Kisses in the Rain

by Pamela Browning

  Kisses in the Rain

  Circles of Love Series

  Book Two

  by

  Pamela Browning

  Award-winning Author

  KISSES IN THE RAIN

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Ms Browning has given us another memorable story."

  ~Romantic Times

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-812-5

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1987, 2015 by Pamela Browning. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  This book is written in memory of my parents, Jack and Helen Ketter, who loved Alaska. That was a great party!

  Author Note

  My Circles of Love series celebrates untraditional families, all brought together through the love of the hero and heroine for each other. In these four heartwarming books, each loving couple must decide what makes a family. Is family defined only by blood ties? Or is it what we feel in our hearts?

  Jane and Duncan, Martha and Nick, Kate and Morgan, Sage and Adam—four couples whose love stories ultimately bring them to the realization that a family is made up of the very special people that we choose to embrace in our ever-widening Circles of Love.

  P.B.

  Chapter 1

  Martha Rose munched thoughtfully on the chocolate-chip cookie that was her breakfast and considered the hills on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. It had rained yesterday, the storm rolling in off San Francisco Bay and starting a few mud slides west of town. Mud slides, earthquakes, heavy fogs—San Franciscans took all in stride. Martha didn't think she'd ever get used to it.

  The question today was whether or not to take a raincoat or umbrella when she set off in search of a job. From this tiny sun deck hanging off the back of her friend Lindsay's rented house halfway up Telegraph Hill, Martha thought the bay looked exactly like a picture postcard. The blue was bluer than ever, the greens were greener, and the few clouds scudded across a sky that dazzled the eye with its intensity. For once—and this was unusual—there wasn't even fog. It looked like a perfect May day.

  Martha reached for another chocolate-chip cookie and bit into it as Lindsay's curly blond head appeared around the edge of the door.

  "I'm running late, Martha. I've got to go. What are you going to do today?" Lindsay stepped outside so that she could cadge a cookie from the plastic bag.

  "I'm going to answer a couple of newspaper ads. See if I can find a job. The usual."

  "Why don't you join Sigmund and me for dinner tonight? We're going for pasta."

  "Um," said Martha, using a full mouth as an excuse for not answering right away.

  "You can think it over. I'll be home right after work—that awful Mrs. Claussen doesn't come in and start pestering me about the furnishings for her yacht." Lindsay was an associate with a prominent interior-design firm, and Mrs. Claussen was her worst client.

  "That Mrs. Claussen of yours rolls in as regularly as the fog, doesn't she?"

  "There's no fog today. Maybe that's a hopeful sign."

  "Here's to a Claussen-free day," said Martha, raising her glass of milk in a toast.

  Lindsay rolled her eyes and laughed. "If only I could count on being that fortunate. Good luck with your job hunt." With that, Lindsay rushed back inside the house. Martha heard the rapid click of Lindsay's heels on the wooden floor as she left for work.

  Martha settled back in her chair and reached for another cookie. Then she put it back. She'd better start thinking about staying slim, especially since the ad in last night's paper that had most interested her had stated: Wanted: Model Type with B.A. Degree in Business.

  Martha's Bachelor of Arts degree was indeed in business and she'd modeled for a department store while she was in college. The ad intrigued her and seemed to promise a different kind of job from the ones she'd been offered since she'd arrived here.

  She sipped her milk slowly and surveyed Lindsay's neighbors on the decks of the pastel-colored houses descending in tiers below. Many of the people were gulping down a last cup of coffee before running off to work. Perhaps by next week Martha would be doing that, too.

  Maybe Martha was aiming too high, but she didn't think so. She wanted a job in the retail business and a future in management. Since her graduation from college four years ago, she'd worked at a major department store in the accounting department, then switched to sales when she'd realized that she enjoyed contact with the customers. A year later she'd left to manage a boutique in Kokomo, Indiana, but she'd become restless when she'd realized that it was a dead-end job.

  "Come out to San Francisco," Lindsay had urged during one of the therapeutic long-distance telephone calls during which they regularly poured out their hearts to each other. "We can be roommates again, just like we were in college."

  To Martha, that sounded like a wonderful idea. She'd missed Lindsay. They'd been close friends since they were both eighteen, the age at which Martha first left her home in small-town Greenleaf, Indiana, to attend the university. If there was anything that Martha valued above all else, it was her friends. Besides, Lindsay had recently broken up with her boyfriend of two years, and Martha thought Lindsay needed more support than she could offer on Skype.

  Without thinking much about it and telling herself cheerfully that she was nothing but a creature of impulse, Martha said goodbye to her friends in Kokomo. She'd given away the parched houseplants she'd never remembered to water and headed west from with everything she owned crammed into a U-Haul trailer. The trailer had swayed laboriously all the way to California behind her aging hatchback.

