Her garden was history.
Throughout the once-quiet neighborhood, chainsaws growled, punctuated by an occasional crash as limbs toppled. Rose picked her way through the debris for one last look at her yard. A part of her soul, entwined with Doug’s, was buried here. Why she’d expected the garden to survive when her house had blown apart made no sense— but nothing had made much sense since Hurricane Charley blasted through central Florida with Hurricane Frances hot on his heels.
Rose knelt beside her flattened rosebushes. Tenderly, she took her shears and clipped several cuttings, then placed them in the plastic bag she’d brought.
“Give it up,” Doug had said when they moved to Orlando and she watched everything she planted die. “Flowers don’t grow in this climate.”
Undaunted, Rose found a way to bring color to their yard once she learned to work with the climate instead of trying to fight it. Orange and yellow day lilies, pink azaleas, and a bower of purple bougainvillea replaced her northern daffodils, tulips and peonies. But in both locales, she had her roses.
A hint of pink stood out against a tangle of brown sticks, leaves and branches. Against the odds, a single rose clung to a freshly broken stem. Careful to avoid the thorns, she teased the forlorn bloom free, stroked its velvety petals. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the delicate perfume.
“Hey, Rose. You all right?” Her neighbor’s voice broke through Rose’s reverie.
She swallowed and peered into the suntanned face hovering over her. “Hi yourself, Evie. I’m fine. How’re you holding up?”
“Hanging in. We were lucky. Having a generator made things bearable.” Evie tilted her head toward the flower in Rose’s hand. “Looks like you found a survivor.”
“Some things are tough. But without its roots, it’s not really a survivor. Only a shell. Like my house.”
“You’re really moving to Los Angeles? You’ll just be trading hurricanes for earthquakes, you know.”
Rose stood and brushed her palms together, watching the soil drift to the ground. She smiled at her friend.
“I’ll take my chances. The law firm’s opening a branch in LA and needs a secretary, and I’ve got a friend with real estate connections. It’s like it was meant to be. Besides, Doug’s been gone three years. There’s nothing here for me anymore—only memories, and I can take them anywhere I go.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a lot of new ones,” Evie said. “And maybe a Hollywood hottie, too.”
Rose chuckled. “You’re too much, Evie. I’m hardly the starlet type.”
“It’s time to let your hair down, girlfriend. Like you said, Doug’s been gone three years. You’ve got a lot of life ahead of you. Trust me, being in your forties isn’t old.”
Rose gave Evie one final embrace. “I’m going to miss you. Stay in touch, okay?”
♥ ♥ ♥
On a warm October Sunday, Rose locked the front door of her bungalow in one of the multitude of suburbs that was Los Angeles. Today, at last, she was going to Exposition Park, to the rose garden. She’d heard the story so many times, replayed the memories countless more, yet she feared visiting her mother’s magic garden, as if seeing it for real would diminish the perfection in her mind. Traffic moved smoothly along the freeway, lulling Rose and transporting her to her childhood.
She’d been four or five, feverish with some flu bug. Mama sat on the bed beside her, stroking Rose’s brow with cool, soft fingertips, holding her hand, and telling her stories.
“Tell me how you met Daddy,” Rose begged. “Like a ponce a time story.”
She curled on her side, waiting for the oft-repeated tale to begin.
Her mother smiled, the warm smile that made Rose’s head almost stop hurting.
“Once upon a time,” Mama said, “a little girl went to a special rose garden. It had rows and rows of beautiful roses. All different colors, pink and white and orange, and dark, dark red. Some had two colors. Some had stripes. Some were big, some were little. The little girl loved the smell of the garden. Her mommy and daddy would bring her and her big brother there on Sundays. First, they would go to one of the museums next to the garden. The little girl liked the rooms full of animals, especially the elephant. They weren’t alive, but to her, they were real. Her big brother liked the dinosaur bones.”
“After the museum, you’d go to the rose garden, right?” Rose said, more to get to the part she loved than to alter the flow.
“Right,” her mother said. “The mommy loved the garden, but the big brother didn’t like it very much, so he and the daddy would go to the other museum, and the mommy and her little girl would wait for them in the garden, smelling all the wonderful roses.”
“And you were the little girl, right? The big brother is Uncle Sammy. And the mommy and daddy were Gramma and Grampa.”
“You’re exactly right.” Her mother offered her a drink of ginger ale. Rose didn’t like the bubbles tickling her nose, but Mama said it would make her tummy feel better, so she sipped it through a straw.
“Tell me the rest.”
