This wasn't quite the career in fine art she'd imagined, Rosie Sutton thought as she painted hearts with dollar signs in them all over the shop windows in Jester, Montana. But it paid the rent, allowed her to live in the town she'd fallen in love with on her last vacation with Steve, and placed her right in the middle of a warm and wonderful town at the very moment of its great good fortune. Twelve of Jester's merchants, who pitched in to play the lottery every week, had recently won forty million dollars.
There were reporters everywhere, television trucks, visitors from near and far, and thanks to Rosie painted hearts everywhere you turned. There was also an undercurrent of excitement, a magical disbelief, a grin on the face of everyone walking into the savings and loan, whose window she now worked on while standing on a kitchen stool. Since this was Jester's only savings institution and the place where all the winning locals would be banking, the manager had suggested one giant heart with dollar signs flowing into it. Whatever the notion lacked in subtlety it gained in humor and humor abounded in Jester.
"Good job, Rosie!" Shelly Dupree praised as she pulled open the door of the savings and loan. She was average in height, wore jeans and a gray sweater pulled on over a blue sweatshirt for the quick trip from her restaurant. She owned The Brimming Cup across the street, where news and gossip countywide was exchanged over breakfast and lunch. She was a warm and practical woman with short dark hair and lively hazel eyes, one of the first people Rosie had met when she'd moved here three months ago. Rosie had already covered the Cup's windows with heart-shaped steam coming out of a lineup of coffee cups. "Brisk morning, isn't it? How're your fingers holding up?"
Rosie flexed the red-smeared fingertips protruding from her fingerless gloves. Her shortish, slender body was bundled into an old brown parka she'd bought at the thrift shop in neighboring Pine Run when she realized she'd be working outdoors for several weeks in the middle of a Montana winter. Her long, dark blond hair was piled into a dark blue woolen watch cap that she'd pulled down over her ears. "Still working, but I can't feel them. Found a valentine for the dance yet?"
Shelly waved away that possibility with a mittened hand. "That's a good three weeks away." She grinned. "If I don't have a significant other by then, my winnings will have arrived and I can pay some handsome bon vivant to escort me. Shall I make sure he has a friend?"
A cloud settled on Rosie's sunny morning. The issue was complicated. Technically, she was married, but when a husband was gone by choice eight months out of the year, she felt that probably negated the contract. But Steve, the most respected foreign correspondent in the print media, had apparently not even returned to L.A. yet to realize that she was gone. She refused to acknowledge the pain that caused her. She hadn't expected him to track her down and reclaim her. Not when she was thinking clearly, anyway. Realizing Shelly still waited for an answer, she smiled and replied lightly, "No, thank you. The only man I'm interested in is Art."
Shelly laughed and disappeared inside the building. Rosie tried to revive her enthusiasm for painting hearts.
* * *
Several more customers came and went throughout the morning. Rosie was standing on tiptoe on a ladder, following a sudden inspiration to alternate hearts and dollar signs in a border across the top of the window, when a male voice asked right behind her, "How is it possible that a woman without a heart can paint so many of them so well?"
The question was followed instantly by the touch of a possessive hand to her backside. It pulled her sideways off the ladder and into Stephen Chancellor Sutton's arms. Those dark brown eyes that could spot a global crisis thousands of miles away but never seemed to notice what was happening in his own home were just inches from hers. There was a vertical frown line between them she didn't remember being there. As her left arm automatically hooked itself around his neck for stability, she stared into the planes and angles of her husband's very handsome face and realized grimly that she didn't hate him after all. She wouldn't mind if a piano fell on him, but she didn't hate him. That was a horrible truth to face after two months of convincing herself that she could face her life alone. But he didn't have to know that.
"Steve," she said with a smile she hoped looked unaffected by his sudden appearance, "what are you doing back in the States? I can't believe there are no more wars anywhere."
He raised an eyebrow, sharpening that frown line. "There's about to be one here," he replied.
When Steve had returned home to L.A. after months of traveling with the Special Forces through Afghanistan, Pakistan, then Yemen, yearning, burning, for an armful of his wife, he'd been disappointed to find that she was probably out shopping or off to the little Wilshire gallery that showed her work. Then he'd noticed that her favorite wicker chair was gone, that the hook where the Boston fern she babied usually hung now dangled emptily, and her entire half of the closet was empty. It felt as though a giant fist had come down and smacked him on top of the head. She'd left him! He'd been risking life and sanity to bring the world the important details of war and strife, and she'd left him?
"How could you just walk away like that?" he demanded.
"I drove," she corrected, kicking until he placed her on her feet. She made a production of wriggling herself back into order, tugging on the hem of her coat. "I'd pleaded with you not to go in the first place, then it was weeks before I heard anything from you, and that was a fax from your mother's office telling me she'd gotten a report from you out of Afghanistan and you hadn't been killed on the raid on that mountain as the entire news community had feared."
He was confused by her anger. "And you weren't happy to hear that?"
She looked at him as though he were simple. "Yes, I was, but for the three weeks before that, when I thought you were with the unit that disappeared and were found dead deep inside a cave I was..." She finally growled, apparently unable to describe in words what she'd felt.
He thought this was a good sign until she made a fist and smacked him in the chest with it.
"You will never make me feel like that again! You go to the farthest corners of the world and take the biggest chances because you have to prove to the whole world and to your own family that you're the world's best print reporter because you are and not because your parents own the newspaper chain. You were infected with that need to prove something when I married you, but I, in my innocence, thought, Well, surely the day will come when he feels he has something to prove to me, so I can be happy until the day comes when I'm as important to him as reporting the news." She got right into his face and shouted at full volume. "But that didn't happen! And after four years, I got tired of waiting."
Her voice cracked and she had to stop to clear her throat. He noticed in the time it took that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked a little soupy. She was still the beautiful woman who'd lived in his mind during all those awful months, but she looked a little piqued. He almost smiled at the realization that it hadn't reduced her volume at all, but he was sure that wouldn't be wise. And he wasn't quite ready to be amused with her anyway.
"You have your own stuff to prove," he accused. "Because your father wasn't interested enough in you to stick around, you intend to show the world that you don't need any man, even me. So you just pack your bags and go. Really adult behavior, Rosie."
"You can just turn around and go home," Rosie said, hurt feelings visible in her eyes, "because there's nothing..." She was making her point with the tip of a heart-red index finger when a Fed-Ex driver, trying to maneuver a cart through the door of the savings and loan, slipped on the snow and hit the side of the building instead.
A large block of snow from atop the overhead sign dislodged and fell squarely on Steve and Rosie. He swore. She screamed. When the snow settled, she gasped while hopping up and down and trying to reach a hand down her back.
He pulled off his glove, turned her around and reached his right hand into familiar territory. Her back was warm and silky and he caught a whiff of her fragrance from the moist interior of the sweater under her jacket. He faltered for a moment, dizzy with desire, then his thumb connected with the icy chunk of snow that had fallen inside her coat and moved quickly to sweep it up and out.
She seemed frozen to the spot, the look in her eyes completely confusing to him. She looked as though she wanted him desperately and hated him unconditionally. Confusion was bad news to a reporter.
He spotted the sign of The Brimming Cup across the street and caught her arm. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee," he said, starting to pull her toward the crosswalk.
She stopped stubbornly. "I want a divorce," she said firmly.
Steve took another look into Rosie's eyes and the ambivalence was still there. But he was suddenly tired of dealing with it. "No, you don't," he argued, pulling a little more forcefully toward the Cup. "Come on."
"What can I get you?" Shelly asked cheerfully as they settled into their seats.
Even though Rosie had let Steve bring her here to talk, she found it difficult to concentrate. For a woman who'd made the brave decision to leave a life that was less than she wanted for herself, who'd driven a thousand miles alone, started over alone, and had slept alone for all the months he'd been gone, she knew she should show more backbone than she was feeling right now. She should be filled with the resolve that had taken her this far.
