Edge of Paradise

by Webb, Peggy

  "Rosalie ... is something going on here?" Betty narrowed her eyes and put one stout fist on the counter, ready to do battle for her friend. "Has that man done something to you? If he has, you tell Big Betty, and I'll toss him out of here before he can say 'fried dill pickles."'

  "No!" Rosalie glanced over her shoulder in alarm, as if Betty had already socked David Kelly in the face. He was holding onto the menu but looking at her as if she might be his main course for dinner. She quickly turned back to Betty. "I'm just being silly, that's all. We went for a walk Monday night, and I haven't seen him since. . . ."

  She realized she was breathless. Pausing, she put her hand over her heart. It was racing as if she had run five miles.

  "Are you sure you're all right?"

  Rosalie managed a smile for her friend. "I guess this is called middle-age panic."

  "Middle age, my Astroturf. Wait till you get fluffy and fifty." Betty glanced at table two. "He's still watching you. Lord, his eyes look like two big old blue crystal balls or something. No wonder you're in a sexual sweat."

  "Betty!" Rosalie leaned closer and whispered fiercely, "I'm not in a sexual sweat. I'm just not ready for this."

  "Ready for what, honey?" Betty dropped the teasing and became the kindhearted confidante.

  "I don't know ... for feeling hot and cold all at the same time, for wanting to touch and be touched, for hoping . . ." Sighing, she paused and readjusted her apron. "I'd better get over to table two."

  "Good luck, honey."

  She was going to need it. Lord, when had she gone from curious but wary to almost smitten and scared? The closer she got, the more uncertain she became. David's eyes were fiercely alive, blazing with an unholy light, and yet his face was totally immobile, his expression neutral. Rosalie silently prayed for strength, but she didn't know whether she was praying for strength to resist him or strength to take a chance on him.

  When she got close, she greeted him the way she did all her customers.

  "Good evening." So far so good.

  "Hello, Rosalie," he said, smiling, and she nearly fell apart.

  He was magnificently masculine, wonderfully solid, and incredibly desirable. Her breath caught high in her throat, just from standing next to him in a crowded cafe. She didn't like to think of the state she'd be in if they were in a secluded spot, surrounded by soft candlelight and romantic music.

  Her hand tightened on her pencil. Everything she should have said flew right out of her brain.

  "How have you been this week, Rosalie?"

  "Fine." Lonesome.

  "I came to apologize for missing our walks together. I'm sorry, Rosalie."

  "That's all right." It had hurt.

  "No, it isn't." He caught her left hand, turned it over, and studied the palm. "I should have called and explained to you why I couldn't join you."

  "I was home." Waiting.

  "I know. I heard your car every evening." He smiled at her, still holding her hand. "I guess I was listening for it."

  Did hearts take flight? Hers did. She could tell by the rapid fluttering in her chest.

  "I don't want to keep you from your work, but there's more that I have to say."

  "It's all right. I can take the time."

  "I want you to know that I think you're a very fine woman. I like you, Rosalie. I like you a lot."

  "I like you, too, David."

  "I'm glad."

  He held her hand a while longer, tracing the pattern of veins in her palm with his index finger. She felt the heat of his touch all the way down to her toes.

  When she was certain that she'd melt into a puddle at his feet, he released her hand.

  "I'm a loner, Rosalie. I think I told you that. But I do want us to be friends."

  Friends? She breathed a sigh of relief mixed with regret. "I'd like that. David."

  "Good. That's settled, then." He smiled at her. "I'm starved. What's the house specialty?"

  "Meat loaf and fried green tomatoes."

  "Sounds good to me. With lots of hot coffee."

  Her step was jaunty as she walked back to the kitchen. Betty was waiting for her at the pass- through.

  "Everything is okay, Betty. He wants to be friends. Don't look skeptical. He's a good man. I know he is."

  "You don't have to convince me. I saw it all. The way he held your hand, the way he looked at you." She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. "Friends, huh?"