“I think you could tell me the story, my little Rosie.”
“But I like it when you tell me. Please?”
Mama smiled again. “Time went on, the way time does, and the little girl grew up, the way little girls do. She moved far away, but she always remembered the rose garden. Then, one day she moved back to Los Angeles and on Sundays, she would go to the rose garden and remember what it was like to be there with her mommy. There were benches in the garden and the grown up girl would sit and read and smell the roses. One day, a handsome man came to the garden. He talked to the girl, and they walked through the garden.
“She came back the next Sunday, and the next, and the handsome man was there, too. They walked and talked, and laughed. And one day, they knew they were in love, and he asked her to marry him. She said yes. So one beautiful day, they had a beautiful wedding right in the middle of the beautiful rose garden.”
“And the girl was you, and the handsome man was Daddy. And they had a baby, right?” Rose chimed.
“They did. A beautiful baby girl, and they named her …”
“Rose!”
“Yes, my special Rose. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”
♥ ♥ ♥
The Coliseum loomed ahead, bringing Rose out of her daydream. She found a shady spot on a side street and parked her Civic.
Under the flat blue Los Angeles sky, anticipation built, layer upon layer, with each stride along Exposition Boulevard. Rose sniffed the air, dry and dusty, so unlike the verdant scent of Florida. Passing the Science and Industry Museum, she forced herself to slow down. It was as if the very air had changed. The smell of grass heightened, rising above the car exhaust. Soon, increasing hints of floral aromas wafted through. Rose fought the urge to run. The sidewalk branched. Rose hesitated at the top of the stairs leading to the sunken garden.
She closed her eyes. “I’m here, Mama,” she whispered.
When she opened them, her mouth went Sahara dry. Mama had said it was a big garden, but nothing had prepared Rose for the spectacle of more than seven acres of rose beds. She took in the huge oval grounds with the round fountain in the center. The gazebo where Mama had married Daddy. Bands of grass separated bed after bed after bed of rosebushes.
Rose stepped reverently down the grassy paths. Another time, she knew, she’d stop and identify the myriad rose varieties. Today, drinking in the atmosphere was enough. She found a bench under the trees surrounding the garden and sank onto its weathered wooden surface. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a paperback. Unable to concentrate, she laid the book beside her on the bench and people-watched.
Some sat on benches and read. Some spread blankets on the grass. Many were students, most likely from nearby USC, poring over textbooks. A man in a wide-brimmed straw hat sat cross-legged on the grass, sketching in a thick white pad. Couples sauntered, children scampered, and moms pushed strollers. Toddlers rode dads’ shoulders. Little girls practiced car
twheels. She imagined her mother here as a child, clutching Gramma’s hand, smelling the roses.
From that day on, Rose’s week seemed geared to Sundays. Monday through Friday, she was at the office, where one day blended into another. Saturdays were for taking care of errands and household chores. But on Sundays, she was reborn. Filled with enthusiasm, she drove downtown, into the museum complex surrounding the roses. The Natural History Museum stood guard, along with the Museum of Science and Industry, but their pull wasn’t strong enough, and Rose never ventured inside. As soon as her sneakered feet touched Exposition Boulevard, a sense of calm and peace enveloped her, demanding that she return to the rose garden. Not searching for love, she told herself. She believed, just as Mama had, that in this world there was one perfect mate for everyone. She’d had hers with Doug. Since he died, no man had come close to filling the void he’d left. Instead, she came to the garden to be with her mother again—in spirit, since the flesh had departed years before.
Rose wandered the grounds, jotted notes on varieties she thought she’d try to grow in her tiny yard. She settled onto her favorite bench. The sounds of the garden, now a familiar backdrop to her reading, thrummed into a neutral white noise, and she lost herself in her book.
“Excuse me?”
A deep male voice intruded upon her silence. Rose closed her book over a finger and shaded her eyes with her other hand. The man, backlit by the sun, looked vaguely familiar. “Yes?”
“I don’t mean to intrude. I wonder … I’d like … would it be okay … would you mind if I sketched you?”
Rose squinted, and the man stepped aside, blocking the glare. The artist. He held his straw hat in one hand, his sketchbook tucked under his other arm.
“Me?” Rose scanned the garden, seeing all the attractive coeds. “Surely one of the … younger … women would be more suitable.”
He took a step back and lowered his head, but not before Rose saw the disappointment on his face.
She folded her hands in her lap. “If I agree, what will you do with my picture?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. I have to draw it first. I don’t usually do portraits.”
