by Wendy Warren
“Are you having cravings?”
“Yeah.” The potato chips did a quick disappearing act. “I’m craving food.” Biting the tip off the pretzel, Rosemary sucked out the candylike nut butter. “When I’m not throwing up. I hate throwing up. But I’m dizzy and nauseous every morning the second I open my eyes. It doesn’t go away until late afternoon, and then I’m ravenous the rest of the night.”
“Poor baby.” Daphne murmured. “What does your doctor say?”
“I haven’t seen one yet. I’m going this Friday for the first time. I found an ob-gyn in Bend. That’s over an hour from here, which should minimize the likelihood of anyone seeing me and realizing what’s going on. Then if I get the job in Tacoma, I can move before I’m showing, and nobody has to know.”
After a brief pause, Daphne commented, “I can’t believe anyone would really care in this day and age. And you said Honeyford has almost two thousand people, right?”
“That’s what he said,” Rosemary grumbled darkly.
“You could probably keep it private until you’re showing, if you really want to,” Daphne soothed then emitted her adorable laugh, confessing, “If it were me, I’d get a Baby On Board maternity shirt and start wearing it while I was still a size six. I’d want everyone to know.”
Trying to decide between mac and cheese or sardines with mayonnaise and pickle relish on rye, Rosemary made a face into the phone. “I’ve never been a size six. Do macaroni and cheese and sardines go together?” She was met with silence. “Daphne?”
“I’m sorry. I just threw up a little. Hey, maybe you’re superhungry because you’re having twins! Are there any twins in your family?”
Rosemary froze with the box of pasta in her hand. “Not on my mother’s side. I have no idea about my father’s.”
“You should ask your mother.”
“Great. Now I think I just threw up a little.” The suggestion that she should consult with Maeve Jeffries about any aspect of this pregnancy temporarily killed Rosemary’s runaway appetite. “I doubt my mother knows anything about my father’s family. She used to refer to him as The Donor, and she didn’t even say it in a derogatory way. She simply didn’t see him as essential to our daily lives in any way. When I’d ask her about him, she’d look totally mystified and answer, ‘I don’t recall, Rosemary.’” Her best friends had met her mother and sisters and understood that she had not grown up conventionally. Still, she hadn’t discussed her family in a while. Frowning, she replaced the box of pasta, exhausted suddenly. “My parents must be the only two people on the planet capable of bringing three children into the world without having a single memorable conversation.”
Daphne, who had the kind of relationship with her dad that every fatherless little girl dreamed of, responded with her customary quiet compassion. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Then in a tone equally caring, she nudged, “I bet you want something very different for your daughter.”
Whomp. As if they were playing verbal dodge ball, Daphne’s comment socked Rosemary right in the gut. It was the one hit she couldn’t outrun.
“Maybe I’m having a boy,” she mumbled, but she knew the sex of the baby didn’t matter. She’d been tagged.
It seemed to take great effort to reach the banquette in her kitchen. Sinking heavily into the cushioned seat, she gazed through fluttering white eyelit café curtains. The street was so peaceful this time of evening. This town was everything she’d dreamed of as a girl when she was growing up in the city.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.” Daphne, who was a legal secretary, but should have been a therapist, asked with no judgment in her tone, “How did you get pregnant? It’s a little confusing, given that he’s a pharmacist and you’re an educated woman. I mean, did the pill fail and the condom broke?”
“I haven’t been on birth control in two years. And…” Rosemary hesitated, knowing how utterly irresponsible, immature and downright reckless she was going to sound. “I think we forgot to use the condom at one point.”
“At one point? How many times that night did you, um, need a condom, if you don’t mind my asking?
Rosemary closed her eyes. “Four. But I think time number three was the problem.”
Daphne hooted. “Rosemary Josephine Jeffers!”
“I know, I know!” Her forehead lowering all the way to the wood table, Rosemary groaned. “It was a crazy night. It seemed to exist in its own cosmos.” She shook her head against the cool wood. “I sound like I’m seventeen on prom night. Except that I was a lot smarter on prom night. I stayed with the group.”
Sitting up, she gazed at two deer picking their way across her front lawn. The does’ skinny legs raised and lowered with a kind of slow-motion military precision. Having their evening feed before they moved to the beds they made deeper in the pines around Honeyford, the deer would sleep for only a couple of hours at a time, their instinct for survival dictating that they never get too comfortable. Smart deer.
“The worst part is I wasn’t paying close enough attention,” Rosemary said, “because I felt this…trust when I was with him.”
“Why is trusting him the worst part?”
“Because I didn’t know him. Because he picked me up in a bar. Because he’s a man, and I could have been any woman. Take your pick.”
“Hmm. He didn’t look at you like you could be any woman. He looked at you like he was…smitten.”
Rosemary’s emotions responded instantly, before her mind could overrule the reaction. A coil of pleasure sprang up from low in her belly, sending out frissons of electric longing. So much for her survival instinct.
No matter how she’d been raised, no matter how much she’d learned from her own experience or from her mother and sisters’ fretful we-told-you-so’s after her marriage imploded, she returned over and over to dreams of white picket fences and forever. Her sisters might be slightly rigid in their approach to life, but at least they stayed away from the kind of pain Rosemary apparently courted.
