Edge of Paradise

by Webb, Peggy

  The Edge of Paradise

  by Peggy Webb

  Copyright

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

  Cover design copyright 2011 Marc Fletcher

  Publishing History/Bantam/1992

  All rights reserved. Copyright, 1992 by Peggy Webb.

  www.peggywebb.com

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  Chapter One

  "The trouble with Widow Brown is those clothes she wears."

  At the sound of her name, Rosalie Brown stopped her grocery cart in the canned-fruit section and peered between the peaches and the apricots. Her former next-door neighbor, Grace Crowley, was talking to the town gossip, Mildred Martin.

  "I know just what you mean," Mildred said. "Red, for goodness' sake. And with sequins, even in the daytime. Whoever heard of a grieving widow wearing sequins?"

  Rosalie touched the shoulder of her jumpsuit. Sequins. And the suit was red.

  "Sequins. At her age," Grace said. "Imagine that."

  Rosalie didn't happen to think thirty-six was all that old. And anyhow, Grace was one to talk. She was pushing forty herself, and the whole town knew she still stuffed her size-fourteen behind into size-twelve slacks.

  Rosalie stood in the aisle, undecided. The smart thing to do would be to move on. Let the biddies cluck. Words couldn't hurt her. On the other hand, she was curious about what they would say next.

  "If you ask me," Mildred said, "the trouble with Widow Brown is that she doesn't appear to be grieving."

  Rosalie clutched the handle of her cart, too mad to move on. Why should I grieve? she wanted to shout. I didn't even like Harry, let alone love him. She had loved him once. Madly. But many small and subtle cruelties had killed that, long before Harry had died.

  "I'll say she's not. She's too busy frittering away his property. Lost Harry's house, and his car to boot. And him not cold in his grave."

  Harry had been cold in the grave for six months, as everybody in Tupelo well knew. One of life's great ironies to Rosalie was that the thing she loved most about the town was also the thing she hated most: Everybody kept up with everybody else. In times of need, word spread quickly, and the townspeople gathered round. Word also spread quickly of alleged misdoings, and many were ready to cast stones.

  As for frittering away his property—Harry's debts had more than equaled his estate. The house, the car, and most of the savings had gone to pay off his creditors.

  She forced her hands to relax. No use getting upset over something as insignificant as grocery-store gossip. Not when she had bigger worries, such as how she would pay her rent and how she would keep her sons, Jack and Jimmy, in college.

  Rosalie lifted her chin and pushed her cart up the aisle. The battle of life had left her battered and bruised, but she wasn't down yet, not by a long shot. She would walk over hot coals before she'd let anybody think she was defeated. And it looked as if she was going to have to, for Mildred and Grace were congregated at the end of the aisle, blocking the way to the cereals.

  Rosalie put on her perkiest grin. "Hello, Mildred . . . Grace. Isn't this a beautiful day for grocery shopping?"

  "That's just what I was saying to Grace," Mildred said. "A beautiful day for shopping."

  Rosalie kept her smile in place. "There's nothing like a little nip in the air to make a body feel good."

  "And how are you feeling, dear?" Grace arranged her face in all the downward angles appropriate for condolence. Rosalie would laugh about it when she got in her secondhand car. "Poor Harry. Dead and gone."

  "Life goes on," Rosalie said, managing to keep a straight face as she spouted the platitude. Then she gave them a jaunty wave and headed down the aisle for cereal. She was usually careful to select the cheapest brand, but today she grabbed the first box she could get her hands on—high-priced natural cereal, full of things that were supposed to be good for her.

  She hurried her cart around the corner, keeping up her sprightly walk until she was out of sight of Mildred and Grace. Then she allowed herself to slump. The cereal box accused her from the cart.

  Nearly five dollars. It must be filled with gold shavings. Rosalie took one step backward and peered up the cereal aisle. Mildred and Grace looked as if they had taken up residence there, standing with their carts glued together, talking as fast and hard as they could, both moving their mouths at the same time.

