Rose

by Elle Casey

  The more I spin my spaghetti and crunch into my garlic bread, the more curious I become about why he’s here at the farm. He’s talking normally, adding to the conversation once in a while, but not completely here. I mean, he’s physically here, okay . . . yes . . . I see him sitting there across the table from me, but he’s not here here.

  There’s something about Greg that always seems . . . removed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen all there is to see of Lister. Heck, I don’t know that any of these people at the table have. He’s a lawyer for the band, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any other clients, but it’s not like he lives here with them. It’s not like anybody would want him to live here either. I get the impression that they respect him for the work he does, but he’s not exactly anybody’s friend. So why is he at the farm now? Why didn’t he go home this afternoon?

  The conversation turns to my work and then to Banana. I smile and nod at everyone sharing their good wishes for his recuperation and recovery. “He’s going to be fine,” I say, taking another piece of garlic bread. I don’t really want to talk about it. It was hard leaving him to come back to the house.

  “Where’s your dog?” Amber asks. I look up and see that she’s talking to Greg.

  “She’s with a friend.”

  “A girlfriend?” Amber asks, her eyes twinkling. Apparently, she’s over her morning sickness issue, happily eating plain pasta from a big bowl.

  I’m tempted to mention the name I heard earlier today: Veronica. A flash of something hits me out of nowhere, just thinking her name. I quickly realize what it is. Jealousy? Really?

  Whoa. I definitely need to get out more, if I’m envying a man’s dog sitter. But seriously . . . how easy is that job? Sitting in a Manhattan high-rise watching a Yorkie all day? I could do that in my sleep. I snort just thinking about it and then try to hide the sound by coughing. Mooch, the man sitting next to me, pats me on the back until I calm down. He keeps up a nice, steady beat that almost sounds like the lead-in for a song. It must be all those years of banging on drums that makes him do this like it’s second nature.

  Greg is in the middle of eating a forkful of spaghetti, but his chewing slows as he looks at Amber. He probably wonders if he heard her question right, but he should know my sister pretty well by now. Amber being the PR manager and band manager of Red Hot means that she and Greg are in each other’s business every day, with contracts and other paperwork to deal with. Surely he must realize that she’s as nosy as a person can be, and she doesn’t bother to hide it.

  “No, she’s not a girlfriend,” he says. He sounds . . . cautious. Or guilty. Or . . . I don’t know. It’s weird how he sounds. He looks at me again for a few seconds before dropping his gaze to his food.

  Amber looks at Emerald and they both nod together. “She’s a girlfriend,” Amber says, going back to her noodles.

  “She’s not a girlfriend,” Greg says, glancing at me again.

  I look away. What do I care whether some girlfriend named Veronica is watching his dog?

  “I know that tone in your voice,” Amber says, smiling. “Maybe she’s not your actual girlfriend, but you’ve got the hots for her.”

  Greg stabs at his pasta over and over again, as if he’s trying to force the noodles up onto the fork through sheer determination, but it isn’t working; they keep falling off. “I don’t have the hots for her. You’re wrong.”

  “Yeah.” She snorts, under her breath. “I’m wrong like the day ain’t long.”

  I find myself oddly entertained by my sister’s teasing of this man. No one else seems to be paying them much attention. The conversation moves on to a song the band was working on today, and it distracts Amber from her pursuit.

  I feel Greg’s eyes on me again and look up.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says.

  I look to my left and right. My sisters are talking about the song now, completely oblivious to the fact that Greg feels the need to convince someone—anyone who will listen, apparently—that Veronica is not his girlfriend.

  “If you say so.” I shrug, feeling supremely confused. And something else too . . . I feel . . . happy. On a whim, I wink at Greg . . . And then I feel my entire body flush when he looks down at his spaghetti and smiles.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When it’s time to go back to the clinic, I expect my sisters to accompany me, because they never miss an opportunity to gossip—and surely Greg has given them enough reason to speculate about his personal life with his adamant denial of having a girlfriend named Veronica—but both of them beg off, claiming they’re too tired. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me to go to the clinic alone after dark, but this time I have a lot to carry, and more hands would make lighter work. I’m staring at the pile of things on the porch that I plan to bring with me, wondering if I can carry all of it by myself in one trip, when a man’s voice startles me.

  “Need a hand?” Greg asks. He is standing behind me, looking through the screen door.

  I contemplate his offer. Saying yes means more potentially awkward moments between us, but saying no means more work for me, and I’m thoroughly exhausted. “Sure. I have to warn you, though . . . It’s a bit of a walk.”

  “We could drive.”

  I smile at his city-boy solution. “No, it’s not far enough to drive.” Sure, it would be easier to take the truck, but my mothers have always emphasized the need to keep our environment as clean as possible, and using a vehicle to go less than a mile up the road feels really wasteful to me.

  He doesn’t respond except to come outside and pick up the cot in its bag, settling the strap over his shoulder. After he fills his arms with a blanket and a pillow, he gestures with the pile toward the stairs. “Lead the way.”

  “You want me to take one of those things?” I ask, feeling guilty that the only item I’m holding is my overnight bag.

  “No, that’s all right. This can be my workout today.” He flashes me a charming smile.

  I guess that solves the mystery of how he stays so fit. I can totally picture him in shorts and no shirt, pumping iron, his chest muscles bulging, sweat dripping down his abs . . .

  “What does that look mean?” he asks as he descends the stairs. He glances up at me once he reaches the bottom, waiting for my answer.

  Great. He caught me fantasizing about him being half-naked and sweaty. “What look?” I ask innocently, following him down the steps.

  “The one you just gave me. When I said this would be my workout.”

  My efforts to play stupid are not going to fly, so I decide to go the other direction. “Well, to be honest, I was wondering earlier today how you stay in shape when you work in an office all day, and now I have my answer. You work out. That’s what I was thinking.”

  Our shoes crunch over the gravel as we move down the drive and my face slowly burns.

  “You don’t have to wonder things about me. You can just ask, you know.”

  I’m surprised to hear him say this, because he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be willing to answer personal questions. When my sister was teasing him about Veronica earlier, he sure didn’t act like he wanted her in his business. So is the problem the girlfriend issue, or is it Amber?

  Because it’s late and I’m too tired to convince myself it’s a bad idea, I decide to conduct a little test; we’ll see if he really means what he says. “So, the lady watching your dog, Veronica . . . ?”

  “Yep. That’s her name.”

  Wind blows into my jacket, but it doesn’t affect me. The conversation is too interesting for me to worry about the cold. “You said I could ask you questions if I’m curious, so . . . is she or isn’t she?”

  “Is she or isn’t she what?”

  I smile sadly and shake my head. He obviously wasn’t serious about his offer to divulge his personal information. And our walk was going to be so interesting, too! I actually would’ve had something to chat about with my sisters later besides animals, for a change. Amber would have curse
d the moon to know that I got the information from Greg that she wasn’t able to squeeze out of him at dinner. It’s so rare that I can get her goat like that, too. So disappointing . . .

  The conversation goes silent for about fifty yards before Greg speaks again. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “What question?” I’m totally lost.

  “You said, ‘Is she or isn’t she,’ but I don’t know what you’re asking, exactly.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” Aaaand now I know Greg Lister is into head games. But he is a lawyer, after all, so I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a little disappointing to find out how much of a lawyer he is, though. I was kind of hoping he was different from the kind that is currently suing me.

  He sighs. “Are you asking me the question your sister was asking me at dinner?”

  “Bingo.” I look over at him, waiting for his next move. He said all I had to do was ask, so now he either has to follow through on that statement or admit he didn’t mean what he said.

  “Veronica is not my girlfriend.”

  Amber and Em are pretty good at reading people, and they saw something in his eyes when he talked about this woman that I didn’t. Something that led them to believe she was somebody special. The nosy part of me wants to know more, more, more. I really should just let it go, though . . .

  “What is she to you?” I ask. “Is she just a dog sitter, or something else?” This is none of my business, but does that stop me from hanging on to every second that ticks by as I wait for his response? Uh, no. Not at all. I think my intense reaction is the result of not getting off the farm more often. I really should get out more.

  “You and your sister sure ask a lot of personal questions.”

  I feel deflated at his response. For a moment, I was thinking that he was going to open up and that we were going to share a connection more personal than I’d normally have with the people who visit the farm. But now I know we aren’t, and I’m disappointed enough that I no longer really care what his answer is. I shrug. “You told me all I had to do was ask. I guess I shouldn’t have, though. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t say that,” he says, sounding sad.

  “It’s all right. Having a stranger ask a bunch of personal questions isn’t very comfortable; I realize that. I was just testing you, anyway. You don’t have to answer.”

  “Testing me?” He looks over at me. “Did I pass?”

  I catch his eye for a moment before I go back to looking at the ground in front of us. “What do you think?” Strangely, I feel like crying. This is the worst case of sleep deprivation I’ve ever suffered.

  “I think I probably failed.”

  He sounds disappointed in himself, which is completely silly. We’re not even friends. We’re just . . . acquaintances . . . brought together by shared circumstances. He works for the men who are enamored of my mothers—for now at least—and that’s it. There is no other connection between us, and there never will be, especially since I’m not taking that money from the band.

  I need to do my best to get along with him and not expect anything in return, so I try to think of something that will lighten the mood. “Well, you get an A for effort, anyway. You had good intentions.” I think he really wanted to be able to answer my questions; he just wasn’t prepared for how intimate they would be. My sisters and I never did learn to follow the socially accepted rules of personal space and privacy. It’s not really in the hippie credo.

  A minute or so later he speaks. “You’re similar to your sister, but not as much like her as I expected you would be.”

  “Which sister?”

  “Amber.”

  “Amber and I have some similarities, it’s true. We’ve lived together all our lives, so that’s not a surprise, is it?”

  “No, it’s not a surprise, but I’d say you’re more different than you are alike.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not.”

  He doesn’t answer. I don’t think small talk is Greg’s forte. He seems uncomfortable but at the same time like he’s making an effort to be friendly. Maybe this is his apology for not answering my questions.

  I’m not going to give him a hard time about how awkwardly this conversation is rolling out. Some people are less gregarious than others—like my sister Em, for example—but it doesn’t make them less interesting. The old adage ‘Still waters run deep’ could be true when it comes to Greg, like it is for my sister. I definitely get the impression that there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. And what meets the eye is pretty darn nice. Too bad he’s not staying around so I can find out whether the adage is right where he’s concerned.

  “Whup, watch out,” he says, jumping toward me.

  My skin prickles with sensation as he moves sideways around a pothole and his arm brushes up against mine. His close physical presence takes over my mind, making it race with thoughts of intimacy, touching, and yes, sex. Before tonight, he was just the band’s highly paid, big-city attorney—their messenger in a suit that fit nicely enough that I paid attention. Now I see him as a man—a really attractive one—who’s struggling to carry on a conversation with me and pretending he had to jump next to me to avoid a little hole in the ground. It makes him just a little bit adorable in my eyes, imagining how capable he must be in the business world but how not-so-capable he is out here on the farm. Is he trying to flirt with me? It’s impossible for me to tell, and I find that I like that about him.

  “Amber is definitely more determined,” he says, obviously not feeling the same angst I am about our proximity.

  I move to the right a little, to put some distance between us. It makes it easier to think. “Determined? I can be pretty determined.” I’m feeling inadequate at his description, as if he’s comparing Amber to me and I’m coming up short in his eyes.

  “No, that didn’t come out right. I mean, she’s more . . .” He glances at me, concern shading his expression.

  “Pushy?” I suggest, trying not to laugh. Both Em and I have accused her of being too bossy on many occasions. She started in the womb, determined to come out first and be the oldest of the three of us, even though my mother’s due date was before Barbara’s.

  I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “You said it, not me.”

  “She’s been determined since she was little. She was always the boss of our childhood games.”

  “Do you think her being first in the birth order has anything to do with that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. She’s not older by a lot.”

  “No, she’s not,” he agrees.

  “Oh, that’s right. You know all our birthdays, don’t you?” I say this with a touch of bitterness. The day he showed up at our house for the first time, bringing news of legal settlements, he recited all of our birthdays to prove that he knew who we were. I will never forget that day—the day everything started to change. For the worse or better, I’m still not sure. Amber’s permanent address is in Manhattan now, and both she and Em are up to their eyeballs in new relationships with rock ’n’ roll stars and their pregnancy side effects. It’s been a heck of a whirlwind these past several months, and even just standing on the periphery of it can be overwhelming sometimes.

  “Yep,” he says.

  More time passes with just the sound of wind in the trees before he speaks again. “So . . . Amber is the determined, business-savvy one, and Emerald is the shy, creative one . . . What about you? How would you describe yourself?”

  I can’t answer him right away. Never having thought about myself or my sisters like that, I have to ruminate on it for a bit first. The only label that pops into my head, though, is one I don’t want to say out loud: Rose Lancaster, The Boring One Who’s More Comfortable With Animals Than People.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I don’t really have a label for myself.” I look over at him, barely making out his features in the starlight. “What do you think?” I could be asking for a compliment, but so what? I
t’s dark out and he can’t see my burning-red face. Besides, he’ll be gone tomorrow.

  “I don’t think I know you well enough yet to make that call.”

  It’s the ‘yet’ that gets me. Does that mean he wants to spend more time with me? “Well, you have about another ten minutes to figure me out,” I say, smiling at him.

  “Ten minutes?”

  “Yeah. That’s how long it’ll take us to get to the clinic from here. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “You came out here to ask me about that money again, for whatever reason, and you don’t have any other pressing business with the band right now, so why would you stay?”

  “Who says I came out here just to ask about the settlements?”

  “Because that’s the only business-related thing I’ve seen you do while you’ve been here.”

  “Yes, but you’ve been at the clinic almost the entire time.”

  “True, but my sources haven’t reported any other business being conducted in my absence.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, your sources.”

  I try to remain serious. “Yes. They’re very well placed.”

  “I’ll bet they are.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. It’s not far, and soon I’m opening the door of the clinic to the sound of Banana whining.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I drop my overnight bag on the floor in the entrance after I turn on the lights, going right over and taking the baby fence from around Banana’s sleeping area so I can kneel at his side. He obviously tried to move while I was gone, and he’s made a mess.

  “Is he okay?” Greg asks, setting the cot down, along with the pillow and blanket, before walking over to join us.

  “Yes, but I need to clean him up. I also need to get him standing just a little bit.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “For right now, nothing. But when I’m ready to get him up, I might need your muscles.”

  “You’ve got it.”