  Martha had wished she'd never heard of a U-Haul trailer by the time she'd gotten lost on San Francisco's most crooked streets. She'd thought she'd never escape from the mad maze of hills and houses. By the time she'd reached Lindsay's house on Telegraph Hill, she was a nervous wreck.

  "How do you stand it?" she'd blurted to Lindsay, who greeted her at the door with a reviving glass of wine and, unexpectedly, a new beau, with whom Lindsay was apparently madly in love.

  "Oh, you'll get used to it," said Lindsay, grinning up at the new man, whose name was Sigmund.

  But for the past two weeks Martha had doubted that she'd ever grow accustomed to this town. She loved San Francisco; who wouldn't? But she didn't know if she really wanted to live here.

  She'd never forget the Sunday when she and Lindsay and Sigmund first walked to Golden Gate Park together. Martha didn't even try to hide her amazement at the characters who entertained by painting themselves silver and s
inging or playing songs if someone gave them money.

  "We sure didn't have anything like this in Kokomo" became a catchphrase that she could always count on to start Lindsay laughing, and usually Sigmund would join in, too because it seemed as though everywhere Lindsay and Martha went, Sigmund tagged along.

  Friends were one thing; friends' boyfriends were another, and this boyfriend wore a pink crystal suspended from a chain around his neck, claiming he used it to amplify his thought consciousness. He had another crystal on the engine of his car to help it run, and a third very large and decidedly phallic crystal on his living-room table for reasons Martha couldn't fathom.

  Martha supposed she should be thankful that Sigmund didn't paint himself silver, but after two weeks she began to feel distinctly uncomfortable and couldn't wait to move into an apartment of her own. She had a feeling that Lindsay wouldn't want for a roommate for long. Sigmund was obviously eager to fill the bill.

  "We need to find you a man too," Lindsay whispered one night before disappearing into her bedroom with Sigmund. "Otherwise, what's the point?"

  Point of what? Martha asked herself, though she didn't say it. She had to admit she felt lonely, though, as she listened to Lindsay and Sigmund whispering on the other side of the thin bedroom wall. Lonely and a bit envious, but her present adventure was not about men. It was about figuring out what she wanted for the rest of her life. Right now, that was a career, and eventually she'd have a family, though that was probably far in the future. Which would have depressed her if she'd let it, considering that both her sisters were married with families and her mother had hinted that Martha should be too.

  Now Martha sighed and wrapped up the rest of the chocolate-chip cookies. They were the best chocolate-chip cookies she'd ever tasted. She replenished her supply every couple of days at a kiosk not too far from Fisherman's Wharf. They were probably the best thing so far about San Francisco. Chocolate-chip cookies were so homey. So ordinary. So Indiana-ish. They made her feel more at home.

  It occurred to Martha as she pulled the sliding glass door closed behind her that she hadn't asked Lindsay if she thought it was going to rain today. This morning Martha had blow-dried her hair to wispy perfection. When the weather was damp, it would spring into tight ringlets. No ringlets so far this morning, so the humidity must be low.

  After another dubious look at the mountains beyond the bridge, Martha dressed in her best suit. It was bright turquoise with a pencil skirt and a fashionably flared jacket. The color made her eyes, which were gray, look like clear aquamarines, and the red highlights in her dark brown hair gleamed even brighter.

  She decided to walk to the address specified in the ad. As she deftly dodged cable cars in her high-heeled shoes, Martha thought about the jobs she'd already turned down so far.

  The first job she'd refused had been a sales position with a furrier, a shifty-eyed little man who had made it clear that his designs were not necessarily the ones hanging on the racks of his store. There was a job as manager at an up-and-coming boutique, but when she'd inquired into the job duties she'd found out that after hours, when the store was closed, the manager and sales clerks were required to vacuum the floor and clean the rest rooms on a rotating basis because, as one of the employees confided behind a cupped hand, "the owner's too stingy to hire a janitor service."

  Martha briefly considered working for a local department store, one of the biggest in the city. After interviewing there, she'd decided that so many junior executives would have seniority over her that it would be difficult for a newcomer to rise through the ranks.

  No, Martha wanted to be part of a smaller operation, one that would grow. She'd been born to the retail business and loved working with people. Somehow—she knew it—she'd find the right job for her.

  The ad she held in her hand led her to a neat office building, nothing fancy, nothing big. She rode in an elevator to the fifth floor, where she found a door labeled Sidney Pollov Enterprises.

  The receptionist looked over her carefully coordinated outfit with interest, spirited Martha's résumé into Mr. Pollov's office, and informed Martha that Mr. Pollov would be with her in a few minutes.

  Martha scanned the office with a practiced eye. Absolutely nothing gave away the purpose of Sidney Pollov Enterprises. By the time she was ushered into his office, Martha still didn't have a clue about the kind of job being offered.

