Rainy Days and Roses

by Dawn Douglas

  An hour passed before she fell asleep.

  Chapter Six

  The balmy days of August faded into a damp and golden fall. Progress continued on the cottage. Dan replaced the leaking roof and installed a new washer and dryer. He started work on the bathroom. And Zelda brought in the last roses of summer from the backyard and placed them lovingly in a pitcher on the kitchen table, where within hours the velvety petals drifted down to rest on the worn wood she’d polished to a glow.

  One September morning, after a quick slice of toast and marmalade, she zipped up her hooded, rainproof jacket and left the cottage. The sky was gray, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Peering up at the dark, angry-looking clouds, she wondered how long the rain would hold off.

  Dan had left the house bright and early, leaving a brief note informing her he’d be back at around six. The note, completely devoid of affection or warmth, was scrawled on a scrap of paper and left on the kitchen table for her to find. She knew he was being nothing more than considerate in letting her know he’d be gone all day. She’d forced herself to scrunch the paper up into a little ball and throw it in the trash.

  This ridiculous crush, or whatever it was, had to be nipped in the bud, eliminated, before she made an idiot of herself. If Dan took out an ad on a ten foot high billboard with the words “not interested in you romantically” outlined in flashing neon lights, he couldn’t make it any clearer; he wanted her only as a friend.

  Maybe it was better this way anyhow, she brooded, trudging bleakly down the muddy lane. Her track record with men was pretty dismal, and if she and Dan became involved it would probably be the kiss of death for their friendship. Somehow she didn’t think she could deal with that.

  A light shower began as she completed her purchases at the village supermarket, but Zelda flipped up her hood and decided to go ahead with her planned visit to the library anyway, not wanting to miss the used books sale. As far as she was concerned, the one thing Rose Cottage lacked was books—cookbooks stacked in the kitchen, their pages splattered with gravy and batter, travel books piled on the coffee table in the living room, heart-stopping thrillers and mysteries tucked in the bedrooms.

  The community hall adjoining the library bustled with activity and Zelda breathed in the mingled odors of aged books and rainy jackets as she began to poke happily through the stacks of novels and non-fiction dumped haphazardly on trestle tables, thrilled to find two vintage cookbooks and a thriller by one of her favorite writers.

  One of the middle-aged ladies presiding over the sale placed her selections into an inadequate plastic carrier bag and handed it over with a toothy smile. Zelda paid and made her way out of the library with her finds.

  A poster in the lobby caught her eye, and she stopped to read. “Volunteer story-tellers needed. Do you have what it takes to keep between ten and twenty preschoolers entertained with your storytelling skills? If so, we’d love to hear from you.”

  She bit her lip, torn with indecision. She actually wasn’t at all sure she did have what it took, but still she hesitated. This could be a good thing, a fun experience, and a chance to get involved with the community. She turned toward the front desk. A man in his early thirties or so sat behind it, busily stamping a pile of books. He looked up and smiled at her, a very English smile, open and friendly but with just a hint of shyness.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I saw your ad for volunteer storytellers, and I’d like to apply.”

  He stared at her until Zelda felt slightly uncomfortable. “Are the positions all filled?”

  “No. No, they’re not,” he said. “It’s just that usually our volunteers are retirees.”

  “I see.”

  “But I think you’d be an absolutely fantastic breath of fresh air.” He smiled. “And God knows the kids will probably appreciate being around someone born in the same millennium as them.”

  It was impossible not to return his smile. “Do I need to fill in a form or something?”

  “Yes, it’s very simple.” He rummaged in a drawer. “I’m Mark, by the way. Mark Shawcross, branch library manager.”

  “Zelda Marshall.” She took the piece of paper he handed her.

  “Just return this completed application at your earliest convenience, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Okay, great. Goodbye, Mr. Shawcross.”

  “Mark.”

  He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She glanced back as the doors slid open. He watched her, his gaze appreciative and thoughtful.

