
They’d tried, but maybe he could have done more.
The bell rang before he figured out exactly what he wanted to say. He distractedly sent his students on their way with a reminder of their project’s due date, and while he was still speaking, Rose walked in.
She hadn’t delayed long enough to avoid him. That was…surprising. Maybe seeing him didn’t hurt her anymore?
The prospect stung worse than when Kurt had deliberately rubbed him with those horrible nettles by the river. Worse even than having her within arm’s length but a half a world away, and that was saying something.
Or maybe—he clung to the possibility—she wanted to say something about the rosters too? Despite how much his presence pained her?
“I saw the e-mail,” he said quietly, as soon as the stragglers had neared the door. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Her high brow crinkled. “What e-mail?”
Fuck. The sight of him definitely didn’t hurt her anymore.
She angled herself behind her desk and started pulling papers from her briefcase, but her work area was still mostly covered with his laptop, his grading, and other detritus. Double fuck.
And triple fuck, because now he was going to be the one to tell her horrible news.
He gathered his papers in a hasty stack and shoved them into his briefcase, eyes averted from her as he considered what to say.
“You missed a few.” She passed over another pile. “Here you go.”
Her hand brushed his arm, and she didn’t even flinch. Not like he did.
Yeah. She was completely over him.
He tried to think past the ache. “The class lists for each prep are finally out.”
“I assume my AP numbers are way down.” Her lips tightened, but other than that, she might have been discussing marker colors for the whiteboards. “Two classes, huh?”
He nodded. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said, and she even sounded sincere.
Damn, she put up a good front.
“Maybe we can try something new next year.” He fumbled for something more to say, but found nothing. “I’ll think over the summer.”
“Trying something new.” She seemed to taste the words, turn them over in her mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”
If she’d only recruit her former in-laws for help, but…
Rose would do what Rose wanted to do. Pride above all.
With an awkward bob of his head, he gathered his shit, dumped it on his cart, and escaped into the hall before his own pride abandoned him and he begged her to forget everything he’d said and just take him back. Take as much time as she needed before going public with their relationship.
For such a new relationship, he’d demanded a lot. Too much, too soon, especially for a woman like Rose. A different man—the right man—would have had more patience.
He wished he could be that man.
But his
past had shaped him, just as her own history had transformed her into the glorious, prickly, loving woman she was. Rational or not, he needed more than she was willing to give right now, and he was going to hold out for it. Even if it felt like dying by inches, every second of the day.
Once he’d returned to the sanctuary of the social studies department office for his planning period, he parked his cart and slumped into his chair, face in hands.
The last two weeks of school were going to hurt like a motherfucker. And there was no telling how he’d feel when he showed up again next fall, and there Rose was, calm and gorgeous and perfect and completely unaffected by him.
Maybe he should move back to Wisconsin after all.
When he finally reopened his laptop, he’d received another new e-mail message. This one, oddly, from Rose.
I think I accidentally dropped an important letter, and it got mixed up with your stuff. It’s notebook paper, made into a kind of envelope. Could you look through your papers and try to find it?
Which meant he’d have to see her again to return it. Damn, what a shitty day.
But he started rifling through his mess. Drafts of student projects on the UN. Others about the current refugee crisis. Lesson plans. Memos.
The lined notebook paper, shaped and folded into a triangle, fell out of a pile of essays about global warming and its international effects.
He hadn’t known students these days still passed notes like this. He hadn’t seen one tucked so carefully into an envelope since his own high school days.
He’d rolled back his chair, ready to return the letter to Rose, when he noticed the writing.
Specifically, Rose’s bold green scrawl on one side of the note.
He couldn’t misunderstand the message. FOR MARTIN. PLEASE OPEN.
It was his name. The note was for him.
Why was the note for him?
No matter how long he stared at it, no extra information revealed itself. No clue as to why she’d apparently slipped this folded triangle into his papers and sent him searching for it.
