Something Unexpected (17 page)

“This Kiss” changed to a surprisingly sincere rendition of The Captain & Tenille's “Muskrat Love,” with the band, Honeyford's own Crystallized Honey, a group of sixtysomething musicians who had come out of retirement for Dean's brother's wedding, altering the lyrics to “Muskrat Rosemary, Muskrat Dean, do the jitterbug in their muskrat dreams…”

Dozens of people flocked to the door, shaking Dean's hand, hugging Rosemary and telling her how thrilled they were that one of the town's favorite sons had finally found his bride.

“Love couldn't happen to a more deserving man,” Dolores Schenk sighed, holding Rosemary's arm in a grip made tight partly from emotion and partly because the nonagenarian refused to use her walker. “He gives me all my medications at cost, bless his heart. I've prayed every day that he would find himself a good woman. And now he has. A librarian.” She waxed eloquently about the importance of education for a woman until her great-granddaughter eased her away.

Rosemary didn't see much of Dean for an hour as the confidences and back slapping continued. The party was in full swing when Vi, Daphne and Ginger swept through the community center's double doors. They found Rosemary immediately and spirited her away from her library clerk, Abby, who had dressed in a black lace Victorian ensemble reflecting her current reading material—
Tess of the d'Urbervilles
—and Abby's boyfriend, Colin, who wore black leather jeans and bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp in
Edward Scissorhands.

“Great band,” Vi yelled above the noise. “Haven't I seen them on
The Lawrence Welk Show?
”

“Shh.” Rosemary shook her head at her friend. “Apparently they came out of retirement for my brother-in-law's wedding and now they're unstoppable.”

“Speaking of your hottie brother-in-law.” Vi grinned wickedly, her red lips parting to reveal even teeth that had obviously undergone another round of laser whitening. “Where is he? I need a photo so I can lord it over my Pilates class—I stood next to the Tuff Enuff jeans butt.”

Rosemary gazed at her three best friends and broke out in a huge, tear-filled smile. “I'm so glad you're here.” They shared a group hug. “I've been ridiculously nervous about tonight.”

“Aw, why, sweetie?” Daphne, who wore a powder-blue knit dress that made her look like a Victoria's Secret angel but with more clothes, slipped a comforting arm around Rosemary's waist. “You look wonderful. Refreshed and happy.”

“Do I?” Rosemary sniffed, accepting a tissue from Ginger as she tried to stem the waterworks.

Ginger nodded. “You do. You were meant for marriage and motherhood, honey. And it appears you and your man are well-loved.” She glanced around. “There's a lot of support in this room. Isn't this everything you wanted?” Those words—
everything you wanted
—felt like ice cubes bobbing in Rosemary's blood. No, this wasn't everything she'd ever wanted. It was more.

She'd dreamt of the man and the children, but now she had an entire community around her, too. Every day the library became more and more her home away from home. She had started a book club and a Read to the Dogs program. When she went to the bank, the tellers greeted her by name, and yesterday Jan Tuma, the owner of Yellow Jacket Gently Used Clothes, had rushed from her store when Rosemary walked past, eager to tell the librarian that her son, Alex, who previously had thought he was a poor reader, just finished the entire
A Wrinkle in Time
trilogy Rosemary had suggested.

She belonged.

And it all felt
sooooo
good that it frightened her. Losing her dreams the first time, with Neil, had been hard. She'd been in a scary depression for months after the divorce. If she fell for Once Upon a Time again and lost it when she was this close, lost Dean and the family she'd dreamed about since she was a child, she didn't know how she'd survive. And she had to, because now her—
their
—child was involved.

“Family-of-origin alert. Mother and sisters heading through the doors.” Vi nodded toward the group that entered the Honeyford Community Center.

As Rosemary looked over her shoulder, her friends stepped closer, circling the wagons around her.

Rosemary's heart rate approached panic mode as her mother and sisters hovered on the threshold of the large multipurpose room, collectively looking like three earthling tourists who had been dropped off against their will on Mars.

Dressed in a Carolina Herrara suit that probably cost more than Rosemary's mortgage, and flanked by two of her daughters garbed in their own designer ensembles, Maeve Jeffers gazed at the small-town festivities—the twinkle lights, the Congratulations, Rosemary and Dean banner decorated in poster paints, the shiny ivory and white balloons, and the flowers stuffed in any vase that would have them, and you could tell she was sure she'd died and gone to Purgatory.

“Oh, holy heaven, I begged Lucy not to say anything about tonight.” Rosemary's gaze jerked around the room.

“Are you looking for Dean?” Daphne put a hand out to steady her friend.

“No. I'm looking for an escape route.”