  Outside, the rain had started to mean business. Zelda hurried along, her arms aching with the weight of groceries and books. She made it past the little parade of shops and was just turning into the lane that would take her to Rose Cottage when one of the plastic bags split wide open and the books tumbled out onto the wet ground, narrowly missing a murky puddle.

  “Dammit!” she bent to scrabble in the mud.

  A car pulled up beside her, and she looked up, hoping to see a dark green Subaru. But the vehicle was unfamiliar. The driver’s door opened, and Mark Shawcross stepped out and hurried over.

  “Can I help?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the thriller, splattered with mud, and a bag of apples, then ushered her into his car. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride. I was just heading home for lunch.”

  She climbed into his car and shoved off her hood, feeling her damp curls spring free. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. It’s not every day I have the honor of helping a damsel in distress. Where to?”

  “I live at the end of this lane. Rose Cottage.”

  “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “How are you finding village life?”

  “Very pleasant,” Zelda turned to face him as the car came to a halt. “Thanks again for your help.”

  Mark sprang from the car to carry her bags up the path.

  She fished the key from her pocket and hurriedly unlocked the door. The rain was still pelting down. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No, I’d better get going,” he said regretfully. “Don’t forget to return the form.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  He blushed. Instead of turning away with one last cheery wave, Mark Shawcross continued to stand on the doorstep, getting wetter and wetter, until his floppy, blonde hair was plastered to his head.

  “Look. Can I take you to dinner one day next week?” he blurted.

  Zelda stared.

  Thunder rumbled threateningly, and then cracked ferociously above them. She thought of evenings at Rose Cottage, wanting what could never be.

  “I think that would be very nice.”

  Mark’s pleasant face dissolved into a delighted, relieved smile as lightning flashed overhead.

  “What’s your number?” he said, just in time for another clap of thunder to obliterate his words. He repeated them, and they were both laughing, both soaking wet.

  “Look, I’ll return the form tomorrow with my number on it,” she said.

  “Promise?”

  She laughed again and nodded.

  And then he turned and hurried back to his car. Zelda dragged her bags into the house and asked herself what on earth she’d just done.

  “You’ve agreed to have dinner with a very nice man, that’s what you’ve just done,” she told herself firmly, as she put away the groceries. It was high time too. She hadn’t planned on coming to England to enhance her love life, but the situation with Dan called for critical action. And Mark seemed to be really sweet. Not exactly her type, but sweet. She didn’t have a type anyway.

  A vision of Dan floated into her head, all black hair and broody dark eyes and long, rangy body. She pushed the vision firmly away. Dan wasn’t interested in her. And once and for all, come hell or high water, she was going to get over this stupid obsession.

  She chopped vegetables and meat, soothed by the easy familiarity of the task. When the beef and onions were sizzling in the Dutch oven with some mushrooms, she recklessly added half a bo
ttle of red wine, and then popped the casserole into the oven.

  Rain lashed the windows of the cottage. She remembered scrabbling wildly for pots and buckets before Dan installed the new roof and the kitchen and living room leaked in about ten different places, how they had laughed, scrambling for saucepans and pots to catch the raindrops plink, plink, plinking through the ceiling. And the next morning, emptying all the containers of rain down the sink, they’d laughed again, and she’d thought, please let me remember these moments as long as I live.

  She hung her apron on the kitchen door and climbed the stairs, eager for a long, soak in the bathtub. Initially upon arriving at Rose Cottage, she’d missed taking showers. It had taken a while to get used to just having a bath tub. Unfortunately the bathroom was so small, it was impossible for Dan to install a modern, standard-sized tub, so after the renovation she’d be back to taking just showers. But right now she desperately needed a soak.

  It was only when Zelda opened the bathroom door and saw the gaping hole where the bathtub used to be she remembered the remodel was in process right now. Dan had installed a brand new, streamlined toilet yesterday and ripped out the bathtub. She sagged in disappointment. Suddenly nothing seemed more important than being able to take a hot bath.