Because who’d want a portrait of a forty-two-year-old woman with boring brown eyes and plain brown hair with strands of gray popping out like dandelions?
He handed her his sketchbook, speaking to his shoes. “I draw to unwind. In real life, I’m a computer programmer. A geek. Staring at a monitor writing lines of code pays the bills, but doesn’t do much for the soul.”
Rose nodded. “I understand. I’m a legal secretary, and most days I feel like I’m going through the motions.”
She flipped through the pages. A lot of roses, but many of the garden as a whole. His sketches captured the mood and sucked her in. She could feel the happiness when she saw the way he’d depicted the families with his sweeping strokes. She perused a series of sketches of a Labrador retriever. “Yours?” she asked, stopping at one compelling drawing of the large-eyed dog.
He leaned forward to see the picture. “Yeah. That’s Oswald.”
“Cute.”
“Thanks. He’s my buddy.”
Rose extended the book. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll pose. What do I do?”
“Nothing. I mean, just what you were doing before. Read your book.”
“That seems easy enough. Can I turn pages?”
He laughed, a rich, warm tone, and Rose felt a long-forgotten sense of comfortable companionship. “Yeah. I can handle that.” He shoved his hat onto his head and dropped to the ground. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Rose knew it would be impossible. Like telling someone not to think of a zebra. She turned back to her book, trying not to sneak peeks at the way his hands held the pencil, noticing the lack of a wedding band. Intrigued by the way he gnawed on his lower lip as he worked, she had a quick flash of what those lips could do with hers.
Stop it. You’re remembering Mama and Daddy falling in love here. You’ve already had your turn.
Inevitably, their glances met from time to time as he studied her between bouts with his pencil, and she sneaked peeks of her own. He averted his gaze and went back to his sketchpad.
“I said you can turn pages,” he said after a while.
Rose realized she’d been staring at the same page the entire time. Glad he was working in pencil and couldn’t draw the red she knew spread across her cheeks, she flipped the page. She’d re-read the chapter tonight.
Moments later, he handed her the pad. She almost dropped it.
“That bad?” he said.
“No. No. This is—” Mama. When did I become my mother? “Wonderful.”
“Keep it,” he said.
“I couldn’t,” was her automatic response. But her eyes stayed on the page.
He ripped the page from the book and handed it to her. “I insist. I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I owe you a modeling fee.” He paused. “Do you … have plans for lunch?”
Rose shook her head. “The picture is payment enough.”
For a moment, he stared at his feet. “I’d still like to take you to lunch. There’s a café in the museum.”
He sounded nervous. For the first time, Rose examined him closely. Reddish-brown hair, short and thick. Hints of gray at the temples. Beard stubble, a little redder than his hair. Probably skipped shaving on the weekends. Doug had done the same. But it was the man’s eyes that dominated. Light brown, almost golden, with a dark ring around the iris. Eyes that drew you in and held on. Laugh lines crinkled around them. She wanted to hear his laugh again.
“I’m Rose,” she said. “And I’d love to join you for lunch.”
“Richard,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Rose.”
He put his pencil and sketchbook into a canvas backpack. Together, they strolled to the Natural History Museum. When Rose reached into her purse, Richard’s hand stopped her. “I’ve got a membership. You’re my guest.”
Rose wondered why she hadn’t come inside since she’d moved to LA. More fears that the pictures she had in her head from Mama’s stories wouldn’t match reality?
Inside the museum, the entry hall loomed before them, dominated by a Tyrannosaurus and Triceratops immobilized in a skeletal duel. She imagined her uncle tugging on Grampa’s hand, urging him to move faster.
Richard guided her downstairs to the café. Rose lifted her eyebrows.
“Wolfgang Puck? Not bad for a museum.”
“Depends. Frankly, I prefer less exotic pizza, but it’s convenient.”
Over pizza, salad and iced tea, Rose confessed her ties to the rose garden. Almost immediately, she wished she hadn’t. Would he think she was trolling for a husband? Nothing in his demeanor changed, and she relaxed.
“What makes you come here every weekend?” she asked. “There have to be millions of places to draw in LA.”
He picked up the crust of his pizza and flipped it around in his hands for a moment. His face, despite the straw hat he wore outside, was tan, but she thought a flush rose at the tips of his ears. He took a slow, deliberate drink of his tea.
“There are.”
“But you like it here because?”
“I saw you,” he mumbled.
“What?” Rose regretted the sharpness in her tone. Like he’d confessed to being a stalker.
He kept his gaze on his plate a moment longer, but when he raised it, he met her eyes. There was no doubt he was blushing.
