Sleeping With the Enemy (7 page)

“You’re not a bad mother, Rose.”

“Yeah? Put that on a postcard and mail it to Eddie.”

“Eddie’s a fool.  Tell me, Rose, do you love him? This Jesse?”

Rose poked her finger through a hole in Mary’s lace tablecloth.  “It’s not like that.  I’m not expecting love.  Not the way I would if it was a real marriage.”

“Well, what in God’s name are you thinking it’s going to be? Some kind of game? Rose, marriage is a serious undertaking, no matter what the circumstances.  It’s not something you play at.  Or with.  You marry this man, you’ll be sleeping beside him for the next forty years.  Are you ready for that?”

“I already slept with him, Ma.”

“Horsefeathers.  You had sex with him.  It’s not the same thing.” Her mother clucked her tongue in disapproval.  “You’re still a young woman, Rose.  Do you really want to tie yourself down to a man you don’t love? What if somebody comes along in a year, or two, or five? Somebody you really care about? What then?”

“At my age? I should be so lucky.”

“For the love of Mike, woman, you’re thirty-six years old.  Not exactly Methuselah.  You think people don’t fall in love at your age? You’d best take a good look at your brother and his new wife and then think again.”

“My brother,” she said, “is thirty-six going on twelve, and he’s been in more relationships than Johnny Carson.  He skews the demographics all to hell.”

“Your brother,” Mary said, “finally got it right.  You’d do well to take a few lessons from him.  Rose, love, I raised you to be a fine, intelligent woman.  It doesn’t matter what I think.  You have to do what feels right for you.”

***

She found the house enveloped in blessed silence.  Chauncey raised his head from his paws, eyed her lazily, and went back to sleep.  “Good plan, babe,” she told him, yawning as she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes.  “Maybe I can sneak in a little nap before the kids come home.”

Sunlight, viscous and golden, poured through the bay window in the living room, dust motes dancing in its warm river of light.  Promising herself that she’d dust tomorrow, Rose padded barefoot down the carpeted hall, swung open the door to her bedroom, and stumbled directly into a Kodak moment.

She wasn’t sure who was more stunned.  The naked couple grappling amid the bedding jerked apart and scrambled to cover themselves.  She had a quick glimpse of ripe young flesh before Devon snatched up the comforter and wrapped it around herself and the boy.  “Oh, shit,” her daughter said.

Kyle Housman said nothing, just stared coolly at her with those infernal gray eyes. 

Rose’s blood pressure shot through the roof.  “You have approximately thirty seconds,” she told him, “to get dressed and out of my house. 
Capisce
?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Get your clothes on,” she told her daughter.  “I’ll deal with you in the kitchen.”

Fuming, she stalked to the kitchen and began slamming the breakfast dishes around in the sink.  How dare that slimeball touch her daughter?  And in her own home.  Her own bed!  Rose scrubbed furiously at her cast-iron frying pan.  Tears of fury and disappointment burned behind her eyelids.

Kyle wisely left by the front door.  A few minutes later, Devon slipped into the kitchen, hands tucked into the pockets of her cut-offs, adolescent breasts thrust forward defiantly beneath a black tee shirt with a picture of the Tasmanian Devil on it.  “It’s no big thing,” she said. 

“No big thing?” Rose said.  “I come home and find my daughter in bed with some
heathen
, and
she tells me it’s no big thing?”

“Get real, Mom.  Did you really think I was still a virgin?”

With the scruffy haircut and those huge eyes, Eddie’s eyes, Devon looked about twelve years old.  Of course Rose had believed she was still a virgin.  She was seventeen years old, for God’s sake.  A child.

“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that it occurred to either of you to use protection?”

Devon had the grace to flush.  “We don’t need protection.  Kyle always pulls out before—you know.”

“Dear God in heaven.  Have you ever heard of AIDS?”

Her daughter glared at her.  “You’re such a hypocrite.  Do you think I don’t know exactly what you were doing when you left Uncle Rob’s wedding with that guy? How come it’s okay for you if it’s not okay for me?”

Devon’s words hit her like a slap to the face.  Furious, she said, “I happen to be thirty-six years old.  I have the right to sleep with anyone I choose.  You, on the other hand, are seventeen.  You’re still underage, and I have a big surprise for you, Miss Muffet.  This household is not a democracy.  It’s a dictatorship, and I’m head honcho.  And if I catch you with that boy, or any other boy, again, you won’t see the light of day before you’re thirty-six.  Is that clear?”

Devon’s eyes narrowed.  “I hate you!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not particularly fond of you right now, either.”

Devon turned and stomped off in the direction of her room.  “Wait just a minute!” Rose yelled at her retreating back.

Her daughter paused, squared her shoulders, and turned around.  “What?”

“I want you to go into my room, strip the bed, and remake it with clean bedding.  While you’re at it, you can throw the dirty sheets into the washing machine.”

Seconds ticked away before Devon spoke.  “Is there anything else, Mommie Dearest?”

Her daughter’s anger, a palpable thing, made Rose’s chest ache.  When had this enmity sprung up between them? “Yes,” Rose said.  “One more thing.  You can unplug the telephone in your room and bring it to me.”

“
What
? You can’t take away my phone! That’s not fair!”

“Tell it to the judge, toots.  Now move it!”

Visibly fighting back tears, Devon stomped off down the hall.  She returned with the telephone and flung it on the kitchen table before retreating in livid silence.  A moment later, her bedroom door slammed shut behind her.  “Well,” Rose said.  “That certainly went well.”

Miserable, she did what she always did to ease her anguish: opened a pint of chocolate ice cream and called her sister Maeve.

“Where have you been?” her sister exclaimed.  “I haven’t seen you since Rob’s wedding.  I thought you were dead or something.”

Rose ate a huge spoonful of chunky chocolate ice cream.  “Not dead,” she said, “but definitely something.  Aw, Maeve, you won’t believe what’s been going on.”

“This sounds serious.  Hold on while I get fortification.”

She managed to wolf down two more heaping spoonfuls of ice cream before her sister returned.  “Okay,” Maeve said, “I’m back.  Spill the beans.”

“For starters, I just caught your favorite niece in bed with her boyfriend.  I’m still reeling from the shock.”

“Aw, geez, Rose.”

“It gets better.  They were in my bedroom.  In my bed.”

“Ew, gross.  What did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I went ballistic.  Jesus Christ, Maeve, she’s only seventeen!”

“And how old were you when you and Eddie started doing it?”

“Me? I was—” She stopped in disbelief as the truth sank in.  “That was different!” she said.  “That was Eddie, Maeve.  We were practically married.”

“How old?” her sister persisted.

“Oh, all right, I was seventeen.  But things were different then.”

“Is that so? In exactly what way?”

“We didn’t have to worry about dying!”

“Okay.  I’ll grant you that one point.  Rose, she’s a normal seventeen-year-old girl.  Don’t you remember what seventeen was like? We were a raging mass of hormones.”

“Aw, geez.” Rose set down the ice cream and rubbed her temple.  “I guess I didn’t handle it very well, did I?”

“You handled it like a normal mother.  What do you think Mom would have done if she’d ever caught you with Eddie?”

In spite of her misery, Rose laughed at the vision her sister’s words conjured up of the stalwart Mary MacKenzie, armed to the teeth, hell-bent on vengeance.  “Before or after the castration?”

“And so it goes,” Maeve said, “and so it goes.”

Bleakly, she said, “God, Maeve, I’m turning into Mom, aren’t I?”

“Oh, sure.  I can just see Mom running around with no bra, marching to save the whales.  You’re not turning into her, Rose.  You just need to get a life.  I know you don’t want to hear this, but what you need is a man.”

Rose sighed.  “I guess it’s time to tell you the rest of it.  You remember that guy I met at the wedding?”

“The studly blond babe with the bedroom eyes? How could I forget? I wanted to have his babies.”

Rose cleared her throat.  “Well, Maeve, hold onto your hat.  I’m having his baby.”

Her sister snorted.  “In your dreams.”

“Maeve, I’m serious.  I’m pregnant.”

A moment of silence reigned before the explosion.  “Holy guacamole, Batman! You really are serious! How the hell did this happen?”

Dryly, Rose said, “It wasn’t exactly
in vitro
fertilization.”

“Sorry.  Stupid question.” Maeve’s voice softened.  “Oh, Rose.  A baby.  I’m so damn jealous.  Have you told him?”

I’ve told him.” Rose held her spoon at eye level and viewed its contents balefully.  “He wants to get married.”

“I hope to God you had the sense to say yes.”

“I told him it was out of the question.”

“You would.  Geez, if a guy that gorgeous offered to marry me, I’d have him down at City Hall so fast his head would spin.  And then I’d keep him on a leash.  A real short one.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.  I reconsidered.  I told him I’d think about it.”

“If I were you, I’d think real hard.”

“I have.  And I’ve made a decision.” She hadn’t realized it until this moment.  She slid the spoon into her mouth and let the chocolate melt on her tongue as she looked around the kitchen of the house she’d lived in since Luke was in diapers.  She wouldn’t be sorry to say good-bye to this place.  “In light of this afternoon’s events,” she said, “I’ve decided to make him a counter offer.”

chapter five

Jesse checked his watch for the fifth time and moved the centerpiece of yellow and purple chrysanthemums an eight of an inch to the left.  He would have used the best china, except that he didn’t have any best china, just the everyday dishes his ex-wife had bought at the IGA, one place setting at a time.  Frowning, he turned a dinner plate so the chipped rim wouldn’t be so noticeable.  The oven timer went off as Mikey thundered down the stairs.  Jesse flipped a dish towel over his shoulder and went to check on the roast.

It was cooking nicely, tender and juicy, with an aroma just this side of heaven.  He shut the oven door and set the timer for another ten minutes.  Mikey stood in the archway, football jacket in hand and a puzzled expression on his face.  “Who is this lady, anyway?” he said.

A water spot marred one of the glasses.  Jesse put it in the dishwasher and took a new one from the cupboard.  He paused to polish it with the dish towel before he set it on the table.  “Her name is Rose Kenneally.  She’s Rob’s sister.  I met her at the wedding.”

Mikey eyed the laden table suspiciously.  “You never had flowers and candles on the table when Mrs. Delacroix came over.”

His son had been twelve years old when Jesse had been dating Linda Delacroix, and he hadn’t thought Mikey knew what was going on.  Apparently he’d underestimated the kid.  “This isn’t a date,” he said.  “We have business to discuss.”

“Sure, Dad.  Whatever you say.” Mikey held out his hand.  “Keys?”

Jesse fished in his pocket and pulled out his keys.  “I don’t want to see any scratches on my truck when you bring it back.”

Mikey rolled his eyes.  “No scratches.”

“And don’t use up all my gas.”  

“Dad!”

He tossed his son the keys just as Rose Kenneally’s ancient blue Honda pulled up beside his pickup.  “Do you need any money?” he said.

“Twenty bucks would really make my life complete,” Mikey said as Rose stepped out of the car.

“You want twenty bucks, you’d best be cleaning the garage on Saturday.”

Mikey sighed.  “I’ll clean the garage on Saturday.”

Jesse fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and handed it over to his son.  “Now, scram.” Mikey grinned and pocketed the twenty, and then he was out the door.

Halfway down the walk, the boy came face to face with Rose.  She gave him an impish grin, and he nodded and stepped aside to let her pass.  Jesse dropped the curtain and tried to remember if he’d forgotten anything.  Tablecloth, flowers, candles, food.  Music? That was it.  A romantic dinner with a beautiful woman called for music.  He started for the stereo, then realized he had no idea what kind of music the mother of his unborn child preferred.

When she rapped on the door, he hurried to open it.  Rose was wearing jeans and a green silk blouse that fell softly around her curves.  She should always wear green, he decided.  Except when she wore nothing.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.  Come on in.  Dinner’s almost ready.”

When she stepped past him, the heat from her body drove her scent directly into his face.  She smelled of Ivory soap and warm woman, a combination that did dangerous things to his libido.  Jesse cleared his throat.  “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love a glass of milk.” She patted her tummy.  “It coats my stomach.”

“Milk it is.  Make yourself at home.”

He retreated to the safety of the kitchen.  Rose dropped her purse on a chair and stretched, slow and languorous, like a cat, before she moved to the table to admire the chrysanthemums.  “My mother grows these,” she said as he handed her the milk.  “She says they remind her of the strength of woman.  No matter how much of a beating they take, they just keep on blooming.”

“That’s poetic,” he said.

“That’s just Mary MacKenzie.” She sipped her milk and eyed him over the rim of the glass.  “You’d like her.”

“I think I already do.  How have you been feeling?”

“Better.  The morning sickness is almost gone.” She crossed her arms.  “Your son’s handsome.  And very polite.  How old did you say he was?”

“Sixteen.”

“He seems older, somehow.”