But Steve Sutton had always been powerful stuff. The same sharp wit, coupled with the charm that showed even in his news reports, had been difficult to resist when she'd been twenty-two, and nothing had changed in the interim. In fact, she was even at more of a disadvantage now that she knew what it was like to live with his lively sense of humor, his delight in and curiosity for absolutely everything, and his ability to make love as though it was the ultimate moment and there would never be another chance.
Rosie felt as though she was going to implode. "Lemon chamomile tea, please," she said to Shelly. "And sourdough toast."
Steve frowned at her over his menu. "What? What happened to the usual triple shot mocha grande and a raspberry croissant to keep your blood sugar up?"
She sat up straighter and pulled herself together. He was gorgeous and sexy, but she was his last priority. She had to remember that. She smiled sweetly. "It's stabilized since I left you."
"Left you?" Shelly asked in surprise, looking from one to the other. Then realizing she was intruding into personal territory, she added quickly, "I'm sorry. I was...I mean, I didn't know you were...you had..." She waggled her pen from one to the other.
Steve offered Shelly his hand. "Steve Sutton," he said with a smile, shaking her hand, then giving her back the menu. "I'm Rosie's husband. She may have been acting as though she was single since she's been here, but she's not."
"Shelly Dupree," Shelly replied, clearly falling for his charm. "No, she hasn't acted single. She just never said she was married. And she did turn down my offer to get her a date for the Sweetheart Dance. Not that I really had one in mind. I mean, we were fantasizing about hiring an escort, and I offered..." At Rosie's frown and Steve's raised eyebrow, Shelly stopped midsentence. "Never mind," she said quickly. "What'll you have, Steve?"
He ordered coffee and a piece of coconut cream pie. As Shelly walked away, Rosie leaned across the table toward Steve and said firmly, "You should go, Steve. There's no point in staying. I'm not going back with you."
Shelly was already back with a cup, which she placed before him. He leaned back as she poured. "Actually, I'm here on business," he said when Shelly left again. "I'm covering the lottery story."
He didn't really think she was going to swallow that? "The print version of the great Walter Cronkite was sent to Jester, Montana, to cover a lottery win? I don't think so."
"The print version of the great Walter Cronkite gets to call the shots sometimes," he admitted with no evidence of shame. "I just got home from Yemen, and when I couldn't find you and nobody seemed to know where you were, I happened to spot your face in the background of a TV news story about Jester's merchants winning the lottery, and told my father I was coming to cover it."
"Isn't this going to put a big kink in your effort to prove your greatness? I mean, it's wonderful for Jester, but it's a pretty small story after all."
He looked her in the eye. "You never know what's inside a story until you delve. The simplest detail can turn into something big. You have to be willing to explore."
"I'll save you the effort." She sighed and settled into the corner of the booth, pulling off her coat and hat. She felt as though her temperature had gone up thirty degrees in the past fifteen minutes. It had to be the warm restaurant. "If your intention is to explore what's left of our relationship while filing a story on the lottery win, you'll come up empty. There's nothing left, Steve. We had a promising beginning, but you're more interested in proving you're the best than in proving that you care about us. And I'm tired of it. Spare us both a dramatic breakup and accept that it's over."
Rosie had serious hat hair, but somehow the tumbled, disheveled effect of all that autumn gold freed from her cap turned him on rather than put him off. It brought to mind lazy Sunday mornings in bed, midnight lovemaking followed by forays for food, wrestling for the remote, then forgetting why they wanted it in the passion that always ignited when their bodies touched.
He caught her hand as she played restlessly with her utensils. "What I feel for you will never be over. And you're lying through your teeth. Your eyes lit up when they first looked into mine across the street. You were glad to see me. Admit it."
She tried to yank her hand away, but he held fast. "Of course I was glad to see you," she whispered harshly. "I haven't seen you in four months, and for three weeks of that time, I thought you were dead! I'm happy you're safe. But I no longer love you. You put yourself first every time there's a choice, and I'm not going to live that way anymore."
Shelly arrived with their food. Steve freed Rosie's hand, because she looked as though she needed that tea. "I put the news first," he said reasonably, passing her the jam caddy for her toast. "Not myself. You're always first in my heart, Rosie, but I have to go where things are happening. You knew that when we got married. You said you'd use the time alone to do your art."
"Art has to be fed!" she retorted. "An artist needs emotion and experience. You're never around to provide either, Steve. We're working at cross-purposes here. I'm never going to get anywhere as an artist if I'm continually fearing your death. And I'm sure you're tired of my complaining about it."
"You're a brilliant artist," he disputed, "and I always thought our relationship was a masterpiece. I can't believe you'd just throw it away."
She sighed dispiritedly. For an instant he saw a glimpse of the old Rosie, who loved and understood him and found his work exciting. Then she shook her head as though certain that whatever she'd remembered in that moment couldn't be recaptured. "You'd have to spend some time in Jester to see how love really works. People are there for each other, do for each other, support each other. They don't just claim to care then take off."
He looked out the window at the hopping little town, remembering that he had been gone a lot, that much of his work was fueled by a desperate need to share what he knew. But now that he was forced to stop and think, he wondered if what he'd always thought of as a professional thirst for fact was in some part the prideful need to prove himself to his family and to the world in general.
His eyes rested on Rosie's half-painted heart on the window of the savings and loan across the street, and thought with wry amusement that it could be considered a metaphor for their marriage. Half brilliantly executed, half simply not there. He turned to Rosie, looking pale and cornered across the table, and knew he had to do something about that. And suddenly realized she'd unwittingly provided him with his next step.
"You know," he said genially, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "you're probably right about that."
She looked wary, suspicious, as she bit the point off a piece of toast. "About...the divorce?"
He liked the note of disappointment in her voice when she asked the question. "No," he denied quickly. "About my staying for a while." He nodded to reinforce his willingness. "It does seem like a nice little town." Then he added with an innocent smile, "Where do we live?"
Mercy! Rosie thought, staring at his smiling face. She was sure the innocence she saw there was false. Steve Sutton was too savvy to ever be innocent. What have I done?
"I've left you," she said firmly, striving for severity in voice and demeanor. It didn't seem to be affecting him. "You cannot move in with me."
He nodded as though he understood completely, then said, "I understand that it's not the ideal solution, but there's not a room to rent in this town. I tried when I arrived this morning. Jester is so full of reporters, photographers, and cameramen that they're sleeping in their cars." He grinned. "I got here from the airport in a rented subcompact. I'd have to fold myself in three to lie down."
She felt a range of emotions interest, fear, excitement, exasperation. He always seemed to know where she was vulnerable. He pushed while she was still unsure what to feel. "It was your suggestion," he said with that same questionable innocence. "If you're right and Jester is a lesson in love, how do you expect me to put what I observe into practice if we're not together? Wasn't that your complaint about me in the first place?"
She struggled against his logic. "I was speaking in general about love," she said, "not about you and me. It's too late for us, Steve."
The innocence in his expression vanished and she saw determination take its place. This was the man, after all, who got an interview with Fidel Castro when the Cuban dictator wasn't speaking to anyone. "This relationship has two of us involved," he said quietly. "You can't decide all by yourself that it's over. You ran away from me, you'll recall, and I followed you here. So, if you file for divorce, which one of us is going to look like the party who tried?" Then he added with a subtle suggestion of self-satisfaction, "Particularly if the judge is a news junkie and knows my work?"
He had her there. She hated his ability to manipulate a story. As she thought about it, she felt a little fire building in the center of her being. She fought against it, but it had started the moment he swooped her off the ladder and was rapidly building strength. She didn't want him to stay with her. But she didn't want him to go.
The tea was making her feel a little stronger, and she was suddenly, curiously nervy in a way she hadn't been for months. She could deal with this without reconciling. If anything, spending time with him would probably convince him as well as her that it was over and he'd stop making it so difficult for her to move on.
"You can stay with me while you research your story," she bargained. "There's only one bed, but you can use the sofa."
He nodded without looking triumphant or even particularly pleased. "Fair enough. I'll bet you haven't had anyone to rub your feet while I've been gone."
That was true. That was a perk of life with him that she'd missed. "No, I haven't."
"I'll repay your hospitality with a foot massage," he promised, "and maybe even a cranberry-white-chocolate cheesecake."
She smiled. "Cranberry-white-chocolate cheesecake," she thought longingly. For a man with adventure on his mind, he had a wonderful way with desserts. Just the thought of his cheesecake made her willing to take this risk.
But she had no doubts about it. She was making a terrible mistake.
* * *
Her home was a very small house located between the town hall and fire station. It was white with green shutters and a surprisingly big front porch considering the dimensions of the house. The paint was peeling, but there was a welcome sign on the front door decorated with a painted sunflower and cat. Steve couldn't explain why it seemed inviting unless it was that he knew she lived there.
The kitchen, with yellow daisies on the wallpaper, was immediately on their left, and had a small, round table in the window. The appliances were probably from the sixties yellow stove, olive green fridge. "No dishwasher?" he asked in surprise. She hated to do dishes.
She smiled wryly. "No. I eat on paper plates a lot. This is the living room."
It was probably no more than ten by ten with mismatched furniture and the wicker chair she'd bought at a flea market two years ago and painted Chinese red. A big, gray cat with a notch in one ear was curled into a tight bundle atop an ugly black woodstove that stood right in the middle of everything. His wide head came up when they approached. It had to be a male; he looked mean and world-weary. But when Rosie stroked his head, he purred loudly and pushed into her hand.
"This is Bill Matisse," she said, leaning down to rub her cheek against the cat. His purr rose in volume.
"Bill Matisse?" Steve asked, coming forward to stroke the cat. Steve bet he was a twenty-pounder.
"He came with the house," she explained. "The previous renter was moving into an apartment in Pine Run and couldn't take him. He'd named him Bill. But I talk over my paintings with him, so I thought he should have a last name appropriate to his position as art consultant."
"He seems happy with the situation," Steve noted.
She turned to him with a significant smile. "We both are." She led the way into a sort of parlor with beige walls and dark green curtains. Her paintings hung all over. Some he remembered from their condo; others must have been created here. Her style was a sort of Impressionist approach to landscapes, but painted in bright, primary colors. He recognized the rolling hills and angular bluffs of the area.
He'd always been proud of her ability and felt a strange disconnection at the knowledge that she'd created work he didn't even know about. And that she claimed to be happy with the situation. He looked into her eyes, trying to determine if that was really true. But all he could see there was that slightly bleary, red-nosed quality he'd noticed before.
"Are you all right?" he asked as she led the way upstairs. "You don't seem to have quite your old...sparkle."
She gave him a wry grin as she led him into the middle of a loftlike room that took up the entire second floor. "Is that you trying to win me back?"
He laughed lightly, then sobered and caught her chin in his hand to study her face. "It's me, concerned about you."
She caught his wrist to pull his hand away. He resisted and for an instant they were eye to eye, caught together in the voltage that always ran between them. She finally pulled away with a yank. "I've had a cold for weeks," she said, pointing to a bathroom in the far corner of the room. "And working outside hasn't helped me get over it in a hurry. But I'm fine. That's the only bathroom."
A wrought iron bed stood against one wall with a two-drawer file cabinet on one side of it for a bedside table. Her easel stood in the middle of the room with all her familiarly messy drawers and tables around it. Everything near the easel was spattered with drips and daubs of bright color, and a pottery jar stood tall with a bouquet of brushes. A window in the ceiling probably intended for thermal heat lent the room a Parisian-skylit- attic sort of quality.
On the easel was a half-finished painting he thought he recognized as downtown Jester. The neon sign of The Brimming Cup tipped him off. He went forward to study it.
"Something's wrong with it," she said, following him. She was in artist mode now, a state he never entirely understood. He was pragmatic, uncomplicated. "I'm not sure what it is, but I don't seem to be able to move ahead."
The underpainting was done and she'd painted a bright blue sky and the snow-topped bluff against it. She'd once explained to him that she always worked forward when painting started with what was most distant and came to the foreground. "How can you tell something's wrong if you haven't finished it?" he asked practically, moving around it to study it. "It looks fine to me."
She followed him as he moved, colliding with him when he stopped. He felt her breast against the back of his arm and he forced himself to remain still and withhold reaction while the air left his lungs. Now that he was here, he didn't want to do anything to panic her.
"I don't know," she said, apparently unaware of the tension. She was focused on the painting. "The process has to feel right, you know? I mean, painting's more than inspiration. Sometimes it's the tedious and mechanical re-creation of detail rather than the free expression of feeling you wish it was. But I always get lost in it." She sighed and looped her arm in his unconsciously. It was an old habit she'd probably fallen into because she'd always talked over her paintings with him, even when he had no clue what she was talking about. And he always loved listening to her. He had to fight himself not to take her in his arms. "Something's holding me away this time, and I can't figure out what it is. I love Jester. I thought it would just flow through my fingers." She tipped her head sideways as she studied the canvas with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe I've put something in it that isn't supposed to be there. Or left out something important."
He was considering the possibility of suggesting that what she'd left out was him, when she suddenly became aware that she'd taken his arm and even leaned into him as she contemplated her painting. She dropped it as though he were toxic and took several steps back. She glared at him as though it was all his fault. "I have to go," she said finally. "I don't cook, so you'll have to get something at the Cup."
"I do cook," he reminded her. "Dinner at 6:00."
"I work later than that," she argued.
"After dark?"
She met his challenge with a reluctant softening of her glower and a sigh as though she was very, very tired. "I'll see you at 6:00." And she hurried down the stairs and slammed the door on her way out.
He approached the painting, saw that she'd sketched in herself in the underpainting, working on the window of The Brimming Cup. She'd captured a charming moment of small-town life. He was going to spend his time here believing that what she didn't like about her painting was that she knew the woman painting the window was without the man she loved.
Rosie had never considered herself the kind of woman who could die of sexual deprivation. She'd never needed the amorous adventures most of her friends talked about in high school and college. She'd been convinced she was less of a sexual being than most of her peers until she met Steve Sutton at Queen of the Angels High School on career day five years ago.
He'd pep-talked her out of her terror of discussing her artist's life in front of a gymnasium filled with teenagers, then he'd taken her to dinner afterward. She'd sat across a table filled with all her favorite Chinese dishes and fallen in love while he talked about his life as a foreign correspondent. He had such a love of the world and its people that she'd been enraptured by his stories. And she'd wanted him. All of him. It was a curiously all-pervading greed that seemed to be more than lust. She wanted to rip his clothes off, but she wanted him to keep talking while she did it.
And now, over four years later, after a marriage's ups and downs and an attempt to separate herself from him, he was sharing her house with her and all she could think about was what it used to be like to make love with him. He had a way of holding her that made her feel as though a bubble enclosed them, separating them from the world. He touched her with a tenderness she so revered, yet with an unmistakable possession that both humbled her and made her walk taller. He looked into her eyes with adoration, and made her feel as though she alone occupied his world and they had an eternity to love each other in it.
But not anymore. Now, he occupied the sofa downstairs while she stared at the ceiling upstairs and wondered how they'd come to this sorry pass.
Still, she missed him with that same greed. It didn't make sense. Nothing had changed. But her body didn't seem to know that. It was embarrassing to admit that her nipples beaded when he was near, that her breath caught when he called her name, that she felt a warm liquidity at the heart of her femininity when he looked into her eyes.
Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice. He respected her unwillingness to eat breakfast, but met her for lunch at The Brimming Cup, brought her a cup of tea in the middle of the afternoon while she continued to work and had dinner ready when she came home. His repertoire was simple but delicious. He helped with laundry, with dishes, ran errands and fed the cat. And despite his earlier claims that their relationship wasn't over, that it had been a masterpiece, there was nothing romantic about his approach to her. He was warm, friendly, helpful and just a little distant. She didn't know what to make of it. And she was grumpy to find herself disappointed.
* * *
Steve was convinced he was going insane. Rosie's proximity after almost five months without her was fraying his libido and making mush of his brain. In a constant state of sexual arousal, he had to keep his emotional distance at least or he was going to take her right in front of the Heartbreaker Saloon, where she was now working. He decided he had to simply get control of himself, or risk losing her. And he hadn't followed her to Jester to go home without her.
In the interest of his story, and in the hope of scoring points with her, he immersed himself in Jester history and the busy society of newly rich merchants and their faithful if still-just-surviving friends. The winners were a motley lot including a barber, a hairdresser, a veterinarian, the owner of the saloon and Shelly Dupree, whom he got to see every day. He wanted to focus his story on her plans, since she'd inherited the restaurant from her parents and had been just getting along until the big win. But a few of the other reporters had the same idea and she was keeping all of them at bay, insisting that the other winners were more interesting.
They might be, but she was pretty and she worked hard, and the average reader loved a pretty underdog. There was the added bonus that interviewing her kept him close enough to Rosie that all he had to do was look out the Cup's window to see her. And many of the other winners wandered through the Cup's doors at one time or another, so it was a great place for his base of operations.
He noticed that a good-looking doctor seemed to find Shelly as interesting as Steve did. "They're living together," a blowsy blonde with a formidable bosom half-exposed in a green knit blouse told him when she helped herself to the other side of his booth. "They're using the excuse that there's no place else to stay in town. And somebody left her a baby."
He'd heard about that. Shelly had returned to the restaurant after a trip to the bank to deposit her winnings and found that someone had abandoned a baby.
"Yeah. In a carrier on the counter," the woman went on. "And the doc's a pediatrician, so he's been staying with her to help her out until they can find the mama." She rolled her eyes. "Good story, huh?"
"There is no place to stay in town," he said with a polite smile, feeling obliged to defend Shelly from gossip. "I know. I've tried."
She blinked, new interest apparently replacing her fascination with Shelly and the doc. "You need a place to stay?"
"No, I..."
"I've got two spare bedrooms and down comforters in both of them!" She was leaning toward him. He pulled his coffee closer. "You're a reporter. I've seen you in here a lot. I'm Paula Pratt, the mayor's secretary."
"It's nice to meet you, but I've..."
"One of the rooms has a TV with cable and the other has a new CD player and a buckwheat pillow."
"Pardon me?"
"A buckwheat pillow. You know, ergonomic shape and natural filler to help you sleep."
Life was filled with revelations. He'd traveled the world, listened to brilliant minds discuss important issues, and never heard that buckwheat helped you sleep. But he could identify a predator when he saw one. "I'm married," he said.
She blinked again. "To who?"
"Rosie Sutton," he replied. When she looked blank, he pointed out the window toward the direction where he'd last seen Rosie's bundled up form kneeling on a foam pad in front of the Heartbreaker but she wasn't there. He turned away from the window to find her standing beside the booth, her nose and cheeks cherry red, her eyes turbulent. "Rosie," he said, noting the icy glance she shot at his companion. "You know Paula Pratt?"
She smiled stiffly. "Paula."
Paula seemed to lose all interest in him. She tried to get out of the booth, but Rosie put her hand on her shoulder and pushed her back again. "No need to get up. I just came to tell you..." she turned that turbulent expression on Steve "...that I'm putting a cup of tea on your tab. I left without money this morning."
Steve smiled. "You did dress in rather a hurry," he said suggestively.
Rosie frowned questioningly, but Paula took the remark as he'd intended and backed away. "Nice meeting you," she said to Steve.
"You, too," he called after her retreating figure. He slid into the corner of the booth and patted the empty space to encourage Rosie to join him. "Thanks!" he said with relief. "You got here just in time."
Rosie sat and pulled her hat off, her hair falling to her shoulders in that ripple of light that stopped the breath in his throat. "She's ragingly single," Rosie explained, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. "The rumor is that she and the mayor have something going, but he has a long-suffering wife he's probably unwilling to part with, so Paula's looking out for number one."
Shelly brought a cup of tea and whole wheat toast to the table. She grinned wickedly at Steve. "You're lucky you came out of that alive," she said. "Grown men scatter and hide from her."
Steve patted Rosie's hand. "Good thing I have a wife."
Rosie caught his fingers, then pinched them when Shelly walked away. "You don't have a wife; you have a landlady."
"Ow. And does the landlady always hit up her tenant for food money?"
"I left my purse on the bathroom counter," she explained, "and you were in the shower when I had to leave."
"Next time," he challenged, "come in and get it."
She sighed wearily and took a sip of her tea. "Steve," she said, turning slightly toward him, "I've enjoyed your cooking and you've been fairly pleasant company this week, but you have to understand that I'm staying in Jester and I'm going to paint my heart out and one day I'm going to save enough money to buy my house and turn it into a studio/gallery. You're no longer part of my plans."
She looked and sounded sufficiently serious that he felt a moment's panic. But he'd been in enough tight spots in his time to recover quickly and take the offensive.
"Well, that's too bad," he said coolly. "Because you remain part of my plans, and it isn't just about what you want, is it, though it seems to be the way we've conducted this marriage."
"Wanting us to be together," she said hotly, "isn't exactly a selfish demand, is it?"
"No, it isn't," he replied, "but the world is filled with men whose jobs require them to be away for long periods."
Her eyes brimmed with tears, making him feel like an ogre. "I thought you were dead!" she accused in a whisper. Then she snatched up one piece of toast and her cup and stormed off.
From behind the counter, Shelly watched her walk away with her crockery and turned to frown at Steve.
Okay. Not exactly a successful argument, but a look into those eyes brimming with tears convinced him that despite all her claims that it was over, she still loved him. There had to be a way to help her realize it.
Rosie found it difficult to paint hearts when she really wanted to paint daggers. Her argument with Steve that morning had upset her out of all proportion to the few words exchanged. Just to amuse herself, she painted a dagger in the corner of the window where she worked. She stepped back to look at it in concern. It wasn't really a dagger it was more of an...arrow. Even as she resisted the impulse, her brush painted a heart around it and added initials. R. and S.
She dropped her bush in the jar of paint, folded her arms and paced back and forth in front of the Heartbreaker's window. Steve had been right when he'd said that many men had work that kept them away from their families, and she'd known what he did when she'd married him, but not knowing if he was dead or alive for three weeks was asking a lot of any woman. She had a right to be angry. She had a right to end it. Even though his nearness reminded her of everything that had been good about their relationship. Even though she felt as though she was about to explode with all the conflicting emotions inside her. Was it so wrong to want a husband who came home every night?
Amanda Bradley, who ran Ex Libris, the bookstore that shared the building with the Heartbreaker Saloon, hurried out of the shop, holding tightly to a teal green wool shawl she'd wrapped around a long, oyster-colored dress. She had long, light brown hair and bright brown eyes. "Here they are!" she said, holding something out to Rosie. "Hot off the press. At the end of the evening we're drawing for a weekend getaway, all expenses paid, and a couple of gourmet baskets, so don't lose them."
Rosie accepted what appeared to be a pair of tickets. "What are these for?" she asked. "I don't remember buying tickets."
"Your husband bought them," Amanda replied. "He said I could just give them to you. He told me he was going out to explore Shelly's list today so he could make his choices like everyone else in town."
With a portion of her lottery winnings, Shelly Dupree wanted to give something back to the town that had supported her parents and now herself in the Brimming Cup. So she'd polled everyone in town about what they'd like to see restored or repaired and made a chart so that everyone could vote on what they'd like to see done first. As Rosie recalled, the church roof and the bleachers at the school were among them. The town hall was in disrepair, as was the statue of Catherine Peterson and her horse on the lawn of the town hall. Once a proud tribute to the young woman who'd tamed the horse that had given the town its name, it was now green with age and the neglect of meager city funds.
Rosie had thought Shelly's plan magnanimous, and had admired the way the whole town got involved in the project. She was sure that for Steve, it was good story material the heart factor he insisted every story needed, even hard news.
"I like your husband," Amanda went on, huddling deeper into her shawl. "A lot of reporters don't really listen to you. They have an angle already in mind or some agenda that doesn't necessarily relate to the truth. But you get the feeling he hears every word you're saying and understands how it relates. His stuff from Afghanistan was remarkable."
Rosie turned to her in surprise. There probably weren't many people in Jester who read the L.A. Daily Observer.
"Both sides of the issue," Amanda went on, "the abuses, the pain suffered, the hatreds, the losses and the longing for peace. On one level, it was hard to read because it was so evenly presented that it was hard to see a solution. Then he made it clear that under all the politics, it's still a person-to-person world, and we'll still reach for each other, no matter what." She shook her head. "That he can see that after all those years in the trenches is amazing. He must be very special. Oops, there's the phone. You look tired. You should take a break."
Rosie stood rooted to the spot, surprised by Amanda's observations on Steve's talents, when all his excellent work had done was make Rosie feel put upon. She drew a breath and tried to think about his contributions to journalism as they related to the world, rather than to her. She felt her stance soften, her shoulders relax.
Steve was good. She remembered with sudden sharpness how impressed she'd been with his writing when she'd first met him how insightful it was, how clearly written, how he related what he saw and learned to the pulse of the world and connected it to each individual reading his byline. In a time when people learned everything from broadcast news or on the Internet, he'd made them readers again.
How could she fight that? she wondered, picking up her brush with a desultory gesture. Whether or not he was trying to prove something to himself or anyone else, the process had made him a brilliant reporter. She had no right to ask him to do something else. She just couldn't live with the pressure and loneliness of the past four months particularly the horror of those three weeks. Even if she did still love him.
* * *
Steve could see Jester's appeal for Rosie. It was very small and very charming, with beautiful vistas everywhere you turned. Everything was covered with snow, which lent a certain purity to landscapes that might be parched or muddy at other times of the year but were postcard perfect now. Downtown was a sort of mismatch of old west storefronts and early century buildings. No glamorous lines, but lots of nostalgic charm.
As he took a self-conducted tour to assess the points of interest in Jester that needed Shelly's help, he did his best to resist its appeal. The church roof had the most votes so far for the project to tackle first. It was small and white with a steeple, stained glass windows and a room in the basement that was used for community events. The dance, he knew, would be held there. He borrowed a ladder from the pastor to examine the roof. He had to sweep inches of snow from it to do so, then guessed by the condition of what was underneath that only the frozen snow was preventing it from leaking.
The bleachers were pathetic as well, worm-eaten and broken in some places, and the statue of Catherine Peterson was a sorry sight, for sure. Though the woman's beautiful face magically translated into bronze retained its beauty despite the green and mildew. The horse was magnificent. He thought the statue was a sort of metaphor for the people of Jester hearts of sturdy alloy defaced by time and hardship, but somehow still beautiful.
He checked out the town hall, the site suggested for a public bathroom, the possibility of flower baskets hanging from the streetlights all on the suggestion list. But he had to agree with the townspeople that the church was the neediest. It would be satisfying to see the statue tackled first, but the church served more people harbored children and old people who should be protected from the rain.
When he got back to the house later than usual, Rosie was already home fixing dinner. He went into the kitchen, sniffing the aromatic garlic and onion. She stirred spaghetti sauce and looked up at him with a half smile. "Last I heard from Shelly, you were gone to the school to check out the bleachers, so I thought I'd get dinner started. So, do the bleachers get your vote?"
He washed his hands under the kitchen faucet and reached into the fridge for salad makings. "No, I'm with everyone else. The church is the worst. I climbed up for a look and it's a miracle the roof is still attached to the rest of the building."
She raised both eyebrows in surprise. "You climbed up to the roof?"
"Of course. A good story needs detail." He broke a head of romaine apart and began to wash it.
She watched him and thought, Of course. A good story needs detail. Climb a ladder to get it, brave the weather, weapons-fire, whatever it takes. Aloud, she said, "Amanda gave me the tickets to the dance."
"Good," he replied. "We need to get out. You don't do anything but paint, eat and sleep. And you don't eat very much or sleep very well."
She was surprised that he'd noticed that.
"I hear you tossing and turning, walking around. Your cold keeping you up?" He grinned suddenly. "Or are you lusting after my body, knowing it's just a stairway away."
She made a scornful sound, but covered it quickly with a laugh when a swift, hot, unexpected blush rushed up through her cheeks. He didn't know how close to the truth he was.
Or maybe he did. He glanced her way while slicing a tomato, and she was sure he'd noticed her reaction and drawn his own conclusion.
"It's all right," he said with a knowing smile in her direction. "I lust after you, too. It's hard not to remember how good it used to be, even when you're sure it just can't be anymore."
Well, thank goodness he was finally getting the message. But what had happened to his claim that loving her was still part of his plan? Not that she wanted him to pursue a reconciliation, but she'd just like to know.
"I suppose I have to buy a suit for the dance," he said, chopping green onions.
"I don't know. Ask Shelly. Angel-hair or shells?"
"Angel-hair."
"I thought you preferred shells."
"I do. But you like angel-hair."
She rested the spoon on the side of the pan and said with mild impatience, "Just tell me what you want."
He turned away from the counter to face her, his expression suddenly serious. "I want you to have what you want. Even if it isn't the same thing I want."
Well...good. She heard that answer and knew it applied on more than one level. And she understood that it was sweet even while it filled her with a weird new terror. Was he beginning to see that it just wasn't going to work? Was he finally accepting that sometimes love wasn't everything? Sometimes the practical, day-to-day adjustments were bigger than the emotion?
A pointed lump took form in her throat as she tried to swallow, seeing the long, lonely road ahead of her. A whole lifetime of the past four months. Great. Just when she was close to seeing things his way, he was changing his mind.
Steve hadn't danced since his wedding, but with the pastor serving as disc jockey, the music was classic and mellow, and it wasn't hard to simply take Rosie into his arms, close his eyes and let the voice of Frank Sinatra move them around the church hall floor. "It Had to Be You," "You Were Meant for Me," "Embraceable You" followed one another, making moody velvet of the atmosphere.
Shelly waltzed by with the doctor. Word had it they were engaged. She leaned out of the doc's arms to say, "We noticed you two sitting alone in the corner. We'd like you to join our table."
Rosie, who'd been doubtful about spending an entire evening in Steve's company, tried to demur. "We're not planning to stay all evening, and I've got to..."
Shelly ignored her protests and pointed to a table littered with punch glasses. A pretty woman sat at the table with Dr. Perkins, who ran the clinic. She was on a cell phone. "We're sitting over there. Vickie had to check on the kids. They have a passel, you know. We've got two vacant chairs, and you can't sit on the fringe by yourselves. Nobody's allowed privacy in Jester."
He expected Rosie to take the opportunity to say that he wasn't staying, that he'd be going home soon and therefore was exempt from whatever was required of people in Jester, but she simply accepted defeat and thanked her.
Steve twirled Rosie away. "Hard to fight her," he noted.
To his surprise, she smiled. She'd seemed so preoccupied since he'd arrived, so determined that their relationship was over, yet he could still feel the spark in her that had ignited their attraction all those years ago. It was as though her confusion over what to do about them had kept her relatively quiet and sometimes grim. Once she'd agreed to come with him, though, she was more like the old Rosie than she'd been in a year or more. She seemed more lighthearted, and she hadn't flinched at all from having to spend most of the night in his arms. He was afraid to think too positively about this, but didn't seem able to stop himself. Maybe he was going to be able to win her over after all.
During a brief intermission, the ladies' club poured coffee and served cookies, and Steve and Rosie moved their things to Shelly's table. Shelly introduced them to her fiancι, Connor O'Rourke, and the Perkinses. "Connor is Nathan's partner in the clinic," she explained. She turned her attention to Vickie. "Was everything okay at home?"
Vickie nodded. "There's been an attempt to flush a doll down the toilet, but the baby-sitter stopped it." She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. "I swear that child's going to be a submariner or an oceanographer. He's fascinated with water. We just recovered from the plumbing bill to reconnect the elbow pipe under the sink after Nathan had to take it apart to retrieve his watch."
Nathan grinned. "Have girls when you decide to have babies," he advised Steve and Rosie. "In our experience, they're not as fascinated with flushing. Or does it make me sexist and oppressive to suggest that?"
Connor laughed. "Let's not even wonder about that. Sinatra's voice brings back a time when political correctness wasn't such an issue. Steve, I understand you're just back from the Middle East."
Vickie regaled Shelly and Rosie with more stories about her children. Rosie listened with one ear, while watching the men in eager conversation. They seemed to be enjoying one another's company and, in the middle of what appeared to be a serious discussion, laughter erupted. Connor gave Steve's shoulder a fraternal slap and Rosie enjoyed the moment. She knew that one of Steve's complaints on the road was that friendships were hard to maintain. While it was true they all shared the difficulties and hardships together, when it came to getting the story, their jobs depended on reporting it first. While everyone understood that on principal, it was sometimes difficult to remember it when they were scooped. It sometimes made for hard feelings.
"Nice-looking man, your husband," Vickie said, leaning across the table toward Rosie to get her attention.
Rosie started guiltily. "Ah...yes, he is."
"He seems to like Jester. I ran into him at the town hall. I'm on Shelly's committee to count votes and implement the townspeople's decision. Steve and I talked a little. He's a sweetie as well as easy to look at."
Rosie was having difficulty remembering she'd been reluctant to come. In Los Angeles, she was so accustomed to attending events by herself, because Steve was away so much, that she dreaded being alone and, usually, bored at a fund-raiser or night at the theater where everyone was paired up. Everyone always asked about him, but understandably paid little attention to her, wrapped up in their own plans for the evening.
It was wonderful to be here with Steve. And not simply because she didn't stand out as the woman alone, but because he was so attentive. She'd forgotten how soothing, how ego-boosting that could be. He was always touching her, holding her, getting something for her. He listened with rapt attention when she spoke, and shared his observations on the evening with an insightful sense of humor. This, she thought, was the way she wanted to live the rest of her life. The women who fought for every woman's right to pursue a career and live life on her own terms might be horrified, but for her that meant a studio at home, a houseful of children and a husband who came home for dinner at six o'clock.
There was a cheer as the pastor returned and music began again. The men put aside their political discussion, and all three couples returned to the dance floor.
"You're smiling," Steve observed with his own smile. "Feather in your undies?"
She had to laugh at that image. "No. I'm having a good time. Shelly and Connor and the Perkinses are fun to be with." She'd intended to let it go at that, but saw in his eyes the conclusion that she was enjoying their company more than his. He'd been in Jester almost two weeks now and she'd resisted betraying any hope that their relationship could be restored. But he seemed to be so sincere in his efforts that she was beginning to rethink her position. It wasn't his fault that she'd thought him dead for three weeks, and if she loved him and despite all her best efforts to convince herself that she didn't, she did she was going to have to accept that he was what he was and she had no right to try to change that. "And," she added with a gusty sigh, "I've enjoyed being with you."
He stopped moving and stared at her. They stood, wrapped in each other's arms, as couples danced around them. "Did I hear you correctly?" he asked.
She tightened her grip on him. "Yes. In fact...I'm...I'm really glad you came to Jester."
She heard his intake of breath, felt his hand at her back turn to iron. "Can you...back that up with action?"
Her body slid against his as she rose on tiptoe to kiss him. He returned her kiss, lips, tongue striving to connect. Then they remembered where they were. She looked up to see that everyone around them had stopped to watch though the music played on.
He laughed lightly, muttered a swift "Excuse us," to Shelly and the others nearby, caught Rosie's hands and led her to the table to get her purse, then to the coat rack at the back of the church for her jacket.
They ran the block home in two minutes. Upstairs in the loft, her hair caught on the hook at the back of her black lace top and they wasted a precious few minutes as he helped her disentangle it. Or maybe it wasn't wasted, she decided as she kissed his cheek as he tried to work with her fine hair and the delicate fabric. He groaned and she felt a certain satisfaction in torturing him as he'd tortured her since he'd arrived.
When she was finally free, he helped her pull off the top, yank down the long skirt and slip, then stared with a sort of melting awe as she stood in black lace bikinis and bra. She expected him to reach for her, but when his eyes went from her round bosom erupting from the top of her bra to her eyes, there was a reverence in them she remembered from the old days. She melted, too.
"I've dreamed of you like this for months," he said, holding a hand out to bring her to him.
She took it and flew into his arms. "Oh, Steve," she breathed, absorbing the blissful rediscovery of his hands sweeping down her back, tracing her backside and lingering there, reaching inside her leg.
Even as his touch threatened to paralyze her, to take her where she hadn't been in months, she pulled at his shirt, needing the touch of his body against hers.
He stopped long enough to pull off his shirt and T-shirt while she unbuckled his belt. He almost lost all semblance of control when she lowered his zipper, but he struggled manfully to rid himself of the rest of his clothing as she threw the covers back. She fell backward, taking him with her, and they rolled into the middle, uncovered, unaware of the room's chill as heat filled them, fused them, exploded inside them.
Her life made sense again. Her art fulfilled her, the friends she'd made in Jester sustained her, and the simple thrill of being part of the world was a blessing she recognized and was grateful for every moment. But Steve was her beating heart. He made her blood move, her breath flow. Her life, like her art, couldn't find its color without him.
They made love twice, and when they finally lay side by side, still wrapped in each other's arms, the only sad thought on her horizon was that she would have to leave Jester. But he was the backbone of his parents' operation, and it would be difficult for him to cover international news from the backwoods of Montana.
"What would you think," he asked, pushing her back against her pillow and leaning over her, "if I stayed in Jester?"
"What?" Rosie asked in disbelief. She pushed on his bare chest to break her body's contact with his so that she could concentrate on his shocking suggestion. "You'd be willing to move to Jester?"
Steve propped his elbow on the pillow beside her. "I would. It's a nice town. And with all the modern electronic amenities, I can still do my job. It's a little farther to the airport, but that's not a deal breaker."
Sun seemed to ooze out of her pores. She laughed. "I can't believe it!" She turned toward him to hug him fiercely. "That was the only hitch! I want us back together so badly I was ready to go back to L.A., but dreading it." She leaned away from him, suddenly grave. "You're sure this will work for you? I mean, as much as I love it here, you can't give up everything. Please don't do this just to get me back because in the end you'll be resentful and I..."
He put a fingertip to her lips to silence her. "It'll work. I'm not just doing it to get you back, because I really do like it here. And I won't be resentful." He, too, grew suddenly serious. "I hate it without you, Rosie."
She climbed atop him, half crying, half laughing. "I hate it without you, too. Oh, Steve, if we could stay here I'd be so happy."
"Then be happy," he said, pulling her down and entering her in one swift move that made her gasp then arch backward as pleasure raced toward her again. "Be happy," he whispered.
It was a miracle. It was the dead of winter with Christmas long past, but it was a miracle! After the bitterness of the past few months, Steve still loved her and wanted her back. And after the terrible fear of those three weeks and her decision never to put herself in the position of having to experience that again, she was putting herself on the line once more. She loved him too much to live without him, whatever it cost her.
And she could do it here, in Jester!
* * *
Later that morning, Rosie painted large hearts with a book in each on the window of Ex Libris. Lettering wasn't her strong suit, but Amanda had given her a list of classics to fit as titles on the book covers. She'd expected it to be a tense and laborious project, but her soul was so full, her heart so light, that she stood back to examine her progress and decided that she was doing very well. Who knew, she asked herself with a smile, that love could improve one's ability to letter?
* * *
Steve sat cross-legged in the middle of Rosie's bed and typed his story into his laptop. After all his research, his interviews and his personal investment in the town and its people, the words tripped off his fingers.
Briefly, he profiled all the winners and talked about the long Jester ancestry enjoyed by almost everyone here. Because he'd finally talked Shelly into letting him focus his story on her, he wrote about how she'd grown up in the restaurant, found her own gift for cooking and hospitality even while she lost a part of her childhood to the demands of a going business.
He talked about the efforts she'd made to turn her coffee shop into an upscale eating establishment and the disappointment she'd felt when her customers pleaded for a return to the basic menu her parents had made popular. Knowledge of her clientele and her sincere affection for them had convinced her to concede to their wishes. The Brimming Cup was, after all, the cradle of Jester events, the clearinghouse of news and gossip, the daytime social center of the community.
He'd gotten lost, he explained in his article, in the tempo and politics of the world. It was easy to forget, he wrote, that the world is made up of neighborhoods like downtown Jester. When politicians are in charge, people starve and go to war. When people are in charge, they reach out to one another, help one another, love one another.
He spell-checked, made one more pass through, then filed the story. He was surprised when he went downstairs to make himself a well-deserved cup of coffee, to find that snow was falling. It drifted down in silent grace and made him wish that Rosie was here so that they could make love while watching it.
But she was working. He had gained a new appreciation for her abilities, however commercial the window painting was, when he saw shoppers stop to watch her and kibitz, shop owners walk out of their stores to spur her on and praise her for the beautifully made hearts that now filled downtown Jester.
Well, he thought philosophically as he shrugged into his jacket, he could get her a cup of tea from Shelly and maybe earn a kiss and a promise for later.
This was the last place in the world he'd expected to end up, he thought as old snow crunched underfoot as he made his way to the Cup. The new stuff was big and fluffy and the sky dark with more of it though it was only midafternoon. He expected that by nightfall it would be a full-blown blizzard.
He stopped in front of the Cup, stomped his feet on the mat to leave the snow outside and walked in.
* * *
Rosie's fingers trembled while she painted hearts, and it wasn't the sudden drop in temperature. After several hours of euphoria at her reconciliation with Steve, she was coming down to earth. There were urgent matters she had to take care of. Having her husband back in her life was something so wonderful, something she hadn't expected to happen at this point in time, that she felt like a furnace pipe rattling with the power of the ignited firebox.
But the trembling was more than that. She hadn't been completely honest with him. At first, she hadn't thought it necessary because she knew he was angry with her and thought he'd followed her simply to berate her, and that, bored by the small town he'd simply threaten to countersue for divorce and be gone.
But he'd liked it here. And he'd wanted her back with a determination that was a part of that rattling force inside her.
Then she'd kept the secret to herself because she was falling in love all over again, and knowing love to be a fragile and tenuous thing, she waited for the right moment, the natural opening to the subject. But it hadn't come. And now she had to make the moment.
When he suddenly appeared beside her as though she'd conjured him up herself, she stared at him in worried surprise.
He raised an eyebrow and held up the paper cup with its heat-protective cuff. "You remember me?" he teased. "Purveyor of tea, or whatever else I can interest you in in the middle of Main Street at 2:30 in the afternoon." He lowered his voice and waggled his eyebrows as he added that last, and she found herself distracted by the velvet darkness of his eyes and the seductive quality of his voice, even though the theatrical tone was teasing. She forgot where she was and remembered only that last night, that voice hadn't been teasing, and guessed that if she did lean into his arms he might kiss her even though every merchant in every shop up and down the street was probably peering through her hearts right now to see what she and Steve were doing.
Then Amanda's voice interrupted them with a teasing, "Oh, for heaven's sake, get a room!" Then she laughed and said cheerfully, "Will you look at this snow? Everyone in town is going to be worried about staying warm tonight, but I'll bet you two won't. Love's a miracle of thermal units gone wild."
Steve laughed and Rosie was about to join them when Amanda raised the book she'd held at her side and swept it out, title uppermost, to offer it to Rosie.
Time stopped. Rosie's air left her as though a giant hand had slapped her silly and collapsed her lungs. Oh, no! Oh, no! she thought in urgent desperation even as she saw Steve's eyes follow the arc of Amanda's hand as she offered Rosie the book she'd ordered three weeks ago. It was upside down for him, and she saw him tilt his head to read the title. How could her heart keep beating, she wondered absently, when she wasn't getting any air?
"Your book's arrived," she said to Rosie, completely unaware that she was about to cut the ground out from under Rosie's feet. "I'm sorry it took so long. This sells so well that my distributor is always out of it, and of course, because we're out in the boonies, the big chains and the shops with a lot of volume get the good stuff first."
"What to Expect," Steve read the title aloud, his laughing expression of a moment ago now changed to questioning confusion, "When You're Expecting."
But he was a smart man. It took just a moment for it to sink in. Then his expression grew darker than the storm-filled sky overhead. Rosie had a horrible, intuitive feeling that all her claims since he'd arrived had been prophetic. It was over.
She caught a glimpse of Amanda's horrified expression as she realized that Steve hadn't known, and gave her a pat on the arm that absolved her of all responsibility.
Rosie closed her eyes and waited for the thunder.
"You're pregnant?!" Steve demanded, snatching the book from Amanda's hand.
"Rosie, I'm so sorry!" Amanda whispered.
Steve turned to her and asked with strained civility, "Would you excuse us, please?"
At Rosie's nod, she went back inside the shop.
More than anything, Steve hated being stupid. Remembering Rosie's pallor, her soupy eyes, her unwillingness to eat much of anything, he couldn't imagine why he'd swallowed the story that she had a cold. She hadn't coughed or sneezed; there'd just been a pervading look of discomfort about her that he'd sometimes wondered if his presence here was partially responsible for. Hating to admit that to himself, he'd happily believed she was ill with something simple like a cold.
But it wasn't a cold. Rosie, who'd left him for doing his job, scared him to death with her absence until he found her in Jester, had lied to him for months.
"Well?" he prompted angrily. "Are you far enough along that the baby is mine?"
Asking Rosie if the baby was his had been low and cruel, Steve knew as he watched anger and hurt feelings war for supremacy in her eyes. But he was in no mood to be civil, much less polite. And he wasn't sure what he feared most that she'd known for four months that she was pregnant and hadn't bothered to tell him because she'd intended to leave him, or that the pregnancy was more recent than that and the baby was another man's.
He got his answer to that when she doubled her fist and punched him right in the gut. It might have rocked him had he not still been rooted to the spot with righteous indignation.
"Of course it's yours, you idiot!" she screamed at him. She gestured widely with the hot tea in her left hand and it flew in a wide arc and fell to the snow, melting it in a half-moon pattern. Furiously, she threw the cup. "You take off like...like Captain Adventure and do your important work and never stop to think what it's like for me! You were gone a long time! I didn't even know I was pregnant when you left. Then, I'd hear from you through your mom and I didn't want to tell her before you knew. Then you were in one hot spot after another, and I was afraid the news would...would distract you." Her voice cracked and her lips trembled as she raged on. "Then I thought you were dead! I thought our life together was over!"
He made himself calm down in the face of her formidable anger. "But you learned I wasn't dead. Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Because I was still hearing from you through your mother!" she screamed at him. He realized absently that they were collecting a small crowd of onlookers. "And while I was happy you were alive, I was beginning to realize I couldn't live with you anymore. And I was mad enough to run away so I could decide privately what I wanted to do."
"But I came to find you!" he reminded her, forgetting his efforts to quiet down. "I've been with you for two weeks! We made plans to get back together, but you still didn't tell me."
"Because I wanted us to reconcile because you wanted me, not because you knew I was pregnant."
"I have always loved you!" he roared at her. "Wherever the hell I am, I love you!"
She folded her arms and studied him warily, large tears standing in her eyes. "I know that. I also know how devoted you are to what you do, and that loving me has never stopped you from doing it, no matter how hard it is on our marriage. I was torn between wanting to be with you because I love you and wanting a different life for our baby. I wanted to be able to tell you with great joy, and...I just wasn't sure how things were going to go."
That made a sort of perverted sense, but there was a significant flaw in her argument. "But last night I told you I wanted to stay. And you still didn't tell me."
She nodded feebly. "Because we were in each other's arms, and I wasn't sure you'd still mean it in the light of day."
That was when he lost it. He'd had a tenuous grip on his temper at best, but he'd wanted to hear her out. Now he didn't trust himself to remain within reach of her. "I wasn't sure you'd still mean it in the light of day," she'd said. That was like calling him a liar. Him, a reporter respected for his attention to detail in the interest of presenting the most honest story possible.
What was left of their relationship, he wondered, if she didn't trust him enough, didn't believe enough in his declaration of love, to tell him she was carrying his baby?
* * *
Rosie watched him storm away through the thickening snow and opened her mouth to call him back, but the rising wind tore his name from her lips. She packed up her paints and went home, half expecting to find him stuffing his things into his suitcase. But he wasn't there.
By seven o'clock that evening, she was convinced that he'd flown back to L.A. without his things. The house was deathly quiet and the snow drifting past the windows contributed to her sense of isolation. Bill Matisse sat curled up in the middle of her bed while she worked on the painting. At least she'd finally figured out what was wrong with it. Curious that pain was often more enlightening than joy.
The telephone rang and Rosie put her brush down. She was shocked to hear Steve's mother's voice.
"Rosie!" Ellie Sutton was a tall, elegant woman with a lively intelligence and a despotic approach in the newsroom. She'd always been warm and kind to Rosie, though they had very little in common. "Hi! Can I talk to Steve, please?"
"Hi, Ellie," Rosie replied, forcing her voice to rise to a note of cheer. "He's...not here." He's probably on his way back to L.A., she thought, but didn't say it aloud.
"Would you have him call me?" Ellie asked, and before Rosie could decide whether or not to be honest with her and tell her he probably wouldn't be coming back, Steve's mother said, "I can't tell you how happy his father and I are that you're getting back together. I know you're two very different people, but you've always been so good for him, and he adores you."
Rosie could only presume that Ellie's last conversation with her son had taken place before today. But Ellie destroyed that notion by adding, "And congratulations on the baby! We're very excited at the prospect of being grandparents."
As far as Rosie could tell, there was no suggestion in her voice that Steve had been unhappy when he'd reported that news. "When did you speak to him?" Rosie couldn't help asking.
"This afternoon," Ellie replied. "And tell him that I've cashed in his profit-sharing and transferred it electronically to his bank account. But I forgot to ask if he wants some of the stock liquidated or just left alone."
Rosie was sure when she mentioned stock, she wasn't talking cattle. Why was Steve liquidating stock and cashing in his profit-sharing? Then it occurred to her with chilling certainty. Of course. He'd always fantasized about buying a place in London and writing a novel.
"I'll have him call you," she promised, having to clear her throat.
"You sound awful, Rosie," Ellie said candidly. "If it's any comfort, you should be feeling much better any day now. I was the soda-cracker queen until my fifth month, then I was invincible. Give Steve a hug for me, will you?"
"Yeah," she whispered and hung up the phone. And the reality of what she'd done to Steve and their marriage closed in on her. Thanks to her selfishness and cowardice, she was facing a future alone with her baby's father across an ocean.
Feeling lightheaded, she remembered that she hadn't eaten lunch and while she wasn't particularly hungry, she knew she had to eat for the baby's sake. She went down to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and stared desultorily at the contents of the refrigerator. Since Steve had been cooking, there was more there than there had been before, but nothing appealed to her. She opened the refrigerator, found several leftover pieces of the promised cheesecake and dug in the utensil drawer for a fork. She was carrying it to the table when the kitchen door burst open and Steve walked in, arms filled with grocery bags.
For a moment, she could only stare at him. He kicked the door closed with his foot and took the groceries to the counter, trailing ice and snow as he went. He took an envelope out of the pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.
She backed away from him, fresh tears filling her eyes. In true protective fashion, he was going to stock her shelves with provisions and pay her child support before taking off for Europe. "I don't want it," she whispered, then remembered to add, "Thank you, though."
Generally, he was a peaceful man, Steve thought, but this woman could drive him crazy. He tried to remember that she was pregnant and therefore hormonally challenged. And that she always looked so anguished when she talked about that three-week period when he'd been stuck in the mountains of Afghanistan and she'd thought he was dead.
"How do you know you don't want it," he asked reasonably, "if you don't look inside to see what it is?"
She looked at the envelope he held out as though it could bite her. Then she looked at him, her eyes miserable. "It's a check." She sounded so sure.
"It's not a check," he assured her.
"Then, what is it?"
He expelled a breath and prayed for patience. "What do you want most in all the world?" he asked.
"You," she replied, surprising him. He knew she loved him despite all the junk that had gone on between them, but he hadn't expected her to admit it, and without even stopping to think about it. She burst into sobs. "I don't want groceries or child support. I just want you here for me and for the baby!"
He went to wrap her in his arms and hold her close. "It's the deed to this house," he said, kissing the top of her head. "Shelly put me on to your landlord, who met me at his lawyer's, and it's done. It's ours. I figured while you're painting downstairs, I'm going to work on a novel up here. I'll have mornings and you can have afternoons, or the other way around, while the other's with the baby."
Rosie swallowed, joy so strong it was a pain in the center of her chest. "But...you were so angry with me."
He nodded, his expression firm. "I still am." He admitted with a shrug of self-deprecation, "But I know you're also justified in being angry with me. I'm sorry I've been out there doing what I do, taking risks to try to stay on top when you're right I do have a few things to prove to you. Primarily that I love you very much, that I'm really happy about the baby, and I want to be here for both of you."
Rosie kissed him soundly and clung to him. She may not have been one of the purchasers of the winning lottery ticket, but she felt very much like one of the Main Street Millionaires.
Steve swept her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. He was placing her in the middle of the bed when he noticed that she'd been working on the painting. He ignored her playful protest as he abandoned her for a closer look at the canvas on the easel. As he saw what she'd done, his hand went to his heart where a little fire was building. She'd figured it out. Added to the underpainting was...him! Standing on the corner, talking to Shelly. And on Rosie's back as she worked across the street was a baby in a backpack.
The End