“I first saw you about a month ago. In your own world. I came back the next week, hoping to see you again. You walk the grounds, then sit in the same place, survey the garden like you have a vested interest in the roses, then disappear into a book. Today, I finally got up the nerve to talk to you.”
Now Rose knew she was blushing as well. “I’m glad you did.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, a gossamer curtain.
“You want to tour the museum for a bit?” he asked.
r />
“I’d love to. Do you know if they have rooms filled with animals? Not real ones. I think there was an elephant.”
“Sure. It’s still there.”
They ambled through the museum to the Hall of African Mammals. Glass-fronted dioramas surrounded a vast open space. For Rose, it was like entering a cathedral. Unaware of Richard beside her, she strode past the exhibits until she found the diorama her mother had described. She stood, transfixed by the animals gathered around the watering hole, rooted in her mother’s childhood, oblivious to people coming and going. Eventually, she returned to the here and now. Richard stood off to the side, a polite distance away.
“I guess I’d better be going,” Rose said. “Thanks for everything. I enjoyed the day.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Oswald’s probably ready for a walk.”
They ambled down the stairs. “I’m in the lot,” Richard said, turning toward the museum parking.
“My car’s across the garden. I parked on the street.”
“I can go with you,” he said.
“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”
“I’d like to.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to walk through the garden with you.”
She looked at him again. He blinked, lowered his gaze, and then stared past her ear. He was shy.
She smiled. “I’d like that, too.”
When they reached her car, he hesitated. “I’ll be here next week. Maybe I’ll see you?”
“I’m sure you will,” Rose said. She climbed in and drove off, watching him in her rearview mirror. He stood on the curb, motionless, until she rounded the corner.
♥ ♥ ♥
The following Sunday, Richard had his sketchpad, and Rose posed on the grass beneath the fountain, between beds of cream-colored Timeless and pink Carefree Delight. He worked without speaking, although the glances they exchanged were more frequent than the previous week. She dismissed it, telling herself it was an obvious necessity—he was drawing her, after all. Of course he’d have to look at her.
Eventually, her self-consciousness faded, and she read several chapters of her paperback, although the blue-eyed, baseball-capped detective in the novel kept turning into a golden-eyed artist wearing a straw hat. When Richard invited her to lunch again, Rose accepted but insisted on paying her own way, despite his protests.
“Do you garden?” she asked him over lunch.
He shook his head. “Seems a waste of time. Anything I plant always dies.”
Rose thought about his words that evening when she checked on the cuttings she’d brought from Orlando. Two of the three had rooted and were in pots on her patio. “Soon you’ll be ready to go out in the yard,” she said. “It’s very nice there. You won’t be lonely.”
Was she lonely? Rose wondered. At work, Linda was always trying to get her to date. She’d gone out with a couple of Linda’s selected choices and returned home feeling the same as before she left. Not lonely, really. More like empty.
She fingered one of the cuttings, just beginning to leaf. “Once you’re in the garden, you’ll be happy. Gardens are happy places.”
How could Richard not enjoy gardening? She and Doug had spent hours in their yard. She couldn’t imagine being with anyone who didn’t. She paused, surprised at her thought. Being with? Was she attracted to Richard? He never gave her any signals he was interested in anything more than friendship, which was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She contemplated her plants, reaching out for the warm feeling she always got when she thought of Doug and the day they had planted them.
“I’m not trying to replace you,” she said. “You were my one true love. But a friend might be nice.”
The next Sunday, Richard didn’t bring his sketchpad. His hand brushed against hers as they meandered among the rose beds. Rose peered up at him and smiled. His Adam’s apple bobbed and the tips of his ears reddened when she dovetailed her fingers with his, but he didn’t let go. She stepped closer to him. He smelled like grass, roses and man. A pleasant combination.
The Sundays passed, and a comfortable friendship bloomed. Linda kept fixing Rose up with dates, and Rose kept finding them lacking. She’d relive them with Richard on their Sundays.
“I don’t know why Linda thinks I need a man. I had my turn. Twelve wonderful years with Doug.”
“Do you like being alone?” Richard asked.
“I’m happy enough. I have my work, my garden, and my Sundays here with the roses.”
He paused at a rosebush and lowered his head to sniff the blossoms. When they continued walking, he wasn’t quite as close as he’d been before.
Autumn surrounded the garden now, and the trees dropped leaves. Yet there were always varieties of roses in bloom.
“I was married once,” Richard said one Sunday.