“I should have phoned Vi,” she said. “She’d have been cynical. She’d have reminded me what happened the last time I trusted a man.” Pain choked her voice to a whisper.
“Yes, she’d have said that. And she’d have told you that deep down men will never want the same things as women, so we should cut the poor sods some slack and use them like the toys they were intended to be. But you didn’t phone Vi,” Daphne pointed out. “What does your pharmacist/boy toy want to do about the baby?”
“He wants to be involved.”
“How involved?”
Rosemary stood and paced to the living room, where she had no idea what to do with herself. She was so tired, she wanted to crawl into bed and so restless she thought perhaps she should go for a run. “When I told him I was considering moving to Tacoma, he said to let him know as soon as I’d made up my mind so he could start looking for employment there.”
Daphne’s soft intake of breath spoke volumes. “Wow. All right, don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s more than your family would do. It’s more than your friends could do, Rosemary. Is he a genuinely nice guy? Because that night he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.”
Rosemary halted her pacing in front of her fireplace, fingering the smooth river rock as she tried to steady her thoughts, which flashed immediately to Dean’s eyes—so attentive and penetrating—and to his voice, the timbre rich with humor or deep and strong and sober as he set the ground rules for dealing with each other.
“He insists on open lines of communication,” she told Daphne. “He said that if nothing else we should be honest with each other.”
“Oh, my. How did that feel?” Daphne knew that Neil’s dishonesty had left Rosemary with a wound that no amount of emotional suturing seemed to close all the way. “On your birthday you said you wouldn’t have a relationship again until you met a completely honest man.”
A dull throb filled Rosemary’s temples. “Yeah, and Ginger said I’d never date again if that wa
s my criteria.”
They fell silent. Daphne had been hurt plenty by men who took one look at her perfect face and Pussycat Doll figure and were willing to tell her anything in order to start a relationship they had little intention of finishing. Daphne was a diehard romantic who had fallen hard more than once, dreaming of “forever.” She’d been hurt plenty, and this past New Year’s had resolved to be celibate until she heard the words “You may kiss your bride.” Rosemary figured that not even Daphne would suggest she should trust a man simply because he claimed to value honesty and communication.
But if he values communication, what was up with that engagement of his?
“Remember when we were in high school and had to carry dolls and diaper bags everywhere for Health Ed?” Daphne’s voice was soft and reminiscent.
“And we had to set a timer that woke us up every two hours for an entire weekend.” Rosemary nodded at the river rock.
“Half the class didn’t even complete the assignment. Vi left the baby in her backpack.”
Rosemary smiled. “I remember. She said it needed a quiet place to nap.”
“Right.” Daphne’s sweet giggle reached across the miles. “You and I were the only ones who never got tired of it.” More seriously she pointed out, “You used to want a family more than anything. We’ve talked about the guy. The one thing I haven’t heard you mention yet is whether you’re happy about the baby.”
Tears sprang to Rosemary’s eyes. Guilt and regret swelled inside her. “I try not to think about the baby,” she confessed in a miserable whisper. “I don’t want to let myself. Oh, Daphne, I never, ever imagined I’d be a single mother. It makes me so sad to think about it.”
“I know.” Daphne’s understanding made it feel as if she were in the same room. “It doesn’t have to feel the way it did when you were growing up, though. You’re completely different from Maeve.”
Emotion made it difficult for Rosemary to speak, so she nodded into the phone.
“Right now you’re frightened because you see yourself repeating your parents’ choices,” Daphne said, still with the utmost kindness. “But if Dean wants to be involved, and if he’s a reasonable man, maybe you could find a way to work him into your and the baby’s life—peacefully. Couldn’t you, Rosemary?”
Turning from the fireplace, Rosemary plodded to the downstairs bathroom, wiping the mascara from beneath her eyes. “I have no idea how to make that work, Daph. In my world, there’s no precedent for peaceful shared parenting.” She plucked a tissue from a box on the counter. “The Jeffers women take the praying-mantis approach.”
Daphne laughed. “Well, then your choice is clear—either you set a new precedent or you bite his head off.”
Rosemary produced a watery laugh. “Can I think that over and get back to you?”
Chapter Seven
Rosemary had allowed Dean Kingsley to call the shots at their last meeting. In the two days since, she had arrived at a couple of critical decisions, and she was determined that their next meeting be on her terms. She intended to be reasonable, clear and calmly unmovable in her stance.
The best-laid plans…
“Oh, my God, what do you think you’re doing?” she whispered fiercely when she came upon him in one of the library’s nonfiction aisles—Women’s Health, to be exact—holding a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
“Browsing,” he answered, a slow smile spreading over his face as he turned toward her. “You look great in pink.”
Nonplussed, she stared mutely for several seconds then came to and stabbed her finger at the book. “What are you doing with that?”
“I’m going to check it out.” He tapped the cover. “I hear it’s essential reading for pregnancy.”
Darting her gaze around the immediate area, she grabbed Dean’s arm and tugged him around the back end of the aisle. “Are you crazy? You cannot check that book out!”
“Is it on hold?”
“Very funny.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”
“Sorry, you’ll have to get your own copy.” One chestnut brow rose. “Unless you want to read it together. I might be open to that.”
She thought at first that he was being glib, but the oceanic gaze that settled into hers was alarming in its authenticity, and a lightening bolt seemed to explode in her chest.
“You used to want a family like Vi wants to be CEO of Neiman Marcus,” Daphne had reminded her before they’d hung up last night.
Her heart hammered unevenly. She didn’t expect to have a family anymore, not in the traditional sense, and she was okay with that, or would be. That was one of the conclusions she’d come to last night.
Holding out her hand, she said, “Give me the book so I can check it out privately, and I’ll bring it to you.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Where?”
What were the chances he’d agree to meeting in Bend, an hour away?
“Try not to overthink this one, Rosie.”
She glanced around. “Would you please call me Rosemary, like everyone else?”
He narrowed his eyes, considering. “We can talk about it later. You may be able to persuade me. Time and place?”
“Seven o’clock. At…Tavern on the Highway,” she decided quickly.
“Sentimental.”
“We’re less likely to be spotted there.”
“Practical and sentimental.”
“May I have your library card, please?”
He reached for his wallet. “Okay, but just so you know, I usually share this only with women who are serious about me. I’ll make an exception in your case. This time.” He handed over the card. “Before I give it to you again, I’ll need a definite commitment.”
He arrived at the tavern early since it was Saturday, and he wanted to scope out a table as far as possible from the music and the beer. Dean found her choice of meeting locations telling.
As he pushed toward the bar, wading through the noise and memories, his mood plunged to something dull and dark around the edges. For days, ever since he’d seen Rosie…Rosemary…again—and certainly since the discovery that she was pregnant—he’d expected to rediscover the woman he’d met here in December. He’d felt sure that somewhere beneath the distance and the denial, she still existed.
Now, before she even arrived, he felt hope waning. Being here afforded him a visceral reminder of the feelings he’d had that night. He remembered Rosie Jo in vivid detail.
Rosemary Jeffers appeared to be someone else altogether.
Wedging between the patrons at the bar, he placed his order. “Obsidian Stout and—” Damn, what would she want now that she couldn’t have alcohol? “Scratch the stout. Orange juice on the rocks. Two.”
Waiting for the drinks, he let his gaze wander out to the dance floor. About fifteen people were line dancing, but in his mind he saw a slow dance, with two bodies moving in perfect unison, getting to know the feel of each other and the smell and the sweetness. He saw a woman with no reserve looking up at him, her lovely eyes deep and hazel and promising.
His body tightened with longing. He’d fallen for a one-night fantasy. He felt like a girl.
“Two OJs.” The bartender placed the drinks in front of him. “Sip slowly.”
Dean set off to locate a table, but hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when he heard an familiar, accent-laced, “Hey, compadre.”
“Alberto.” Balancing the tumblers of juice on one palm, Dean clasped his friend’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of months. Where’ve you been?”
“I was in Medford, working with un hombre muy rico—” he laughed “—to renovate a building.” Alberto’s black eyes glowed with the quiet humor that was characteristic of him. “Old brick and exposed pipes, like your building. I learned a lot that will help us.” Holding a drink Dean knew was non-alcoholic, he elbowed his old friend. “I hear you’re engaged now. In the nick of time. Sí?” he asked, his interest keen. “S
o the building is guaranteed.”
Discomfort engulfed Dean. Alberto knew about the will Dean’s father had left and about the marriage codicil that gave Dean ownership of half a block of storefronts on Honeyford’s Main Street, as long as he married within the specified period of time and remained so for two years.
Alberto wanted Dean to acquire ownership of the property as much as Dean wanted it.
“When do we get started?”
Alberto’s skin was the color of fine leather, lined with more care than a forty-year-old man should have confronted.
Dean met the Flores family eight years ago, when Alberto came to the pharmacy, inquiring about medicine for his daughter, Adelina. The girl had been ill for several days, treated only with home remedies due to the family’s financial circumstances and a lack of education regarding health care and the state health-care system.
After listening to Alberto’s nervous recitation of the young girl’s symptoms, Dean insisted that his father visit the Flores family at their home. Victor Kingsley hospitalized Adelina for pneumonia immediately, but the medical intervention occurred too late.
Accompanying his father to the Flores home, Dean watched the beautiful cinnamon-skinned girl, her ribbons of ebony hair dampened with perspiration, full lips parted with the effort to breathe while her mother whispered to her in Spanish. The walls of the Flores house were cracked, patched, he had later learned, again and again by Alberto himself when he could afford the materials. The girl lay in the family’s only bed; Alberto had been sleeping on the floor. Dean had felt a sharp, furious frustration as he realized the Flores family and their neighbors availed themselves of medical care only at the last possible moment—and even then, generally only for their children.
At Dr. Victor Kingsley’s stoic insistence, Adelina was transported to the pediatric unit of a medical center in Bend, where she died before her tenth birthday. The Flores family was destroyed.
Alberto began drinking. Eventually his wife sought her solace with family in Mexico, and Dean found the gentle man living on the street.