  Downstairs, she pulled on her jacket again and left the house. An old tin tub hung in the shed at the bottom of the garden. Zelda wrestled it from its hook and dragged it into the kitchen, grunting a little with the effort. Using a handful of paper towels, she wiped it clean and removed a long dead spider.

  She placed the tub on the kitchen floor, between the sink and the kitchen table, and filled it with six buckets of piping hot tap water. Then she stripped, before remembering towels and trotting upstairs in the buff for the largest, softest bath towel she could find and a bottle of orange blossom bubble bath.

  She stepped into the steamy, scented water with a sigh, smiling at her ingenuity as the hot bubbles lapped over her naked body. It was utter bliss. The clock on the wall told her it was just four-thirty. According to his note, Dan wouldn’t be home for another hour.

  Zelda closed her eyes and considered her upcoming date with Mark Shawcross. It would be very nice. He was very nice. A bit like a younger Hugh Grant, actually—posh, charming, self-deprecating, with a slightly helpless, boyish air.

  She’d wear her black leggings, newer black boots, and long green top plus dangly earrings and scoop her hair up. It would be great. Relaxing in the bubbles, she sighed once more in contentment. The kitchen was beginning to smell deliciously of the casserole baking in the oven. Dan liked her casseroles. But she wasn’t going to think of him now. She would think of Mark instead. The surprised, slightly dazed look of appreciation in his eyes when he looked at her. The shy way about him, which was actually kind of adorable. His blue eyes...

  She sank deeply into the bubbles, lost in thought, and didn’t hear the door click open. But at the incoming rush of cold air her eyes opened wide in shock.

  Dan stared, his gaze sweeping the length of her body. Everything seemed to go very still. The usually sedate tick-tocks of the clock on the wall were suddenly cracks of sound, competing with her thudding heart and the sounds of her breath, huffing in and out of her body. She couldn’t move.

  Her eyes met Dan’s, and she saw in them the reflection of her own need and desire. Zelda didn’t know how much the bubbles were covering, and she didn’t care. She sat up as Dan took a step toward her, his expression hungry as he looked at her breasts. She reached for him, a little moan emerging.

  And then he stopped, as if some spell had been shattered. He grabbed the towel from the kitchen table and thrust it at her.

  For a moment, she was frozen with incomprehension, until it dawned upon her he wanted her to cover herself. She took the towel. The stinging, humiliating agony of his rejection seared through her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said croakily. “I had no idea…”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she whispered, soaking the towel as she pressed it against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting you home so early.”

  Their eyes met again briefly, and then Dan looked away before practically bolting from the kitchen.

  Zelda groaned softly.

  “Beam me up, Scotty,” she whispered. Tears sprang into her eyes.

  Choking back a sob, she clambered from the bathtub and rubbed herself dry, then pulled on her robe and glanced around the silent kitchen. She’d come to love this place, right down to the squeaky floorboards and mildew stains. But at that moment, all she wanted was to leave and never come back.

  Chapter Seven

  Dan hurried into his bedroom and shut the door. Sinking heavily onto the bed, he closed his eyes and released a deep sigh. The past few weeks had been difficult, but the days ahead were going to be sheer hell. For the rest of his life he would have an image of Zelda stuck in his head, her generous breasts bobbing on the surface of a bathtub full of scented bubbles.

  Why did she have to go and sit up?

  He’d seen her, in all her ripe, bouncy, feminine glory. God, she was the most luscious thing he’d ever seen in his life.

  Stifling a groan, he reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn’t, shouldn’t, get involved with Zelda Marshall. One, she was first and foremost his friend. Romance and sex would likely ruin their friendship. Two, he just wasn’t ready for a new relationship. He was raw and gutted from losing Faith, and if he tried to pretend otherwise Zelda would end up getting hurt. And he never, ever wanted to hurt little Zelda Marshall. Three, it would be wildly impractical. The woman he’d just walked in on naked in the bathtub had a life, family, and career in the States while he was based in England, although he’d been basically blowing around like a leaf in the wind for the past year. And four—he scrambled to his feet as a floorboard creaked outside the door, putting an abrupt halt to his thoughts. There was a short silence followed by a tentative knock.

  “Yes?” His voice was raspy.

  Zelda pushed open the door, standing there like a child who’d just done something wrong, not quite daring to look at him. At least she was dressed now, in jeans and a dark blue sweater. Her black curls cascaded around her narrow shoulders. He wondered how it would feel to twine one of those curls around his finger, to tease and play with her wild hair.

  Swallowing visibly, she looked right at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” He cleared his throat.

  “Your note said you wouldn’t be back until five-thirty.”

  “I got through with everything early.”

  She nodded, and stared down at her bare toes. “So are things going to be unbearably awkward between us now? Should I just leave?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Dan, I feel like such an idiot,” she whispered. “I misread the situation, and I—I thought...”

  “Look, it’s fine.” He cut her off quickly, remembering the way she’d looked at him, the lust in her expression. Anything could have happened in the moment, but he’d handed her a towel and walked out. Now, he struggled to remind himself he’d done the right thing. They could be in bed right now, making love.

  “Zelda,” he began awkwardly. “You and me… “

  “We’re friends, right?” she finished for him. “And that’s all we’ll ever be.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Yeah,” Dan said.

  He was doing the right, sensible thing. So why didn’t he feel any sense of satisfaction? Was it because he hadn’t had sex with a woman in a long, long time? But it wasn’t just his body screaming at him to go to her, to pull her into his arms—he wanted to kiss her tenderly, to tell her she was the sweetest girl he’d ever known, to promise he’d never hurt her in a million years. And that was plain crazy.

  “I should probably tell you I’m dating someone,” she said.

  “What?” He blinked in surprise.

  “Come and have something to eat, and I’ll tell you all about it.” She headed down the stairs
.

  He followed, a thousand questions running through his mind. The kitchen smelled fantastic, as it always did when Zelda cooked. A large earthenware pot on the table was filled with some sort of fragrant casserole, and there was a salad and a platter of crusty bread rolls.

  Just about everything in the kitchen was worn and old. He doubted if the walls had seen a lick of paint in forty years. But somehow Zelda had made that not matter. Green apples nestled in a bowl, and a spider plant sat on the windowsill alongside an old cookbook. A vintage flowered plate was displayed on the shelf by the sink, and she’d scrubbed the wooden table until it glowed.

  Every room was kissed with her magic. She’d tossed a bright red throw over the couch, placed a candle on the coffee table, and washed the curtains. The little touches made a huge difference, and transformed the crumbling, neglected cottage into a home.

  “Everything smells great.” He took a seat, managing to keep his questions to himself while she served him. What right did he have to question her anyway?

  Zelda sat opposite him and placed a napkin on her lap, smiling to acknowledge his words. “I added a little extra wine to the beef,” she said. “Usually I just put in a cupful, but…”

  “So who are you dating?” he asked. If she started going on about cooking she might babble on right through the meal.

  “His name is Mark. He runs the library in town.”

  “And what do you know about him exactly?” Dan heard the bossy tone of his voice and didn’t like it but couldn’t ignore the way he felt. Already he didn’t care for this Mark guy.

  Zelda raised her eyebrows. “Just that he’s very nice, and he wants to take me to dinner.”

  “And you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you don’t know the first thing about him.”

  “That’s why I’m having dinner with him,” she said reasonably.

  He subsided, knowing he should let the matter drop. Zelda’s love life was none of his business, especially after he’d just informed her they could never be anything more than friends. Frowning, he realized the conversation had caused his appetite to flee. He didn’t even want another bread roll, and they were the flaky, buttery kind he normally couldn’t get enough of.