Rose stopped at the abruptness of his words. It was as if he’d barricaded them inside until they erupted of their own accord. She put her hand on his arm and walked toward one of the benches.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Didn’t work out, that’s all.” His face closed.
They talked about the weather, books and movies for a while, until the skies clouded over and the wind grew chill.
The next Sunday, Richard’s arm snaked around her waist, and Rose moved closer, accepting his silent overture. He told her about his ex-wife, a woman who’d belittled him until he took refuge in his computers and stopped seeking permanent female companionship. Rose told him about losing her parents.
“Both my parents died when I was at college,” she said. “My dad was killed in a car crash. Mama died about two years later. She had pneumonia. I always thought she didn’t take proper care of herself after he died.”
“It must have been hard.”
“It was. It was even harder when Doug died. It taught me something, though.”
“What?”
“That I have to rely on myself.”
That I can’t let anyone get that close ever again. People who I love, who love me, die.
“I’m here for you, Rose.”
He trapped her with his golden eyes, and for half a moment, Rose thought he would kiss her. She leaned away. Then, afraid she’d hurt his feelings, she touched his cheek. Smooth-shaven. She tried to remember when he’d started shaving on the weekends.
“I’m glad we’re friends, Richard.”
He stared over her shoulder for a long moment. “I’m glad, too,” he said. “I like talking to you.”
In January and February, the garden was closed for pruning. Richard came to Rose’s house on Sundays. They’d work side-by-side in her garden. Or he’d draw. She’d fix him lunch. Or dinner. Sometimes both.
The first Sunday in March, Richard didn’t show.
After she called him and got his answering machine, Rose wandered through her house, wondering why it felt empty. It wasn’t like they’d made any commitments. Rose considered Richard a special friend. They’d never set their dates in stone. When he left, it was always, “I guess I’ll see you next week.”
She’d been looking forward to the reopening of the garden, and thought he had, too. Was something wrong? Was he tired of gardens and gardening? Those were her loves, not his. Maybe he’d found a new place to draw, a new subject. Maybe he’d found a woman to be his one true love.
The thought of losing Richard’s friendship saddened her, yet she knew couples rarely had single friends, and the male half of a couple could never have a female friend. She found her keys. With or without him, she’d go to the rose garden. To connect with her mother.
She was halfway there before she understood how wrong she was. It wasn’t about her mother. Mama’s story had brought Rose to the garden, and might have nudged her to accept Richard’s first lunch invitation, but it was Richard who had taken a place in her heart. She almost ran a red light when she realized he had taken a place in her heart.
Waiting for the light to change, Rose tried to decide what on earth she was doing. Despite her newly admit
ted feelings for Richard, cold reality said she’d jumped to conclusions assuming he felt the same way. What was she thinking? Until a few moments ago, she hadn’t even understood how she felt. She drove around the block and headed in the other direction.
She stopped at the garden store and filled her trunk with bags of fertilizer, mulch and weed killer. When she got home, she changed into her gardening clothes, adding a sweatshirt against the damp winter air. She’d always found solace in her garden.
Solace? Why did she need solace? Because a man who’d made no commitment had missed a single non-date? She knew he lived in Santa Monica, but she’d never tried to pin it down beyond that.
With renewed determination, she loaded the wheelbarrow with the garden supplies and steered the wobbly contraption along the path to the shed in her postage-stamp backyard. She selected her pruning shears from the rack above the narrow potting bench and went to do some serious dead-heading.
She snipped, collecting the dead blossoms in a basket to save for her compost pile. That done, she stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the yard, seeking the perfect place for her Florida roses. She strode to the pots sitting in her back garden.
“It’s time,” she said to her cuttings. “You’ve been out here in pots, but it’s time to settle down. I think you’ll like it under my bedroom window.”
As always, the world faded to a nebulous blur while Rose gardened. The smell of the earth centered her. Picturing the roses in bloom, she set the plants in their holes, covered them with her special soil mixture and declared it a job well done. For another hour, she pitched mulch, giving her garden a blanket of fragrant pine bark.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a red glow over the yard. Her muscles ached, but it was a good kind of pain. A soak in a hot tub—maybe a bubble bath—and she’d consider the day worthwhile. More than worthwhile. Physically and mentally productive. A step forward with her life.
Entering her house through the mudroom, Rose stripped off her dirty jeans and shirt. When the doorbell rang, she grabbed the smock hanging on a hook, fastening the buttons down the front as she hurried to the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Me. Richard.” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
Rose yanked the door open. Red-rimmed eyes, a three-day growth of beard. Torn jeans, a threadbare sweatshirt. But it was the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders that twisted something inside her. “Come in. What’s wrong?”