  Rosalie straightened her shoulders and moved on to the checkout line. It was too late to put the cereal back. If she waited until they left, she might be late to her evening job. And she couldn't afford to lose one of her jobs.

  She'd just have to do without hamburger this week and tell herself the cereal was a nice change.

  o0o

  The house was in a neighborhood that had once been smart. David Kelly stood on the cracked sidewalk admiring the small touches of fading elegance—a stained-glass upstairs window set in the peeling clapboard walls of the house next door, one Corinthian column intact on the front porch of the house across the street, the beautiful curving bay window of his own house.

  He walked up his creaking steps, fitted the key into the rusty lock of his new rental house, and went inside. Sunshine coming through the dirty windows picked up cobwebs in the corners and dust motes in the air.

  "Home, sweet home," he said.

  He set his duffel bags down and surveyed his new home. The couch sagged, the chair looked like a home for mice, and the desk by the corner was propped up with a brick under one leg. He had lived in worse.

  Anyhow, surroundings didn't matter to him. Possessions didn't matter. Nothing much mattered except getting through each day with as little personal pain as possible. And getting through with a certain joie de vivre.

  David made a quick tour of the rest of the house. It would do. It had a bed, a stove, a bathroom, hot and cold running water. It had an old furnace that looked in working order and a big oscillating fan to keep him cool in the summer.

  From his dusty bedroom window he had a view of the house next door as well as shade from the sprawling oak tree that grew at the back corner of his house. A few acorns hit the roof with a plop, and a gray squirrel scampered down the tree trunk.

  "My very own entertainment." David smiled as the squirrel retrieved his acorns and hurried back up the tree.

  He watched the squirrel for a while longer, then unzipped a duffel bag and set about stowing his meager possessions.

  The labored sound of a car engine brought David to his window. He wiped away a layer of dust on the windowpane and looked toward the house next door. The car pulling into the driveway was ancient, a 1973 Chevrolet that had once been gold. Now it was rusty in spots and faded a dull yellow in others. Smoke puffed up from the hood when it stopped.

  "Running hot," he said. Of course, that was not his concern. And he certainly didn't plan to make it his business.

  The car door opened on the driver's side, and he saw the legs first—long, slender, encased in red.

  "Turn away, fool," he whispered. But he didn't pay himself any attention.

  A woman emerged from the car. The first thing David noticed was the sequins. Row upon shining row of them decorated the front of her jumpsuit. The sun reflected off them and sent a sparkling rainbow across the woman's face. It was not a beautiful face by ordinary standards. It was not even a pretty face in the classical manner. But it was an arresting face, an intriguing face. Her mouth was wide, her nose was small and uptilted, and her eyes looked too big for her face.

  The woman bent down and lifted two paper bags from the car. She was graceful and curving from waist to ankle. Womanly. Tempting, even.

  Abruptly, David left the window. But not before he noticed her hair. It was not blond, not brown, not red, bu
t an interesting combination of all three. And it bounced when she walked.

  He ached a little when he turned away, then forced himself to whistle. He was in a new house, a new town. Memories would fade.

  With determined steps he took his private stash of peanut butter and crackers from his duffel bag and carried them into the kitchen. A snack was just the thing he needed.

  He spread peanut butter on two crackers, squashed them together, and ate with gusto.

  "Pure protein," he said. He took one bite, then wandered over to the window. The woman was in her kitchen, unloading groceries. Without meaning to spy, David stood at his window watching.

  She moved with grace and determination and purpose. He admired her from the safety of his kitchen.

  With nothing separating the houses except a narrow driveway, David was close enough to see most of the things she took from her bag. The other things he could guess.

  She stowed her milk and eggs in the refrigerator, then dragged a stool across the floor and climbed up to stow her cereal. She was not a tall woman, and her cabinets, if they were like the ones in his house, were built too high for convenience.