  "That's what he said . . . and I said yes."

  "Umm-hmm." Betty smiled and nodded, then got his order off the carousel. "Give me the biggest plate of loaf and fried tomatoes you got," she yelled toward the kitchen. "We got a hungry man out here."

  Rosalie glanced at table two. David was laughing.

  Friends. She could handle that.

  o0o

  He loved watching her work. He lingered over his coffee, not even pretending to himself that it was time to go.

  Rosalie moved through the small cafe with a grace that would have befitted a queen. It was obvious she took both joy and pride in her work. David liked that about her. Though he knew a little about her life, he didn't know exactly what circumstances had caused her to end up as a weekend waitress at a small cafe; but he was glad to see she had kept her grace and charm.

  From time to time she glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. He felt warmed by her smiles. In her rare free moments she came by his table with the coffeepot, making sure he always had a refill.

  He guessed he'd had enough coffee in the last two hours to supply troops at Camp Shelby. Still, he made no move to leave.

  He watched as she came toward him.

  "More coffee, David?"

  He held his cup toward her, wanting to look rather than talk. When the cup was filled to the top once more, Rosalie lingered at his table. He tried to squash the selfish hope that sprang to life in him, but it refused to die.

  "I guess you caught a taxi here," she said.

  "No. I walked."

  "That's a long walk."

  He smiled. "Our workout Monday evening put me in shape."

  He loved the way her eyes sparkled when he mentioned Monday. They had held hands. Judging by the shine in her eyes and his own racing pulse, he'd have thought they had shared a torrid evening in bed if he hadn't known better.

  Whoa, boy. This is a friendship. Remember?

  "It's not long till closing time." She waited; he watched. "You can ride home with me if you want to. . . ." She wet her bottom lip with her tongue. David squeezed the handle of the coffee cup. "If you're still here."

  "I'll be here." He set the coffee cup on the table with great care, never taking his gaze from her. "I'd love to ride with you, Rosalie."

  Chapter Four

  I'd love to ride with you, Rosalie.

  David's words echoed through her mind as they drove through the night streets together. He sat beside her, not too close but close enough that she could feel his pants legs barely brushing against her thigh. Glare from the streetlights highlighted the rugged planes of his face and the fierce gleam in his eye.

  His words roared through her like cascading waters, and she clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. Ride with you. Ride with you. A slow burn spread throughout her body. Her face felt flushed and hot.

  Now stop that, she told herself. He hadn't meant a darned thing erotic or suggestive. He'd merely been talking about a ride in her car.

  "Isn't that our street?"

  "What?" She twisted to look at him.

  "I thought you passed our street."

  He was right. She had whizzed by her own street as if she'd never seen it before.

  "Sometimes I come this way," she said, taking the next left and going back a block. "For a change of scenery."

  "That's a good idea. I sometimes like a change of scenery myself." She could have hugged him for not smirking. "I guess that's why I'm such a traveling man."

  "Do you travel a lot, David?"

&nbs
p; "Just in the last few years."

  Their houses loomed large, two separate shadows waiting for them. In the glow of her dashboard lights they gazed at each other. Rosalie slowed the car to a crawl.

  "You've been lots of exciting places, I guess," she said.

  "Lots of places. None of them exciting . . . until I came here."

  She let her foot completely off the accelerator, and the old car almost choked to a stop.

  "Hmm," she murmured, letting him take it any way he wanted as she recovered and set the car back in motion.

  "Have you always lived here, Rosalie?"

  "Always. Once, when I was young, I dreamed of going to faraway places—New York, Paris, London." She was at the driveway now. "I was going to be a singer and perform in all the great opera houses. I learned a couple of languages in school, and Italian on my own. I was even studying with a good voice coach here in town. But the boys came when I was barely eighteen. Secretarial school was a practical choice." She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. "I wouldn't trade Jack and Jimmy for all the opera roles in the world."

  She parked the car. It continued to shudder and cough after she turned off the key. David didn't seem to notice.

  "And what about you, David? Tell me about yourself."

  Instead of answering her, he reached for her face. "You sang Monday night," he said, his voice soft. Both hands on her cheeks, he slowly turned her to face him. "I thought I was hearing angels, Rosalie. I stood at the window listening to you. Your music touched my heart."

  "Thank you." I was singing for you, because of you.

  "And then—" he paused, caressing her chin with his thumbs—"you didn't sing anymore."

  She felt as if she had left her ordinary body and her old car and was soaring in a sun-drenched meadow filled with fragrant flowers. She closed her eyes, letting the beauty wash over her.

  "Was it because of me? Because I hurt you?"

  "Oh, no." She put her hands on his face. "It was nothing you did. You could never hurt me."

  "I'm glad. I don't want to hurt you, Rosalie." He gently traced her eyebrows, her cheeks, her lips. "I don't ever want to hurt you."

  "You won't. . . ." He leaned close, so close. "You can't. . . ."

  Rosalie didn't know who made the first move, but suddenly their lips brushed together, softly, gently, like the sigh of wind on waves, the kiss of dew on roses.

  She almost stopped breathing. With his lips barely touching hers, they became suspended in time. She could feel the thud of his heart against the inside of her arm, hear the hurried rush of his breath against her skin.

  Something beautiful was happening on this Indian summer night in the trembling darkness of a rickety old car. Both of them sensed it, felt it.

  They held on to each other, unmoving, afraid to lose the magic by letting go and afraid to claim it by reaching out. A lover's moon tracked across the sky, bathing them in a silvery glow.

  Rosalie's lips trembled, and David responded.

  "Don't be afraid." His mouth moved against hers as he formed the words.

  "I'm not." Her words were only a sigh, a whispery breeze that carried her toward David.

  Their lips met, and the kiss bloomed between them as if it were a beautiful bud awaiting the gentle rains and warm sunshine of their touch. Sighing, Rosalie laced her arms around David's neck, and he circled his around her waist.

  All the music she'd wanted to sing pulsed through Rosalie, and all the beauty he'd wanted to paint washed over David. With their lips tenderly pressed together, they treated the kiss as something precious, not to be taken lightly and not to be taken for granted.

  He didn't try to take more than she offered, and she didn't ask for more than he could give. Wonder trembled through them, and they held on, unwilling and unable to let go.

  Finally, the time came, as they both knew it would, when the kiss had to end. They drew apart at the same time.

  If they had been younger and less wise, they might have tried to deny what had happened, tried to pretend that it was merely a passing fancy, a meaningless impulse. But they both had known love, and they recognized its taste.

  David cupped Rosalie's cheek with one hand. "I didn't mean to do that."

  "Neither did I."

  "It was beautiful, Rosalie. Special."

  "I know."

  His eyes darkened with guilt remembered, and hers became bright with pain recalled. As they gazed at each other, the wonder that had sought to be born died a slow and merciless death.

  "I don't want to give you false ideas," he said.

  "And I don't mean to lead you on."

  "I'm not ready for any of this ... for the tender feelings, the need, the hunger." His hand tightened on her cheek. "I'm hungry for you, Rosalie. You're like a spring of fresh water that I've suddenly stumbled upon after years of wandering in the desert."

  "I know ... I understand." She leaned her cheek into his hand. "I guess we're both just lonely, David."

  "Lonely as hell."

  Summoning up courage she didn't feel, Rosalie smiled at him. "I don't want you to worry about this. I'm not some giddy teenager who's going to try to hold you to promises you never made. I'll just consider this a lovely end to a lovely evening."

  "You're a wonderful woman, Rosalie—a beautiful, gentle, compassionate woman." He bent close and brushed his lips against her forehead. "I'm damned lucky to have you for a friend."

  "And I'm thankful to have you." She straightened her shoulders and smiled with determination, breaking the somber mood. "Vacant houses always look so cheerless. Besides that, you have a dog. I'm crazy about dogs, but since the boys left, I haven't kept one because of my work. A dog would get too lonely staying home by himself all the time."

  "You have a standing invitation to come and visit Rover any time you get lonesome."

  He got out on his side of the car and came around to open her door. Taking her hand, he helped her out.

  "Be careful what you promise," she said. "I may take you up on it."

  He walked her to her door, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Good night, Rosalie."

  She smiled, then gave him her special good-bye wave. She didn't look back as she walked through her door, but he stood in the driveway anyhow, watching as if he could still see her.

  The moon vanished behind a cloud, and David stood in the darkness, waiting until Rosalie's light came on, signaling her safe arrival to her bedroom.

  "Thanks for the ride," he whispered.

  Then he went into his house for what he was absolutely certain would be one of his most tormented nights in a long, long time.

  o0o

  On Saturday morning David woke up to the sound of music. At first he thought it was the echo of Rosalie, singing through his heart. Then he realized it was Rosalie, singing in her kitchen.

  She was singing an Italian aria. From Madame Butterfly, if he remembered correctly. Majestic and tender, the song brought tears to his eyes.

  He turned his attention from the window and looked at his surroundings. Limp curtains, washed so many times they were drab and gray, hung at the windows. Faded roses stared back at him from the peeling wallpaper. The linoleum stretched across the floor, the color of old bologna, cracked and buckling so that he had to be always on his guard when he navigated across it.

  His sanctuary. His prison.

  For the first time in two years, he cared about his surroundings.

  After his divorce, he had left Alabama with not much more than the clothes on his back, his art supplies, and his tools. Gretchen, contending she was the injured party, had taken everything in the divorce. He hadn't cared. When his lawyer became alarmed and went back to the negotiating table, she had generously offered him the dented stew pots and the toilet seats; but he had graciously declined.

  He had sinned: He had to pay.

  But now, with Rosalie's music sparkling in the air, he caught a glimpse of redemption, and with the redemption came the need to improve his surroundings.
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  He ate a quick breakfast of wheat flakes, entertained by a new aria drifting across the way, something lively. The Barber of Seville he thought.

  Smiling, he found mop and mop bucket in the pantry and set to work. So intent was he on his chores that he didn't hear Rosalie until she was standing behind him.

  "I knocked, but you didn't hear." She wore jeans and baggy sweatshirt that said HANG IN THERE BABY. Her shining hair was tied back in a red ribbon. She looked sixteen.

  David felt seventeen.

  "Hello there." He stood up, flexing knees that had gone stiff from squatting. "Housemaid's knees." He grinned at her.

  "Rover let me in."

  "The next thing I know, he'll be asking you to go dancing."

  She tipped her head back when she laughed. The pale blue veins on the side of her neck gave David ideas—and they certainly weren't about scrubbing floors.

  "I brought you something," she said.

  "You shouldn't have . . . but I'm glad you did."

  "It's not much. Just some quick-fix sticky buns I make with canned biscuits."

  "Woman, you've lured me away from my mop."

  His heart and soul cried out for a connection with her, his arm around her shoulders, his hand upon her arm, his thigh brushing against hers. But what had happened the previous night had made him wary. Connections with Rosalie, even brief ones, were dangerous.

  "Let's follow my nose," he said, leading the way back to the kitchen.

  Her latest gift of food sat in the middle of his bare table, exuding the delicious aroma of butter and sugar and cinnamon. David poured two cups of coffee, and they sat across from each other, a bit self-conscious, a bit wary, sharing breakfast.

  "I had an ulterior motive, you see."

  "Don't tell me. Let me guess." David pretended to be deep in thought. Across the table Rosalie licked the icing on her right index finger. Desire shot through David so unexpectedly he almost lost his grip on his sticky bun.

  "Well ... I'm waiting." Her pink tongue flicked out once more to nip at the sugar icing.

  The table that stood between them was both a hindrance and a help. If it hadn't been there, he might have lost all control. He might have licked her sugar icing without even asking if she wanted help.