He held a leather strap in one hand. At the other end, Rose glimpsed the big, brown eyes of a chocolate Lab studying her from behind Richard’s legs. “Oswald?” she said. The dog panted and flopped down, resting his head on his front paws.
Richard nodded. Rose glanced toward the street. No sign of his car.
“My God, Richard, did you walk? From Santa Monica? That’s more than five miles.”
Ignoring Richard for the moment, Rose crouched. “Hey, Oswald. I’ll bet you’d like some water.” She took the leash from Richard’s hands. He didn’t seem to notice.
The dog whined, looking back at his master, but followed Rose through the house, to the mudroom where she filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor. He lapped it greedily, tail wagging.
“Good boy,” she said. “How about if you stay here while I talk to Richard.”
The dog flopped down again, but he’d stopped panting. Rose refilled the water dish. “There you go.” She made a quick stop in the kitchen for a glass of water.
Richard sat on the couch in her living room, head bowed in his hands. She sat beside him, running her fingers through his hair.
“What happened?” She gave him the drink, wrapping his hand around the glass. He seemed oblivious to its presence, although he gripped it like a lifeline.
“Sorry. I started walking. Didn’t know where I was going, but I ended up here.”
“Why? Please, tell me what’s wrong.” She lifted the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Or do you want something stronger? I have some brandy.”
He shook his head and sipped. When he set the glass down, his voice was stronger. “My mom. She didn’t want to tell me. Thought it was nothing. They opened her up, and ….” His voice cracked again. “There was nothing they could do. It … cancer … had spread … too far. I flew out Monday. She … the funeral … Thursday.”
He stood, paced the small living room. “She hated doctors. Dammit, she told me she was getting regular checkups, but when I talked to the doctor, he said she hadn’t seen him in five years. Five goddamn years! If they’d caught it earlier, she’d probably be in total remission now.”
He sank to the floor, rested his head on his knees. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that. I’m sorry for intruding. I should go.”
Rose knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. First, you’re not walking back to Santa Monica, if for no other reason than Oswald’s exhausted. Let me fix you something to eat. I can drive you back later.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move, either. Rose checked the freezer and found a pan of lasagna she’d made a few weeks ago on a cooking binge. She put it in the oven and worked on a salad, stopping to peek at Richard in between tearing lettuce and peeling cucumbers.
After opening a bottle of Merlot, Rose poured two glasses before exchanging her smock for lightweight sweats. Back in the living room, she sat on the floor beside Richard, handing him a glass of wine. For the first time since he’d arrived, he seemed aware of her presence.
“Thanks,” he whispered. His fingers lingered over hers as he accepted the glass.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” she said. “It was frozen, so it’ll be a while.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat. You want to sit on the couch? It’s more comfortable than the floor.”
“I guess.”
When he still didn’t move, she took his wine glass, set it on the coffee table, then grasped his hand and pulled. He stood, allowing himself to be led to the couch the way Oswald had followed her to the mud room. Her heart twisted.
She sat beside him, absorbing his warmth. His eyes had lost some of their haunted appearance. He gulped half a glass of wine like it was water, then set it down again. When his eyes met hers, nothing remained of the haunted look. It was heat. Pure animal heat.
She accepted it. Admitted she shared it. Returned it by straddling his lap and pressing her lips against his. He groaned, and when his lips parted, she probed with her tongue, tasting the wine. His tongue sought hers, begging for as much as she would give. She offered what he needed, tongues entwined, teeth nipping, his whiskers scraping her cheeks as hunger intensified the kiss. Her hands sought his hair, pulled him closer. Aware of his growing arousal beneath her, she slid her hands under his shirt. Stroked the planes of his chest. His coarse chest hair on her fingers sent electric pulses to her groin.
She shifted on his lap, rubbing against him. Her own need burned, pooling hot between her legs. Feelings she thought reserved only for Doug surfaced, boiled. Overwhelmed with urgency, she slid his hands under her shirt. Strong fingers found her nipples. Tormented them to rigid peaks. With a throaty growl, Richard drove her to the couch beneath him.
“Rose. God, Rose.” He yanked at her shirt.
Somehow, she wriggled out of it. His hands kneaded her breasts. First through her bra, then he simply lifted them from their confines, lowering his mouth to suckle. Freeing a hand, Rose unfastened the clasp and slid the garment to the floor.
His ragged breathing echoed through her ears. She arched her back, giving him total access to the delightful agony his lips and fingers created. Her thigh moved against his erection. He groaned. Fumbled with her waistband. She stilled his hand.