  "Damned fool thing to do," he muttered. "Putting the cereal out of reach." She'd have to climb the stool every time she wanted a bowlful.

  It was none of his business. He left the window and wandered through his house, whistling his hollow tune. As If some invisible string were pulling him, he occasionally glanced at his windows.

  The woman was moving through her house, too, pausing every now and then to do little things women who loved their houses often did: She straightened a picture on the wall, picked up a magazine and moved it from one table to another, repositioned an afghan on the back of a rocking chair.

  David wandered closer to his window, not spying, not hiding, but staying back in the shadows so he wouldn't be seen. No use advertising that he was in town. He was a loner, and that's the way he wanted to keep it.

  The woman's phone rang, and he could see her in three-quarter profile as she talked. Her face became animated, even beautiful. Who had caused that change in her? A dear friend? A husband? A lover?

  Before he could speculate further, she hung up and left the room. David moved through his house, aimlessly, he told himself, not following her. Both of them ended up in their respective bedrooms.

  He could see her back and a reflection from her mirror. She reached for the zipper on her jumpsuit. David hesitated only a moment, then wheeled and left his room. There was a thin line between curiosity and dangerous fascination—and he had almost crossed it.

  Taking his tools, he went into his backyard. There was always something in need of repair around old houses, and he definitely needed to have a hammer in his hand.

  He glanced at the house next door. The woman had pulled down her bedroom shades. He was glad. It wasn't wise for any woman to undress with her shades up—no matter how safe she thought her neighborhood was.

  He found the back-porch steps sagging. Grateful, he pulled out hammer and nails and set to work. The sounds of his carpentry rang out on the crisp autumn air. His mind shut out everything except the exact angle of the nail and the precision of the hammer blows.

  "Excuse me."

  At the sound of the woman's voice, his hammer glanced off the nail and banged against the wooden step.

  "Dammit," he said automatically, looking up. The woman from next door stood watching him. She had changed out of her jumpsuit into a uniform of some kind, pink with a short fitted skirt and button-up blouse. She wore shoes without heels, but her legs still looked great.

  David quickly looked away. He would concentrate on something else—her eyes. They were blue. Actually, they were a remarkable shade of blue, not quite green and not quite violet, but an astonishing mixture of the two. The artist in him appreciated her eyes. Not to mention the chained but untamed beast in him.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

  "It's nothing."

  "You just moved in." It was not a question.

  "Yes."

  "I saw you on the way to my car, and I thought I'd better come over and explain things."

  "What things?" he asked, merely for the sake of politeness. He didn't want this enticing woman with the lovely eyes and lovely legs to explain things to him. He wanted to be left alone.

  "First, let me introduce myself. I'm Rosalie Brown."

  She held out her hand. What could he do but take it?

  "David Kelly," he said, noticing how soft her hand was. She shook his in a firm and businesslike manner, then let go. He felt an inward sag of relief, almost as If he had been rescued. But how could he be rescued when he had never been threatened? He might think about it later. Or he might not. He might just read a good book instead.

  "Welcome to the neighborhood, David."

  "Thanks."

  What was she? The official welcoming committee? He wished she would leave. Her smile was lovely, and she had an unsettling way of looking at him, as if she saw beyond the surface.

  "What I wanted to tell you is that we share a driveway . . . but then I guess Mr. Winston explained that to you when he rented the house."

  "He didn't."

  "He's old and sometimes forgetful."

  Rosalie fiddled with the ribbon holding back her hair. The sun glinted on the underside of her arms. They were soft and creamy and vulnerable, laced with a tiny network of blue veins. He was glad when she stopped arranging her hair, for the sight of her soft arms did something strange to him: It set up longings he hadn't had in a long time.

  "Anyhow," she said, "we do share the driveway, and I thought I'd find out what your working hours are so I won't block you in." She paused, waiting. When he didn't say anything, she spoke again. "Or we could exchange car keys. . . . That's what I did with the last person who lived here. That way, we wouldn't have to worry about getting blocked in."

  "I don't have a car."

  "Oh ... I'm sorry."

  "No need to be sorry. I don't need a car; therefore, I don't have one." He sounded like a pompous ass, even to himself. Maybe she would leave.

  He thought about the blue veins on the undersides of her arms. His hand tightened on the hammer.

  "Well . . ." Rosalie smiled brightly. "That takes care of that." She smoothed down her skirt. He noticed how trim her legs were. "I'd better leave, or I'll be late for work. Nice meeting you."

  "Same here," he said, redeeming himself, he guessed. Or maybe not. It wasn't much of a reply. And she had been friendly. Not flirtatious. Not effusive or pushy or nosy. Just friendly.

  He thought he might say something else, but she was already at her car. He'd have to shout in order to be heard. It didn't seem to be worth the trouble.

  Her old car backfired, then caught. She saw him watching her and waved through the window. Rosalie Brown seemed like a nice woman. He hoped Mr. Brown appreciated her. If there was a Mr. Brown. He hadn't asked, hadn't really wanted to know.

  David took up his hammer and began to swing at a nail. Metal connecting with metal made a satisfying sound.

  She hadn't been wearing a ring. He'd noticed that. The only jewelry she'd worn was a watch, the inexpensive kind you could buy in any discount store.

  She'd worn fingernail polish. Red. Chipped on the right index finger. He found that chipped red polish brave and somehow endearing.

  Sweat popped out on his brow, although the weather was brisk and a breeze stirred the branches of the oak tree where the gray squirrel chattered. He wiped at the sweat and kept on hammering.

  The top button of her blouse had been open, exposing the petal-soft skin of her neck and throat. There had been a hint of blue veins there, too, just on the side of her throat. She had the kind of fair skin that made her look delicate and vulnerable— whether she was or not. For all he knew, she could be a cold, tough number. But he didn't think so. His training plus the gut instinct that had served him well for twenty-odd years on the police force told him Rosalie Brown was a wa
rm, generous-hearted woman making it in the world, with or without a man.

  He swung the hammer, satisfied with the solid blows he landed on the nails, pleased with the improved sturdiness of the steps. The squirrel scampered by, scolding.

  David smiled. Then he thought of the lettering on Rosalie Brown's pink blouse, THE EDGE OF PARADISE. It was probably the name of some small cafe, or even a nightclub, where she worked. The lettering had been done with bright blue thread in Old English script.

  Sweat popped out on his face again. He sat back on his heels, thinking of the words, not bothering to wipe the sweat away. The edge of paradise. He had been there once. He didn't plan to go again.

  Chapter Two

  The Edge of Paradise was an aging wooden cafe hunkered down between two ultramodern high-rise office buildings. With its green glass windows and its fifty years of accumulated paint, peeling in layers so it looked spotted, it always put Rosalie in mind of an old hound dog, hairless and toothless but still faithful and willing to serve.

  The cafe was a landmark in Tupelo, a beloved tradition. Every time progress threatened it, concerned citizens rallied to save it. A yellowing Save- the-Paradise flyer was still taped to the west window.

  Big Betty Malone, the owner of the cafe, never got in a hurry about anything. The ancient flyer, along with an accumulation of outdated calendars on the walls and the Christmas wreath that hung behind the cash register year round, attested to her slow- moving ways.

  That was one of the things Rosalie liked best about working at the Edge of Paradise, the relaxed pace. That, and the owner herself. Big Betty doted on Rosalie, and the feeling was mutual.

  "If you ain't a sight for sore eyes," Big Betty yelled when Rosalie walked through the door, as if she hadn't seen her in years instead of over the past week. "Come here and give us a little hug."

  Big Betty folded Rosalie in a warm embrace. Her hugs had sustained Rosalie through the lean years of raising two boys alone, and later through the endless days of Harry's illness. Cancer. Death by Inches.

  "You're getting skinny, honey." Betty held her at arm's length for inspection. "You eating enough?"