Читать книгу Ultimate Cedar Cove Collection - Debbie Macomber - Страница 79

Twenty-Six

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Eddie insisted, defiantly crossing his arms. He glared at Allison, his eyes narrowed, as he silently challenged her to say otherwise.

“Do, too,” Allison retorted. Zach’s daughter had never been able to walk away from a dare, especially one issued by her little brother.

“I think we should leave now,” Zach whispered to Rosie under his breath, “before the kids give us an excuse to stay.”

“Tell her,” Eddie demanded, pleading with his father.

Zach sympathized with the boy, but there were limitations to what he could say and do. “Baby-sitters get paid, and your sister isn’t getting anything to stay home with you.”

“You mean I’m doing this for nothing?” Allison cried, but the outrage was all for show and Zach knew it.

Eddie was only partially mollified, but he didn’t protest again when Zach led Rosie out the front door. “The kids’ll be fine.”

Rosie agreed. “I’ve been dying to see this movie.”

“Me, too,” Zach said as he hurried ahead to open the car door for her.

To his astonishment, she stared at the door and didn’t move.

“What?” he asked, slightly annoyed. Granted, it was an old-fashioned courtesy, but Rosie had never objected to it before.

“It’s…it’s just that it’s been a long time since you opened the car door for me.”

Zach felt a little shocked. He knew she was talking about the last year of their marriage, and he supposed she was right. They’d treated each other without considerateness or respect, and the disappearance of small courtesies was a symptom of that.

“It’s a nice touch, Zach, it always was. Thank you.” She slipped into the car and reached for her seat belt.

Zach hurried around the front of the vehicle. This was their third “date.” Their first had been dinner the night Rosie had wept and the children had called him. He still didn’t understand what that had been all about, but she seemed to feel better after they’d talked. Even now, almost two weeks later, he didn’t remember exactly what they’d discussed that evening; what he remembered was how comfortable it felt to spend time with Rosie again.

In the mess they’d made of their lives, Zach had forgotten one important fact. Rosie had been more than his wife—she’d been his friend. He’d missed the little confidences they’d once shared, the small private jokes, the conversations in bed late at night. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about those things until recently, and he realized how much he missed her. How much he missed the way they used to be…

This week the kids were on spring break and Rosie had five free days. They’d already met for lunch on Monday afternoon. On the spur of the moment, they’d decided to take in a show on “Tightwad Tuesday,” when all movies were three dollars. Popcorn and soda, however, stayed the same price. Rosie was the one who enjoyed popcorn, especially the buttered variety.

The movie, a romantic comedy, had been given rave reviews. While Zach paid for their tickets, Rosie stood in line for popcorn. This was a rare night out for Zach during tax season; most evenings he was in the office until seven or eight.

They chose seats in the back of the theater and toward the middle. He noticed several people glancing in their direction and a few heads moving together in hushed whispers.

“People are talking about us,” Rosie said.

“Well, we are divorced,” Zach reminded her with a grin. “Divorced people generally don’t go out on dates.”

“True,” she said. “Sad commentary, isn’t it? We get along better now that we’re divorced than while we were married.”

“Yeah.” Zach couldn’t deny it. “At least during the last few years of our marriage.”

“Why did that happen, do you think?”

Zach was saved from having to answer because the lights dimmed and music blared from the sound system. Soon the previews began, about fifteen minutes’ worth, with lots of noise and frantic action.

The movie itself was delightful. More than once, Zach laughed out loud. Although he claimed he wasn’t interested in popcorn, he ate more than half of Rosie’s small bag, which she willingly shared. About halfway through the show, Zach realized they were holding hands, just like they had while they’d dated during college.

When the lights came back on, they remained seated for a few minutes, enjoying the lingering effects of the movie and the music. People started to leave the theater; several nodded at Zach and Rosie. She was right—they’d caused something of a stir. Well, good. Let people talk all they wanted. He didn’t object.

“It’s been ages since I laughed that hard,” Rosie said, standing.

“Me, too!”

“And even longer since we laughed together.”

Zach could only agree.

Because he was so busy at the office and because it was spring break and the kids were home, they’d decided it would be best if Rosie stayed at the house the entire week. Zach drove her back there.

As he headed toward Pelican Court, they chatted about the movie, laughing again at the antics of the characters and the cleverness of the plot. All too soon, he’d reached the house. Zach wasn’t ready for the evening to end, but he didn’t know if Rosie felt the same.

When he pulled into the driveway, they sat silently in the car, as if each was waiting for the other to speak first.

“It’s still early,” Rosie said. She glanced tentatively in his direction.

It was after ten, and Zach had been in the office since before six. Yet he didn’t feel tired at all.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked in a neutral voice, implying that it didn’t matter to her one way or the other.

Zach checked his watch, although he already knew the precise time from the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“The kids will probably still be up,” Rosie told him when he came around and opened the door for her. “Allison stays up till all hours of the night whenever she gets the chance.”

Zach knew that and struggled with it, too. He and Allison had discussed this volatile subject on a number of occasions. His final conclusion was that if his daughter got too tired, she’d learn to adjust. He was saving his big guns for when she started driving.

Zach unlocked the front door and Rosie entered the foyer ahead of him. Two steps into the house, she stopped abruptly. “What’s this?” she gasped.

“What?” Zach moved around her to find rose petals strewn about. The red petals seemed to take a path away from the door, down the hallway that led to the master bedroom. Talk about blatant manipulation! His children had set up a romantic interlude for him and Rosie. This, no doubt, was primarily Allison’s doing, since Eddie, as a nine-year-old boy, didn’t have much of a clue about love and romance.

“Everything is suspiciously quiet,” Rosie murmured.

That was when a soft waltz started to play.

“Music, too?” Zach asked in a whisper.

“Romantic music,” Rosie elaborated. “It’s from Swan Lake.” She moved into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, in the middle of the kitchen table, was another surprise.

“Wine?” Zach asked, following her.

“Looks that way.”

Sure enough, their children had strategically placed two wineglasses on the kitchen table with one long-stem rose lying between them. A bottle of wine sat in a bucket of ice. Unfortunately, it was a red wine, but Zach wasn’t about to complain.

“I believe our children have planned a bit of romance for us,” Rosie said sheepishly. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t put them up to this.”

“I didn’t, either, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea, do you?” He held out his hand to her. “How long since we last danced?” He had no recollection of their doing so in the past half-dozen years.

Rosie laughed. “I don’t think we ever waltzed.”

“Then it’s definitely time to rectify that.” Hand in hand, Zach and Rosie hurried into the family room. He brought her into his embrace and they moved to the classic rhythms of the waltz. Amazing, Zach thought. This seemed so natural.

When the music ended, Rosie flashed him a radiant smile.

Zach could never resist one of Rosie’s smiles. Their eyes met in the dim light, and all at once he knew he had to kiss her. He prayed she felt the same way, because waiting a moment longer was entirely out of the question.

They nearly collided in their eagerness. Rosie had her arms around his neck and his were around her waist. Their kisses were wild and wet and urgent, as though it was necessary to feel and taste as much of each other as possible.

With the kissing came something else Zach had forgotten, something that had been buried deep in the mud they’d slung at each other during the divorce. He loved Rosie. He’d loved her as a young man and, despite everything, he loved her now.

Loved her and wanted her, desperately wanted her.

It was the little things that Bruce Peyton missed most about his wife. Stephanie had died in a car accident almost two years ago, and he’d thought, he’d hoped, he’d be able to adjust with time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. His friends insisted he date again, and several had set him up with blind dates, but he’d always come away feeling guilty and uneasy. He’d read that a year was long enough to heal substantially from a loss like his. It wasn’t true, not for him. He didn’t think he’d ever get over her death.

Stephanie had been his only love. Bruce felt lost without her, and so lonely. Jolene, their daughter, kept Stephanie’s picture on her nightstand because she was afraid she’d forget what her mother had looked like. That tore at Bruce’s heart, but he had no such problem. He carried the memory of her face in his heart. She was with him every minute of every day.

Although he tried, Bruce just wasn’t good at little-girl stuff. Right now, for instance, Jolene needed a haircut. Her pigtails fell halfway down her back. Her hair had been cut only once in the two years since Stephanie’s death. Not thinking it mattered, Bruce had taken his daughter to the barbershop with him. Seven-year-old Jolene had primly informed him he’d done the wrong thing.

“Girls don’t get their hair cut in the same places boys do,” she told him afterward.

Now Jolene was saying she wanted her hair short.

“You’re supposed to take me to a beauty shop,” his daughter said when he picked her up at the after-school child-care facility.

“I’ll make an appointment,” Bruce promised her. He chose a name out of the yellow pages, a place that promised great cuts, phoned and wrote down the day and time. Monday at four. Then he dutifully arrived at the mall with Jolene in tow.

“Get Nai-led,” Jolene said, sounding out the second word. They stood in front of the shop. His daughter nodded approvingly, and he was relieved he’d apparently made the right choice this time.

Taking her by the hand, Bruce walked into the salon. It was like stepping into an alien world. Women draped with plastic sheets and huge looped curlers twisted about their heads sat in chairs and stared at him as if he was the odd-looking one. The smell was none too pleasant, either. He didn’t know what these women did to themselves or why, but they had his pity.

Tentatively Bruce walked over to the receptionist’s desk. “I’m Bruce Peyton,” he managed to get out. “I have an appointment for my daughter.” He leaned against the counter. “She needs a haircut.”

The woman, who must’ve been about eighteen, ran her index finger down the appointment schedule. Her fingernail had to be a good two inches long and had something painted on it. He stared hard and realized it was some psychedelic print. Very sixties. But why? He shook his head slightly.

“Here you are,” she said in a chirpy voice. “She’s booked with Rachel.” Looking past him, she shouted, “Rachel, your four o’clock is here.”

Bruce stepped away from the counter.

“Rachel will just be a moment. Would you like to take a seat over here and wait?” The receptionist gestured to a row of chairs against the wall, all of which were empty.

“Ah, sure.” Bruce sat down on one of the chairs and Jolene sat next to him. He reached for a magazine and quickly replaced it when he saw the lead article was “Ten Ways to Achieve an Orgasm.” In case Jolene tried to sound out the word orgasm, he turned the magazine facedown. Luckily, the latest issue of The Cedar Cove Chronicle was available. He grabbed that and hid his face behind the newspaper before anyone could recognize him.

Jolene sat patiently at his side, her ankles crossed, gazing avidly at the ultrafeminine world before her.

Less than five minutes later, a dark-haired woman who didn’t seem to be much older than the receptionist approached him and Jolene.

“I’m Rachel.”

Jolene scooted off the chair and stood. “I need my hair cut.”

Rachel smiled and held out her hand. “I can do that.”

Feeling even more awkward, Bruce stood, too, wondering what was expected of him now.

“You wait here, Daddy,” Jolene instructed him.

Rachel’s eyes met his and they shared a brief smile. He had his orders, Bruce figured.

“This won’t take more than thirty minutes,” the beautician told him.

“Sure…great.” Bruce sat down with the newspaper, but he soon grew restless. He got up and walked outside the salon and over to the food court. It’d been a while since his last visit to the mall.

He walked around for a bit and then noticed an electronics store. With at least twenty minutes to kill, he decided to ask about MP3 players. Even if he couldn’t afford one, it didn’t hurt to look.

Before he went into the store, Bruce checked his watch to be sure he didn’t inadvertently stay longer than Jolene’s appointment lasted. Stephanie had died on her way to pick up Jolene from kindergarten class and his daughter had been left waiting at the school for hours until someone could come for her. She’d been traumatized and, ever since, had reacted to any lateness, any deviation from a promised schedule, with extreme anxiety.

A salesman arrived, eager to show him the latest technology. Bruce had a few questions and they were soon involved in a discussion of the pros and cons of different brands. When he checked his watch a second time, a full thirty minutes had passed. Panic rushed through him as he quickly made his excuses and bolted out of the store. He sprinted across the mall, past the food court and toward the salon.

He could imagine Jolene crying and upset because he’d disappeared. He should’ve told her he was leaving, should’ve explained that he was inside the mall not more than a minute away. He should never have left her.

Twice since Stephanie’s accident, Jolene had awakened from a nightmare in which Bruce hadn’t arrived to pick her up from school. In her dreams she learned he’d died the same way as her mommy. It had taken her hours to sleep again.

Bruce realized he must have made quite a sight tearing into the salon, eyes wild. The entire shop seemed to stare at him.

Jolene broke the spell with a calm, “Hi, Daddy.”

His daughter sat at a table with her hands outstretched while Rachel sat across from her, painstakingly painting Jolene’s fingernails.

Now that his heart had decided to leave his throat and return to his chest, Bruce shoved his hands in his pockets and casually strolled over to them.

“You weren’t here when Rachel finished my hair.” She tossed her head to and fro the way women did in shampoo commercials on television. “Do you like it?”

Bruce nodded. Hair was hair, but he did think his daughter looked awfully pretty. Of course, he’d thought that before she had her hair cut, too.

“I got sidetracked in the electronics store,” he told her.

“That’s what Rachel said prob’ly happened.”

The beautician glanced up with the nail polish brush in her hand. “We lose a lot of men to the electronics store.”

Bruce would bet they did. Given a choice, just about any man would look for an excuse to get out of this women’s domain.

“Was she upset?” Bruce asked Rachel.

She glanced up again and smiled. “Only a little.”

“Rachel said she’d paint my nails. Aren’t they pretty, Daddy?”

Bruce considered the bright red polish a moment and then nodded in what he hoped was a satisfactory manner. “Very pretty.”

“We’re almost done,” Rachel said.

“I didn’t mean to stay so long.”

“It’s not a problem,” she assured him. “Once I’m finished, we’ll need five minutes for Jolene’s nails to dry.” She looked up. “Oh—the manicure is on the house.”

He mumbled his thanks. Five minutes seemed an eternity, but this was what he got for losing track of time. While he waited, Bruce paid the receptionist and added a generous tip for the beautician.

When Jolene was ready, she walked with her arms stretched out in front of her as if she’d seen the Bride of Frankenstein one too many times.

“Can I have an ice cream cone?” she asked, gazing across at the food court.

“You can if you promise to eat your dinner.”

“I promise.”

Together—but not hand in hand, since Jolene was concerned about preserving the perfection of her nails—they walked over to Baskin-Robbins and stared into the glass case. Bruce chose vanilla, his favorite. Stephanie had never understood how he could prefer vanilla when he had thirty other flavors to choose from. Jolene was just as predictable. She wanted bubble gum.

They sat at a small table and Bruce watched his daughter lick away at her blue ice cream. He smiled at her complete absorption. She smiled back, and he thought his heart would stop. In that split second, she resembled her mother so much.

Every now and then, Bruce caught glimpses of Stephanie in their daughter. In the way her eyes flashed with a smile or the way she moved. It never failed to fill him with an immediate sense of loss and regret.

A thousand times or more, he’d gone over that final day of Stephanie’s life. It had seemed an ordinary day. Completely routine. If only he’d known… If only he could go back and relive that morning.

He’d gotten up at seven, as usual, showered and dressed. He’d kissed Stephanie goodbye, never suspecting that in less than ten hours she would be forever taken from him and Jolene.

“Daddy…”

Returning to the present, Bruce looked over at his daughter. “What, sweetheart?”

“I like Rachel.”

“Who’s Rachel?”

“Daddy! The lady who cut my hair.”

“That’s nice,” he replied absently.

“She’s fun.”

“And she does a good job of cutting hair.”

Jolene nodded. “She wants a husband.”

“What?” Bruce nearly laughed out loud.

“A husband,” Jolene said again. “I heard her talking to the lady next to her, and she said she’s almost thirty. That’s old, isn’t it?”

“Not so old,” Bruce assured her, hiding a smile.

“She said she wanted to be married before she was thirty.”

Bruce thought that was a rather personal discussion to be having in a beauty shop, but what did he know about women’s—“I think you should marry her, Daddy.”

“What?”

“You should marry Rachel,” she repeated, as if that was a perfectly reasonable statement.