“Let me.” She slipped her sweats down her legs, taking her panties along.
He released his jeans. She reached inside, found his heat. Took the hard length of him in her hand. Her thumb found a drop of moisture at his tip. She swirled it around
the velvet head.
His breath caught in a half-sob. “Oh, Sweet God.”
“Do you have a condom?” Rose whispered in a brief instant of rationality.
He groped for his jeans, found his wallet, and extracted a foil square. Seconds later he was sheathed.
She reached between his legs. Cupped his tightness. “Please. Now.” She tilted her hips upward and guided him to her entrance.
He thrust inside her. Long unused muscles protested at first, but his passion, hot and frenzied, fed hers, and she adjusted to accommodate him. There would be time for finesse and tenderness later, Rose knew. She raked her fingers down his back, clasped her hands around him, drawing him deeper.
His hips pistoned. She raised hers, wrapped her legs around him, and dug her heels into the flesh of his buttocks, making him a part of her. Sweat dripped from his hair. Flesh slapped against flesh. His tempo increased. Rose writhed against him, her pelvis grinding against his, sending him toward the release he so desperately craved.
Eyes squeezed shut, gasping, he gave one last thrust. He groaned her name, collapsing on top of her, his face buried beside her neck. She caressed his back with long, gentle strokes until his breathing slowed.
“God, Rose, I am so sorry.” He levered himself off her, grabbed something from the pile of clothes on the floor and padded to the bathroom. She lay on the couch, getting her own breathing under control. Richard reappeared, clad in his boxers. Suddenly self-conscious, Rose reached for her clothes. He sat beside her.
“I think I should call a cab,” he said.
Wearing only her shirt, Rose bolted upright. “Whatever for?”
“I don’t … not like that …” He tugged at his hair. “I’m no good at this.”
“No good at what?”
“Talking about how I feel. I’m a computer geek, remember?”
“You’re an artist who works as a computer geek, Richard. She scooted next to him and held his hands. “Was what we just did so terrible?”
“God, no. But you … I didn’t … I was selfish. An animal. Rutting.”
Her heart tumbled in her chest. Poor, sweet Richard. “How can you think I wasn’t a willing partner? I seem to recall being the one who started it.”
“I was a brute. I’ve always believed two people should be equal partners.”
“A noble thought. But sometimes the equality is spread out over time. Tonight, you needed something. I tried to give it. Do you feel better than when you got here?”
He gave a shy grin. “Oh, yeah.”
“Good.” She nuzzled his chest. He slid her across his lap, wrapped his arms around her.
“I like the feel of you against me, Rose.”
Rose felt the stirring from his boxers. She nibbled his earlobe. “I can tell. Did you bring only the one condom?” The color that flooded his face answered her question, even before he shook his head.
“I’ve had some in my wallet since the third week in the garden. I didn’t want to seem … pushy.”
“I understand they have a shelf life,” she said. “But if yours have passed their ‘use by’ date, I might have a few newer ones.”
His eyebrows lifted to his hairline.
She ruffled his hair. “I had my turn at love with Doug. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there again. But I thought it might be smart to be ready, in case I changed my mind.”
“And?”
“I’m a woman. Mind-changing comes with our DNA.” She kissed him. Gently, slowly. “If you’re still feeling guilty, perhaps you’d like to atone in the bedroom.”
He scooped her up and carried her down the hall.
This time, there was finesse. And tenderness.
♥ ♥ ♥
After dinner, Rose, Richard and Oswald strolled through the neighborhood. Richard spoke about his mother, and Rose warmed at the way he’d begun to handle his grief.
“You got to say good-bye,” she said. His arm snugged her against him. “Be thankful you had those last moments to tell her you loved her. I missed that chance with my parents, and with Doug. He was on the treadmill. An aortic aneurism. He never regained consciousness. He was only forty-two. The same age I am now. There are no guarantees in this world.”
Richard stopped. Oswald sat at his feet, gazing up with chocolate-brown eyes. “Stay,” Richard said. He dropped the leash, stepped on it, and then turned Rose to face him. He crooked a forefinger under her chin and tipped her face up to his.
Rose tumbled into the depths of his golden eyes. Shy Richard lowered his lips to her mouth, and right there on the sidewalk, in front of God and everybody, kissed her until her toes curled.
Hating that she had to stop to breathe, Rose broke the connection. But only at the lips. She kept her hands firmly around his waist. He touched her forehead with his.