“Rosemary, you cannot leave your groom alone with new in-laws.” Vi wagged a finger whose red-painted nail bore a skull-and-crossbones tattoo. “Especially
his
new in-laws.
Ginger, you help Rosemary find Dean. Daphne and I will handle Medea and the Greek Chorus. Come on, Daph.”

Only Daphne could make nausea look sexy. “Nothin' doin'. It's nothing personal, Rosemary, but Maeve scares me.”

Vi rolled her eyes, but reassigned the jobs, pulling Ginger along and shooing Daphne and Rosemary away.

They located Dean standing near the refreshments table, speaking to a thirtysomething woman who looked like Holly Hobbie come to life. Rather than the striking bottle-red locks that Vi sported so well, this woman's naturally curly hair was Opie-orange, thick and gorgeously unruly, a perfect complement to the amber freckles that dusted her milk-white skin. Gi-normous blue-gray eyes claimed most of the real estate on her face, leaving room for a small, rounded nose and puffy, cupid's-bow lips. Viewed individually, her features were quirky, but they worked in harmony to create a face one could look at a long time and not tire of.

Dean was nodding and smiling as they spoke.

“Wow, this is the first time I've seen your man since December,” Daphne said as she and Rosemary approached, arm in arm. “He's even hunkier than I remembered. Who's the woman?”

“I don't know her name, but I understand she owns the barbershop on Main Street. I've seen her through the window a few times.”

“The barbershop?” Daphne's energy picked up. “She's around men all day? Is she married?”

“I don't know.” Rosemary frowned at her friend's tone. “Why?”

“If she's around men for hours at a time, she ought to be comfortable with them, but she's nervous as a cat with Dean. Watch her. Keeps pushing her hair behind her ears, nervous smile. Major crush there.”

After several days without morning sickness, Rosemary began to feel ill.

“You have nothing to worry about, though,” Daphne assured her.

“How can you tell?”

Daphne stopped walking and looked at her friend in fond amazement. “Honestly, Rosemary, you're such a babe in the woods sometimes. Dean has no idea that woman is the slightest bit interested. Look at his eyes and his smile—extremely polite. One-hundred-percent platonic. He's oblivious. Which is very sweet where you're concerned, but übersad for her. I wonder how long she's been carrying a torch?”

Rosemary marveled at her friend's boy-girl acumen. Indeed, as they closed in on the chatting duo and Dean looked up to see his wife's approach, his expression transformed completely. The well-mannered attention he showed the redhead clicked into an expression that was keenly alert and pheromone-soaked. His eyes smiled, physical tension tightened his body and his lips broadened in a grin that was all for his wife. He didn't even glance at Daphne, who, Rosemary figured, was sexier than she could hope to be in this or three more lifetimes.

Her blood sang, the attraction one-hundred-percent mutual.

He's mine.
The sense of connectedness that had gone missing for the past few years was back, and now she yearned for more.
I want Dean Kingsley to be my best friend.
The thought stopped her in her tracks. She wanted all the things Dean talked about when he proposed.

Beside her, Daphne squeezed her arm. “Rosemary Jeffers Kingsley,” she whispered with a smile in her voice, “get a room.”

“Tried that,” Rosemary whispered back, her gaze on Dean. “That's why we're here.”

When they reached Dean, he introduced Gabriella Coombs, owner/operator of Honey Comb's barbershop, and Rosemary reintroduced him to Daphne, but their eyes never strayed long from each other.

“Congratulations, Rosemary,” Gabriella said, sweetly and politely. Rosemary shifted her focus from Dean to his friend long enough to see the pain that clouded her rainy-day eyes. “I hope you're enjoying H-Honeyford.”

Oh, sweet baby Jane, she's going to cry.
Daphne was right: the barber was in love with Dean.

Compassion, not jealousy or fear, filled Rosemary. She gave the woman a smile. “Thank you. It's a wonderful town. I hope…I hope we'll get to know each other better, Gabby.”

With a brave nod and a last, sad glance at Dean, Gabby excused herself.

Daphne began to chat about the party, engaging Dean, who slipped an arm around his wife's waist, while Rosemary collected herself. Gabby Coombs's loneliness was a palpable thing, and Rosemary knew that if it hadn't been for one aberrant night in December, she would be looking at a future far, far different from the one that currently opened before her.

She studied Dean as he spoke animatedly about small business with Daphne.

Two years of marriage will never be enough.
Dean's hand made gentle up and down strokes along Rosemary's expanding waist. Last night he'd treated her to a full body massage, placing his palm protectively over her stomach and whispering in Rosemary's ear, “Ours.”

