by Linda Seed
“Good point.”
Will climbed down from the ladder. It was good to have his feet on solid ground again.
“Or.” Daniel continued his train of thought about Melinda. “You could have it out with her. Tell her that breaking up with her was the sanest thing you’ve ever done, and you wouldn’t sleep with her if she were the last woman on earth and the future of mankind depended on it.”
“That’s harsh,” Will said. “But true.”
“Or, Plan C, you could tell Chris about her behavior. Show him the crazy-ass texts. Then he dumps her, and you’re done with the whole deal.”
Will rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “That’s got some appeal. But people have been known to blame the messenger. And I need this job, at least until I finish my dissertation.”
“How’s that going, by the way?”
“Good.” Will nodded. “Finally, it’s good. It’s coming along. I just need a little more time.”
They moved the ladder to the other side of the barn, and Daniel climbed up so they could drape another string of lights over the area where the guests would be sitting. Will handed the hammer and nails up to him, and then a string of lights.
“So, which plan do you like?” Daniel wanted to know.
Will considered the question. “I’m leaning toward a combination. Tell her that breaking up with her is the sanest thing I’ve ever done, and then make myself scarce and stay away from Cooper House until she’s gone.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Daniel hammered a nail into place and attached a string of lights to it. “And then you can always fall back on Plan C if nothing else works.”
Ryan appeared in the doorway to the barn, his T-shirt and jeans speckled with paint. “How’s it going in here?”
“We’re lucky we haven’t killed ourselves falling off this damned ladder,” Daniel said. “Whose idea was this? Goddamned fairy lights thirty feet up?”
“That would be Gen,” Ryan said.
“Ah, shit. I can’t be irritated with a happy bride. Especially not one as beautiful as Gen,” Daniel said.
“Get your mind off how beautiful my future wife is.” Ryan came into the barn and looked up, appraising their work. “Though I can’t argue with you.”
Daniel got down off the ladder, and they flipped the switch to turn on the hundreds of little lights. The three of them stood in a line, peering upward. In the dim afternoon light filtering into the barn, the lights looked like a blanket of stars in an early evening sky.
“Gen’s going to love it. Thanks, you guys.” Ryan slapped them both on the back.
“How’s the painting coming along?” Will asked.
Ryan grinned at him. “Since you asked, I could use a little help. Why don’t you boys grab that ladder and come on outside?”
Ryan went out, and Daniel glared at Will. “You just had to ask, didn’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rose was so bloated that she’d barely gotten her pants buttoned that morning. And she was cranky. And she was simultaneously nauseated and so hungry she wanted to eat the entire contents of the Cookie Crock Market.
Pregnancy sucked, and it was only the first trimester.
She was supposed to meet her mother for breakfast before going to work, and she wasn’t in the mood for it. But then again, she was rarely in the mood for Pamela.
She’d considered ways to get out of it—excuses like helping Gen with wedding prep or being called in to work early—but in the end she’d decided that avoiding her mother was childish. Maybe she was maturing, and maybe it was the maternal hormones rushing through her body, but she decided that it would be a good thing to try to bond with her mom.
After all, she was going to be a mother herself. She would need her mother’s insight, if only to give her a guide for what not to do.
Rose arrived at her mother’s beach house at a little after eight. She knocked and cracked the door open, and was surprised to hear her mother singing. Her mother didn’t sing.
“Mom?” Rose called as she came in.
“Oh, Rose. Come in. I’ve just about gotten everything ready.” Pamela came out of the kitchen holding a pitcher of orange juice. She placed it on the little dining table, which was arranged with pretty place settings and a vase of flowers in the center.
“Wow. This looks great.” Rose could smell bacon cooking, and there was a plate of pancakes on the table, along with a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs. When Pamela had invited her over for breakfast, Rose had pictured an array of pastries from the bakery along with a fruit salad from the market. Pamela didn’t cook. At least, she never had in Rose’s memory. That’s what employees and caterers were for.
“Just sit right down while everything’s still hot,” Pamela said.
“You cooked,” Rose said. “And you look … happy. What the hell’s going on?”
“Oh, stop.” Pamela waved Rose’s comments away with her hand. “I just had a good morning, that’s all. I went for a walk and I saw a family of deer crossing the road. There really are quite a lot of deer here. Charming. And then I went out onto the path that leads through … oh, I can’t remember the name of it. But it was a lovely natural area overlooking the water.”
“Fiscalini Ranch?” Rose provided.
“Yes, that’s it. Thank you. Such beautiful wildflowers. And sea lions, down on the rocks. It was lovely. Rose, you really are quite fortunate to live here.”
Rose made a show of going out the door and checking the address on the front of the house to make sure she’d arrived in the right place. She came back in, saying, “Yep, this is the address. Now what did you do with my mother?”
And then, the most unexpected thing happened. Pamela actually laughed.
Not only that, but Pamela had put some of the decorations that had come with the house back up on the walls. A sign reading, HEAVEN IS A LITTLE CLOSER IN A HOME BY THE WATER was back in its original spot over the fireplace. There was still no sign of the garden gnome in the front yard, however.
“Mom. Did something … happen?” Rose asked as she sat down at the table and spooned some eggs onto her plate.
“No. Why?”
“You just seem different. Kind of … well, jeez. I’ll just say it. You seem happy.”
Pamela poured herself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher. “Well, for goodness sake, you act like you’ve never seen me happy before.”
“If the shoe fits …”
“Rosemary.”
“I’m sorry.” Rose filled her plate with pancakes and bacon. “It’s just … I thought you didn’t really like it here.”
“Well, I’d have preferred the house I originally reserved. But I’m making the best of things.”
That actually seemed to be true. Pamela had never been one to make the best of things. Pamela’s instinct, when faced with a circumstance that was less than ideal, was usually to bend everyone else to her will.
“So, how is the wedding preparation coming along?” Pamela asked. Her voice sounded chirpy. It was unsettling, and maybe a little bit creepy.
“Fine. Really fine. I’ve just about nailed down all the non-RSVPers. Lacy’s got the place cards finished. Kate’s written a really nice speech for the reception. And Will says the barn looks great.” Rose mentally winced as she realized her mistake of mentioning Will. Now her mother was going to ask about him, and Rose wouldn’t know what to say.
“How is your young man?” Pamela inquired, right on cue.
“Oh, here we go.”
“Where exactly is that, dear?” Pamela smiled placidly.
“I just know how you work, Mom. You’re going to grill me about Will, and then when that’s done, you’re going to tell me all the reasons we’re not right for each other. Well, he’s not my young man, so you can just forget it.” Rose gave the speech with a piece of bacon trembling on the end of her fork.
Where Pamela usually would have stiffened and pressed her lips into a tight line at this point in the conversation, inst
ead, she smiled.
“Nonsense, dear. He seems lovely.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “He does?”
“Of course.”
Rose reached over and pressed her hand to her mother’s forehead. “Huh. No fever. I could have sworn you were delirious.”
Pamela glared at her. “Rosemary.”
Rose knew that she was pressing her luck by taunting her mother. But sparring with Pamela was a habit she’d never had occasion to break. And anyway, Rose had the nagging suspicion that with the good humor and cheer, Pamela was somehow setting her up. Rose would relax, reveal something she wasn’t ready to reveal—like the presence of a third party at the table—and then Pamela would revert to her usual form, all fiery judgment and scorn.
Rose wasn’t having it.
“So,” Pamela tried again. “Why, exactly, isn’t he your young man? I thought things between you were going quite swimmingly.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Why not? What happened between you?”
“Oh, nothing,” Rose deadpanned. “I just wouldn’t say that. The word. ‘Swimmingly.’ ”
Pamela let out a sigh and put down her fork. “Oh, Rosemary. Can’t you see that I’m trying?”
Rose could, and the least she could do was give something back. “Okay. The truth is, nothing happened between me and Will. It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m just not sure that I’m ready to get into a big, involved relationship.”
“And that’s what he wants? A big, involved, relationship?”
“Apparently.”
“Well.” Pamela picked up the napkin from her lap, dabbed her lips with it, and draped it carefully back over her linen slacks. “I’d always pictured you with someone high-powered. A lawyer, perhaps. Or someone high-placed in corporate business.”
“Here we go,” Rose said again.
“But you clearly aren’t interested in going that direction,” Pamela continued as though Rose hadn’t spoken. “And, given the kind of lifestyle you do seem to prefer, Will seems like a good match for you.”
Was there implied scorn? Had there been something withering in Pamela’s voice when she referred to Rose’s lifestyle? Oddly, there hadn’t been. And if Pamela’s comment hadn’t implied scorn, had it then implied … acceptance ?
Rose had always thought that if her mother were to one day stop criticizing her, she’d feel the peace only experienced by accomplished yogis. But instead, she felt exposed, like a tortoise without its shell.
She’d been wolfing down eggs, pancakes, and bacon, but now she felt the food sitting uncomfortably in her stomach. Maybe that was daughterly angst, and maybe it was the baby.
God, how was she going to tell her mother about the baby?
“You look a little green, dear,” Pamela observed.
“I just … uh …” Rose got up from the table and wheeled around, trying to remember where the bathroom was in the unfamiliar house. When the answer didn’t immediately come to her, she darted out the front door, bent over, and vomited on the spot where the garden gnome had once stood.
Pamela stood in the doorway, grimacing.
“If you had a stomach virus, you shouldn’t have come.” She shuddered delicately.
“I don’t have a virus,” Rose said. She straightened, went inside, and rinsed her mouth out with water from the kitchen sink. Then she went back outside to hose down the place were the gnome would one day live again, secure in the knowledge that it had escaped disaster.
Will was working furiously on his dissertation, his head fully absorbed in the minutiae of bird adaptation, when the intercom mounted in his kitchen buzzed. Someone was at the security gate.
He went to the intercom and pushed the TALK button. “May I help you?”
“Is that Will?” a voice inquired.
“Yes, this is Will. May I help you?” he asked again.
“Will, this is Pamela Watkins.” She added, unnecessarily, “Rose’s mother.”
Will felt a jolt of panic. This couldn’t be good.
“Of course, Mrs. Watkins. I’ll open the gate.” He pushed the button to roll back the big iron gate that protected the property from intruders and solicitors. If only there were a moat.
He was nervously waiting outside the guest house when Pamela came driving up in her rental car.
The other times Will had seen Pamela, she’d been wearing designer suits, the kind he imagined women of a certain age wore to meetings about charity galas. So he was surprised when she got out of the car looking much more casual in a pair of white capris and a camel-colored sweater with the cuffs and collar of a crisp white shirt peeking out from underneath. It was the kind of ensemble Martha Stewart might wear to browse for antiques. He liked her better this way.
“Mrs. Watkins. What can I do for you?” He was slouching, his hands stuffed into the pockets of faded jeans, his T-shirt on its second wearing. He was wearing flip-flops, and his hair was mussed. Only now did he realize the impression he must be making.
“May I come in?” She gestured toward the guest house. “I have something I’d like to discuss.”
“Of course.”
Was there ever a time when the sentence I have something I’d like to discuss led to something positive? Usually, such a sentence didn’t precede the news that you’d gotten a promotion or won the lottery. It was more commonly associated with breakups and firings. Since Will didn’t work for Pamela and he wasn’t romantically involved with her, he figured he was at least safe from those.
He ushered her into the small house and panicked a little when he saw what a mess it was. His dining room table was covered in the detritus of his research, papers and notebooks surrounding his open laptop.
“Here, please sit down.” He ushered her to the sofa, where he had to remove a small pile of clean laundry he hadn’t yet folded and put away. “It’s not usually this messy.” He clutched the clothes to his chest. “It’s just … you caught me in the middle of working on my dissertation. I kind of put off doing anything else.”
“I see.” Pamela sat primly on the edge of the sofa. Will offered her a glass of ice water, and when she accepted, he went to get it from the kitchen.
By the time they were both settled into the small sitting area, Will had worked himself up into a substantial case of nerves. What could she want? What kind of trouble, exactly, was he in?
He took a drink from his own water glass in the hope that it would buy him time to compose himself. But while he was drinking, Pamela said, “So, I understand that you’ve impregnated my daughter.”
Will choked, drawing a fair amount of the water into his trachea. He coughed, barely avoiding spewing water onto Pamela’s crisp white capris.
When the spasms of coughing subsided, he sputtered, “What?”
“So you’re saying it’s not true?”
“Ah … no. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m surprised you know about it.”
“Well.” Pamela sat with her purse—Will supposed she’d call it a pocketbook—on her lap. “That was refreshingly honest.”
“I guess I don’t see the point in lying when the cat’s already out of the bag, so to speak.”
Somehow, the idea of the baby had been abstract up until now, but talking about it with Pamela made it real. He felt a little sick, and he felt his hands shaking.
“Why, you’ve gone positively white,” Pamela observed.
“Look, Mrs. Watkins …” Will began.
“Call me Pamela.”
“All right. Pamela. I don’t know for certain that Rose is pregnant, but I suspect that she is.” His voice sounded surprisingly steady to his own ears.
“You mean she hasn’t told you?” Pamela seemed shocked by this development.
“No.”
“Is it possible that … there’s some mistake?”
Will thought that what she really wanted to ask was, Is it possible that it’s not your child? The fact that she hadn’t asked it raised her a bit in Will’s estimation.<
br />
“Maybe you should have this conversation with Rose.” Will squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the way this all was going.
“I would.” Pamela smacked her purse down on the table beside her. “But if I asked, she wouldn’t tell me.”
“That makes two of us,” Will muttered.
“Well.” She folded her hands atop her knees. “What I’d like to know is, what do you plan to do about it?”
While the rest of the conversation so far had been hard, this part was easy. “I plan to be a father to our child and a partner to Rose in whatever way she’ll have me.” The words came easily, because he knew what he wanted, because every word of it was true. “I don’t suppose she’ll marry me—not right away, anyway—but if she ever decides she’s ready for that, then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime, I’m going to be there for her, for the baby, in every way I can.”
Pamela’s eyes widened, and she was very still. It was clear to Will that she hadn’t expected that answer. What had she expected, then? That he was packing his things for an abrupt escape to another country?
“You’re a student,” Pamela said. “A caretaker.” The sound in her voice when she said the word wasn’t disdain so much as emphasis—as though she were trying to make him understand a fact he hadn’t quite comprehended before now.
“Yes. I am. And I’m working very hard to finish my dissertation so I can get work in my field. Which will be much more financially stable than caretaking.”
“I see.”
Pamela sat, still and quiet, for a few moments. Then she picked up her purse, stood, and headed for the front door. When she reached it, she turned and extended her hand for Will to shake.
“Thank you for meeting with me today, Will. It’s been enlightening.”
Will wasn’t sure where this left them. They hadn’t come to any kind of understanding, though Pamela seemed somehow satisfied that she’d gotten what she came for.
“Are you going to tell Rose that you know? Or that I know?” Will asked, releasing her hand.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“You’re not?” That came as a surprise.
Pamela tilted her head back slightly to create the illusion that she was looking down on him, though he was taller than she was by a good four inches. Will could imagine Rose being on the receiving end of that look throughout her childhood.