“Come home with me, Rose.” There was less hesitation in his voice.
“Of course,” she said. “We both have to go to work tomorrow. And Oswald’s probably hungry. I’ll drive you back.”
“That’s not what I meant. I have a few more days of personal leave,” he said. He held her shoulders. “I’d like to walk along the beach with you.”
Common sense said it was late. She had to be at work in the morning. Then again, he had come to her in need. She stared into the starlit sky and the almost-full moon. Telling herself it was to avoid doing anything to shatter his fragile emotional state, that she could function for a day on little sleep, she agreed.
“A moonlight stroll sounds nice,” she said.
“I’d like to wake up next to you tomorrow,” he whispered. “Any chance you can stay?”
Rose’s entire being smiled. If she’d learned anything, it was that you couldn’t count on having too many tomorrows. “I haven’t used any of my sick days yet.”
They piled into her Civic, Oswald leaning out the window in back, and drove to Richard’s house. Blocks away, the damp salt air filled her nostrils. Following his directions, she pulled into the driveway of a wooden A-frame house. The front yard was a vast expanse of grass. A scraggly boxwood hedge lined a flagstone walkway to the front porch.
Inside, the house overlooked the ocean. Rose set her overnight bag by the door. He opened the glass sliders at the back of the room.
“Enjoy the view while I take care of Oswald,” he said.
She leaned on the rail, mesmerized by the rhythm of the pounding surf. Soon, Richard returned and wrapped his arm around her.
They stood there, squeezed together, watching the moon’s reflection float across the ocean like a bride’s veil.
“It’s gorgeous,” Rose said. “So powerful. So wild.”
“I love this view,” he said. “This is where I spend my time. I never get around to doing anything with the front yard. I tried once, but I can’t seem to keep anything alive. Too much salt in the air, someone said.”
Rose squeezed his hand. “You can’t fight the climate,” she said. “Maybe I can help. It’ll take some time, though.”
“I’m in love with you, Rose. I want you to know that. I’m going to remind you every morning, every night, for as long as you’ll let me.”
“I hope it’s a long, long, time. I love you, too.”
He pulled a pad from one of the lounge chairs onto the deck. “Shall we watch the sunrise?” he asked.
“The first of many, I hope.”
Later, listening to Richard sleep, Rose gazed into the stars. “I’ve got another chance, Mama,” she whispered. “I never thought of it this way. Maybe I’m Richard’s one true love. And he found me in your garden.”
A Note From the Author
I hope you enjoyed reading these stories. One thing readers can do to let an author know they've enjoyed a book is to pass the word along. If you're willing to let your friends know you think they might like the book, or tweet about it, or post it to your social media sites, that would be wonderful. Also, the best way to help readers find authors is to post a brief review. If you have a minute, I'd appreci
ate it if you'd go to the site where you bought this book, or any review site such as Goodreads, and let others know you liked it.
If you want to keep up with what's coming next, as well as sneak peeks and special offers, sign up for my newsletter.
Thanks!
Terry
Acknowledgments
To Dara and Julie, Karla and Steve, for reading the stories and offering suggestions. And to The Wild Rose Press for giving these stories their first public outings. I'm proud to have been one of your first authors, and thank you for giving me the chance to let these stories live again.
About the Author
Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she’d be a good mom and watch it so they’d have common ground for discussions.
Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fanfiction, then through Internet groups, and finally with groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. She belongs to both the Romance Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America.
Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband and their adopted shelter dog in the mountains of Colorado. You can find her online at
Her website - https://terryodell.com
Her blog - https://terryodell.com/terrysplace
Facebook -https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTerryOdell
Twitter - https://twitter.com/authorterryo
Booklover’s Bench, where readers are winners
And to stay informed about new releases and other exclusive content, sign up for her newsletter.
More books by Terry Odell
Deadly Secrets (Mapleton Mystery 1)
Deadly Bones (Mapleton Mystery 2)
Finding Sarah (Pine Hills Police 1)
Hidden Fire (Pine Hills Police 2)
Saving Scott (Pine Hills Police 3)
Finding Fire (Pine Hills Police—short story collection)
Nowhere to Hide (A Pine Hills Police Spinoff)
When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc. 1)
Where Danger Hides (Blackthorne, Inc. 2)
Rooted in Danger (Blackthorne, Inc. 3
Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc. 4)
Deadly Connections (Blackthorne, Inc. 5)
Windswept Danger (Blackthorne, Inc. 6)
What’s in a Name?
Seeing Red: From the Case Files of Detective James T. Kirkland (short story collection)
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends