Reaching for his cup of coffee again, he avoided their glances. Feeling both guilt and relief mingling in his veins as he forced himself the finish his latte.
*****
“I can’t understand you.” Grady could hear the exasperation in his mother’s voice. “She was a lovely girl. And extremely practical...”
“I know, Mom, I know,” he said. “It’s just ... all we had was coffee. And a couple of outings, none of which were anything special. She was too busy working.”
“Working,” his mother retorted. “Speaking of which, I had lunch with your boss’s mother-in-law this week, who told me that one of her son’s employees committed the major business faux pas of forgetting lunch with his clients. Please tell me–”
“It was an accident, Mom,” he answered. “I corrected it, don’t worry. I was busy being a Good Samaritan that afternoon, that’s all.” Avoiding mentioning the exact nature of his absence.
At work, he forced his mind to bend itself to client portfolios, to stocks and bonds and Wall Street statistics. He spent over an hour on the phone with Mr. Henson, who still sounded relatively clueless on the subject of his company’s future investments.
“Are you sure commodities aren’t the way to go?” Henson asked. “I felt so sure, the long-term forecast for the investment was so appealing ...”
“It’s not, Mr. Henson,” Grady answered. “Trust me.” Feeling a little bit of guilt to direct someone away from their gut, even as the temptation to follow his own was growing.
“Technology then?” Henson asked, resigned.
“Technology,” said Grady.
*****
“What’s that smell?” Grady was addressing an unseen subject as he entered the house. The aroma of an exotic sauce reached his nose, wafting from the direction of the kitchen.
Was his mother hosting a dinner? Something catered? He racked his brain for a forgotten warning to skip the family dinner and spend the evening at his apartment.
The kitchen door was open, his mother visible at the stove. Humming to herself as she stirred something in a pot on the burner, one of her rattiest kitchen aprons covering her muslin suit from a charity luncheon.
“Something new?” asked Grady. She turned towards him, smiling.
“Yes, actually. A chicken recipe I found in one of your grandmother’s old cookbooks.” She turned to the pot again. “I decided to try that new herb you brought me. The lemon whatever-it-is from the herb girl you mentioned.” She tasted something on the tip of her spoon, closing her eyes momentarily.
“And what did you think?” Grady’s voice was soft as he leaned in the doorway.
She opened her eyes. “It’s good.” Glancing over her shoulder, she gazed at him curiously.
“Are you all right?” Sounding concerned as he stood there in silence, a funny smile on his face.
“Yeah,” he answered, stirring himself. “Yes, I’m glad you like it. The herb girl– Rosemary–said you would. She said cooks loved it.”
“Rosemary,” his mother repeated. “A nice name. I like it.” She sprinkled a few more leaves into the sauce. “You should name your daughter Rosemary. A good name for a granddaughter, don’t you think?” Opening the oven door, she tested the chicken breasts inside.
“Yes, I do think,” he answered.
The next morning, he parked in front of Wiley’s Wheels again. Drawing the keys from the ignition, he steeled himself for another visit with the cranky shop owner inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Wiley,” he said, as the shop bell jangled.
The man looked up from his paper. “You again,” he grunted. “What did you run over this time? A child’s scooter? A European motorbike?”
“Actually, I was hoping to buy a basket. A nice one, preferably vintage–that would fit a girl’s Schwinn bicycle?” Hinting as he stood there, hands in his pockets.
Wiley grunted again. “I have one like that,” he said. Glancing around at the shelves of bicycle supplies, he drew a white wicker basket from one and placed it on the counter.
“Can you wrap it as a gift?” asked Grady. “With a card,” he added. “That says, ’to Rosemary, please have dinner with me at the Grecian Villa tonight at six o’ clock.’ I’ll sign it at the bottom.”
He glanced at Wiley, catching a glimpse of approval in the old man’s eyes.
“Good,” he answered. “Very good.” He tucked the basket into a box with tissue paper, then wrote something on a plain white card. “Sign here.”
Grady scribbled his signature below. “Thank you,” he said. “Can you send it right away?” Crossing his fingers that the answer was yes.
The man grunted. “Do I look like a deliveryman?” he asked. “It goes out in two hours. Be happy with that or else.” He tied a bow around the package and shoved it beneath the counter.
A faint smile crossed Grady’s lips as he suppressed a laugh. “All right,” he said. “Thanks again.” Escaping from the shop before he could receive another scolding from its owner.
Would she be impressed? Would she say yes? In two hours, the clock would begin ticking down the minutes until her response. He whistled a tune under his breath, something from his mother’s big band records as he unlocked his car door.
*****
At the restaurant table, Grady played with the centerpiece rose, an unfurling bud in a vase. Every time someone appeared between the doorway’s pillars, he glanced up with hope. Each time, the maitre de escorted a different couple down the marble steps to a table below.
The Grecian Villa was more impressive than its name implied, almost a Greek temple in comparison to the simple vineyards in the Greek countryside. In retrospect, he felt it was a poor fit for the tastes he observed in Rosemary’s cottage–but wasn’t this about trying new things, merging two worlds?
He took a sip of water and glanced around at his fellow diners. A violin throbbed as a roving performer moved among the tables; a lonely, aching sound amidst hushed dining room tones.
As he turned towards the doorway again, he saw her standing there. In a flame-red dress and wrap, the skirt slit at the bottom in a series of free-moving panels that flowed as she followed the maitre de down the steps. Her hair accented with a red silk rose tucked to one side.
For a moment, Grady struggled to find words. When they came, they sounded like babbling to his ears as he drew out her chair and communicated with the waiter who approached with menus and the wine list.
“Rosemary,” he said. “It’s–you look–I mean...Wow.” He stopped speaking as a faint flush appeared on her face.
“Thanks,” she answered. “I haven’t worn this dress in awhile. Not exactly gardening attire.”
He sat down across from her again, watching her peruse the menu. Light filtered through the glass ceiling between columns and tinted her hair with the sunset’s rays.
“Appetizer?” he asked. Flipping open the menu and scanning it for something he thought she would like. Artichoke hearts? Asparagus with hollandaise dipping sauce?
“Sure,” she answered. Folding her menu closed, she gazed at the restaurant patrons around them, the impressive columns and marblesque statues surrounding the restaurant’s central fountain.
“I’ve never been here before,” she said. “I don’t eat in restaurants often. Cafes, diners, yes; fine dining, no. But it’s beautiful.” She smiled at Grady.
“My dad described a place like this in one of his letters,” she said. “He traveled the world for awhile and used to write to his mother and sister from every country he visited.”
“A traveler,” repeated Grady. “He had a lot in common with my great-uncle -- who wished he could travel the world, so he did in his mind. Bought postcards from all the locations he wanted to see, but couldn’t after he married. Thus, solving the urge to travel.”
“Is this the uncle with the promise?” she asked, leaning forward so her head rested on her hands.
He laughed. “The one and the same,” he answered. “Uncle Edwin wa
s quite a character. Eccentric, as the rest of the family would put it.”
“What about you?” Rosemary asked.
He paused. “When I was a kid; yeah, I would’ve agreed with that statement. Even a couple of years ago, I still thought he was crazy. But lately–” he paused, voice softening beneath her gaze, “–lately, I’ve had a change of heart.”
The violinist moved closer. Both of Rosemary’s hands rested on the table now, mere inches from his own. A slow movement could become a soft touch in a matter of seconds, something he found himself contemplating.
“What about you?” he asked. “Has anything changed for you, lately? Or are you still the same person as always?” He tried to sound nonchalant as he spoke, keeping the question lighthearted. In his imaginings, Rosemary was a free spirit, requiring no change in her state of perfection. Except for having her heart fall for him, that is.”
“I know what you’re trying to say,” Rosemary answered. “I know what you mean. As for my heart...it’s free. But when it comes to you, I’m not sure if it’ll stay that way for long.”
Swallowing hard, he raised his eyes to meet hers, emotions stirring in the depths of those dark pools.
“So you’re saying that there’s a chance–” he began. The sound of a full brass band interrupted, his cell phone’s ring tone springing to life and encouraging glares from other diners.
“Excuse me,” he said. Struggling to pull it from his pocket, he escaped from the table to a quiet alcove near the restaurant’s bar.
“Hillerman here,” he said, snapping open the cell phone. The sound of Sturman’s voice barked on the other end.
“I read over your proposal and we’re ready to make a formal presentation to Henson and his board,” said Sturman. “I presume it’s not too much to ask that you be present for the conference call in the morning?” A mocking hint in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Grady answered, drawing a deep breath. His glance roved from the bar, to his table with Rosemary. He saw a figure standing beside it, chatting with her. Someone from work–he recognized them vaguely as they turned towards him, nodding in his direction.
“Hillerman? Are you listening?” His boss’s voice snapped him back to attention.
“Yes, sir,” he repeated. “I’ll be there bright and early.” A half smile forming on his face after he imagined coming into work with this evening fresh on his mind. The glow of her hair in the sunset, the sea of freckles in contrast to the flow of scarlet fabric.
Turning towards their table, he saw Rosemary scrambling to her feet with her shawl and handbag, pushing past his coworker en route to the door. Grady snapped his cell phone shut without listening to the rest of Sturman’s scoldings.
“Where is she going?” He pushed his way through the dining room to the table, where his friend gave him a quizzical glance.
“Who was she?” he asked. “I thought you were seeing Emily Clausen–or have you moved on already?” He gave Grady a knowing wink.
“You told her about Emily?” Grady groaned. He hurried after the sight of Rosemary’s skirts disappearing up the steps towards the restaurant’s exit.
“Rosemary! Wait!” He hurried into the open foyer, where Rosemary’s red high heels had already carried her halfway across the stone plaza towards the taxi zone. Glancing over her shoulder, her look conveyed bitter disappointment before she climbed inside a waiting cab.
By the time he reached the curb, the car had pulled into the driveway, circling towards the road. He dropped his pace from a run to a trot, his body tilting forward as he gasped for breath. His eyes followed the cab as it disappeared from view, as if willing it to turn around again.
*****
When the love of Edwin McGale’s life said no to his proposal, the young man refused to admit defeat. Heartbroken, he turned his eyes towards the last remaining obstacle between them, quitting his job, hopping on a train for Montana and forsaking future wealth and fame for a woman’s smile.
This was Grady’s train of thought as his car wound its way up the driveway to Rosemary’s cottage. He had tried to phone her for hours, pacing the floor in his apartment as he tried to think of what to say.
Rosemary, it wasn’t true. Well, at least, it was only partly true. We weren’t dating, Rosemary. We were just friends, just ... coffee pals. Whatever–it wasn’t a real relationship!
Define real. With a groan, he thought about the dinner at his mother’s house, the marketplace stroll with Emily and her grandmother’s shopping list. With nothing more romantic on his sort-of date’s mind than retirement funds and weekend homes.
He gave up after nine, his desperation compounding with each hour. What would Uncle Edwin do in this scenario? He knew what the rest of his family would do. A dozen roses from the local florist, a polite apology on a card, a patient evening spent waiting for the phone as they reviewed office paperwork.
Grabbing his keys and coat, he left his apartment, taking the stairs to the parking garage two at a time.
Now, five minutes from her cottage, he was beginning to realize the insanity of this decision. What if she had gone to a friend’s house for sympathy? What if she decided to have dinner at a restaurant alone? What if she met up with a successful, handsome herb connoisseur with a free evening and a private jet as his disposal?
Grady pulled up outside her cottage, shutting off the ignition. The windows were dark again, at ten-fifteen, making it likely that she was either gone or asleep. Climbing out of the car, he hurried to the door and rapped sharply against the peeling, painted surface. Again, this time with more force behind the knock, as if extra noise would magically compel her to obey.
After several tries, there was still no answer. His shoulders slumped as he rested his forehead against the door and pictured the restaurant scene again. Probably his last glimpse of Rosemary would be the girl hurrying away in the sunset courtyard, hailing a cab to carry her out of his world forever.
Nope, not yet. Gritting his teeth, glanced around for an alternative plan. The bench beside the door wouldn’t afford him enough height to reach her upstairs window. But the greenhouse would.
Impulsively, he grabbed the drain pipe along one side of the greenhouse, his feet scrambling against the side until he found traction against a pile of pots. Clutching at vines on the roof, he swung himself upwards, careful to keep his weight on the metal between the panes.
Easing himself slowly forward, he inched along in a tightrope walk towards the house window. Hands apart, trying to balance himself against a fall that would plant him face first in the gravel driveway below.
His fingers touched the windowsill, stretching to hold onto it as he slid closer, raising his fist for the knock. Beneath his stable hand, the ivy vines slid free like a cord of Christmas lights pulling away from a house. He grappled frantically, seized a branch of thorny wild roses that inspired a yelp of pain as his feet slid towards the ground below. With a crash, he landed in a pile of plastic and terracotta pots piled beside the greenhouse.
There was the sound of footsteps pounding behind the cottage walls, just before the front door swung open. Barefoot, Rosemary pulled on her jacket as she ran across the driveway.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. With a groan, he rolled over and sat up.
“Rosemary, please listen,” he begged. “About Emily–it’s not what you think–”
“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she said. “Look at you– there’s broken pots all over my driveway –” she kicked one aside, “–you’re covered in dirt and bleeding. What on earth were you thinking–”
“That I could talk to you.” He tried to stagger to his feet, hand reaching for her arm. “I just want to explain what happened.”
If he could just hold onto her, just keep her from escaping. Then maybe everything would be all right.
She stared at him, shaking her head with disbelief. “That’s pathetic. After what happened tonight, Grady, I expected better from you. Good night.” With t
hat, she turned to go.
“Wait,” he called after her. Stumbling upright, brushing soil and dead leaves from his jacket. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes cold.
“I said, good night.” With that, she re-entered the cottage, the door slamming behind her.
Love had never been like this for Uncle Edwin. Of that, Grady was certain.
*****
“I’m worried about Grady.” His mother lowered her voice, huddling slightly closer to Seth as she spoke.
“He’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t start this again.” Seth was seated at the table, half the newspaper at his elbow while the other half served to entertain his father.
“He’s moping around here, acting distracted all the time. I think it’s a girl.”
“You always think it’s a girl,” Grady’s father remarked. “But he is a little blue these days...”
“Exactly! See what I mean about ...” She lowered her voice again, the last half of the statement spoken closer to her husband’s ear.
Grady couldn’t help but hear the first part, even after he closed the door to the den. They were always like this when it came to family feelings; talking about the changes, debating the potential problem, but never outright asking the individual what was the matter.
In a way, he was relieved. He didn’t want anyone to know the truth about what happened. Only a few days after they met a seemingly-perfect girl, they would find out he was mourning the loss of a total stranger whose name they had never heard mentioned.
If he could get her back before they found out, he would have a lot of explaining to do. Something that didn’t matter to Grady as he scribbled the last few lines on his letter.
Love Like Rosemary's Page 6