  Sidney Pollov jumped to his feet when she entered and reached over his cluttered desk to shake her hand. When they were seated across from each other, he leaned forward enthusiastically. He was a round-faced, boyish type, and she guessed his age to be about thirty-eight or so. He wore a natty three-piece suit, which was unusual in this city where everything was always so casual.

  "I've read your résumé," he said. "You might be just what I'm looking for. You have a business degree from the University of Indiana, is that right?"

  "Yes," she answered, her curiosity rising. She wondered if he was a Hollywood talent scout. But then why would she have to have a degree in business for this job?

  "And you've worked in retail, I see." He thumbed through her résumé and frowned. "I don't suppose you've ever had any experience in food service."

  "Food service?"

  "Cooking, waiting tables, that kind of thing."

  "No, I've always worked in the kind of places that sell clothes," she said. "Except for when I had a job with the city parks department when I was in high school."

  "What'd you do?"

  "I led nature walks. I was a Girl Scout and knew about camping and local plant life."

  "Mmm. And did you like it?"

  "I liked being outdoors. I liked the kids I worked with, too."

  He took in the glossy manicure, the slim skirt, and the high heels. "You certainly don't look like the outdoor type," he said. "Tell me, do you like working with people?"

  "Oh, yes. In my last job, I enjoyed seeing the customers every day."

  "You didn't get tired of them? They didn't annoy you with their demands?"

  "Never. I wanted to make sure everyone was satisfied when they left our shop."

  "I see." His eyes twinkled at her unexpectedly. "How tall are you, Miss Rose?"

  "I'm five feet seven inches," she said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

  "You'd barely fit," he said, tapping his pencil on the pad on his desk. "Five-seven's the absolute max."

  She couldn't help bristling. "Your ad called for a model type," she said. "Models are supposed to be tall."

  "I know, I know," he said. "You'll notice I only said model type. I didn't actually say a model. Did you think this was a modeling job?"

  "I had no idea," she admitted.

  He stood up, swinging forward in his chair with an enthusiasm that startled her.

  He said, "Come over here."

  He beckoned with one hand and pulled aside the filmy window drapery with the other, revealing a view of Fisherman's Wharf. "See that red shack near the entrance to the wharf? The Bagel Barn?" asked Sidney.

  She did, barely. It was surrounded by a crowd of people.

  "Do you know what it is?"

  "Sure," she said. "It's a bagel concession. I've even bought a bagel there once or twice."

  "Did you like the bagel?"

  "It was delicious," she said, regarding him with a frankly puzzled frown.

  "I'm glad you liked it. I own the place."

  Martha blinked. "Is that what Sidney Pollov Enterprises is?"

  He nodded, watching her shrewdly. "I own Bagel Barns all over the country. Mostly in tourist places like Cape Cod, Key West, San Diego, Padre Island. Places where people need a quick bite to eat and want something substantial without going the old hamburger-and-French-fries route. I sell several different kinds of bagels and juice, coffee, tea. You still interested?"

  "I'm not sure where this is leading."

  Sidney Pollov chuckled and dropped the curtain. Whatever he was, he was certainly jolly.

  "Sit
down, Martha—you don't mind if I call you Martha? You can call me Sidney if you want to get even." He hiked his pant legs and sat down once she was again seated in the chair across from him.

  "What I have here is a chain of Bagel Barns," he said, pushing a list across the desk. Martha picked it up and saw that it was a complete list of all the Bagel Barns in the country. According to the list, Sidney owned Bagel Barns in Memphis, Virginia Beach, Panama City, Sun Valley, Savannah, Vail, San Antonio, and too many other places for her eyes to register in the few moments she had to look at the list.

  "Now, what I'm hiring is somebody to open up a new Bagel Barn—somebody with a good business head on her shoulders. I want a woman because women are pretty."

  "That's sexist," she pointed out.

  "Right. So sue me."

  "Sidney. I don't think that's the right attitude. Seriously."

  He chuckled and addressed an invisible person over her left shoulder. "She speaks her mind. That's good. So, Martha. Do you want a job or what?"

  "Of course," she said. "How else would I be able to help you get rid of your archaic notions?" She smiled through gritted teeth.

  "If you wish. Here's my rationale, which you might as well hear. Or you can get up and walk out."

  Martha stared at him. "For now, I stay."

  "Okay, good. My Bagel Barns are located in sight-seeing and vacation places, and a beautiful woman adds to the scenery. That's important to people on vacation, believe me. Also, most men are too big to fit in the booth."

  "Uh-huh." There was something likeable about the man, Martha had to admit it.

  He leaned across the desk. "I prefer beautiful women to run my Bagel Barns. I like to wear black socks with all my clothes and I put too much salt on my steak, too, but that's the way I like it, and I'm entitled to my personal preferences. Bagel Barns are my business. I started from scratch with my mother's bagel recipe and one Bagel Barn a couple of years ago right here in San Francisco. Since they're mine, I can do what I want. What do you think of that?"