She had waited all her life, it seemed, to feel like this, like part of something sweet and strong and timeless as the sea—a family. Because she had stopped expecting it to happen, she'd almost missed it. Dean had sneaked up on her, moving staunchly through her fears like a soldier marching through a sandstorm.

Thank you,
she thought.
Oh, my God, thank you for not giving up.

“What do you think, Rosemary? Yoo-hoo. Rosemary!”

Hearing her name after it had been called a couple of times, Rosemary blinked. “What?”

Daphne gave them her angel's grin. “I said the food smells great, but something tells me that's not what's on
your
mind.” She nudged Dean. “Dance with your wife. I think she'll be putty in your arms.”

He grinned. “Try the pierogis,” he said to Daphne as she strolled away, then leaned down to nuzzle his wife's neck. “And I'll try you.”

Crystallized Honey began “My Eyes Adored You” as Dean and Rosemary took to the floor. The silly crystal ball spun slowly above them; the balloons bobbed as children played with their strings; the twinkle lights looked cheap, but charming as heck. Dean looped his hands at the small of his wife's back while she circled her arms around his neck. There was nowhere on earth she would rather be.

“Thank you for going along with this,” Dean murmured as they swayed. “In Honeyford, the longtime residents tend to think of each other more as family than neighbors. They figure it's their right to throw us a reception.”

“I'm glad they did,” she said, meaning it. “I'm sorry I made such a fuss earlier. I can see I'm going to have to get used to a lot of community involvement if I'm going to be married to Honeyford's favorite son.”

Dean laughed. “I am not their favorite son.”

“You're definitely in the top five.”

They grinned at each other. The urge to say more made Rosemary's heart thump with nerves.

Do it. You've been making love with the man, for heaven's sake. His baby is growing inside you. Tell him how you feel.

Like a softly running stream, their gazes flowed in the space between them. It felt so easy, this moment of intimate connection on a crowded dance floor…except for the confession that hovered on Rosemary's tongue.

As he often seemed to, Dean paved her way. “How about for you?” he questioned softly. “Have I made it to your top five yet?”

T
he pulse in Rosemary's throat shimmied. She shook her head. “Not the top five, no. I'd say…” Heat filled her face.
Take the plunge, Rosemary. Take the plunge.
“I'd say—”

Hic!

Not again! She hadn't hiccuped once since she'd said, “I do.”

Hic!

Oh, for the love of heaven.

Leaning back a few inches, Dean watched his bride with wry acceptance. “You want some water?”

“No!”
Hic.
She pulled her arms from around his neck and slapped her chest in disgust. “This is so ridiculous.”

Releasing his dance hold, Dean brought his hands up to cradle her face. “It's all right. I've learned to speak hiccup where you're concerned. You get them every time you're about to take a step toward me, did you know that? I have a theory.”

Rosemary fell into his eyes. How could any man be so patient? So calm and so strong at the same time? “What is it?”

“Part of you wants to dive into the rabbit hole with me, but there's another part that wants to stay right where you are. The closer you get to jumping, the more tense you get, and—hiccups.”

Rosemary frowned. “Rabbit hole? You're saying our relationship is like the rabbit hole in
Alice in Wonderland?
That's not very comforting. It was chaos down there.”

“Yep. Chaos. Scary and unknown, and sometimes nothing seems to make any sense. I figure jumping into the hole together is what brings the comfort. Staying the course together. Although so far, Rosie Jo, that's just a theory.”

She understood what he was saying. He needed a partner to turn hypothesis to reality. He'd been ready for a while, waiting for her.

Though her mouth went dry, Rosemary spoke. “Let's test your theory.”
Boom, boom, boom.
Her chest cavity felt like a kettledrum being played too hard. She swallowed hard around the pounding. “I'm willing to jump. With you.”

Dean stared at her a long time. Then a grin broke like sunshine over his face. He threw back his head and whooped. It was loud, out of character and wonderful. She laughed as he whirled her around then kissed her before her feet hit the ground. After so many gray days, the future sparkled with color.

“Well, I'd like to meet my son-in-law.” Maeve Jeffers's ever-determined voice broke into the festivities. “I assume this is he?”

Dean set Rosemary down and together they turned toward four women—Maeve, Rosemary's sisters, Lucy and Evelyn, and Vi—all of whom stared back with a decided mix of reactions. Rosemary's mother, the only attorney Rosemary knew
who was scarier than Lucy, looked much the way she did when going after a deadbeat father in court; her sisters appeared faintly appalled, and Vi was amused.

“Hi, Mom,” Rosemary greeted, hoping she could hang on to the good feelings despite an immediate flashback to the day two decades ago when her mother found her practicing the wedding march with a pillowcase bobby-pinned to her hair.

“Rosemary,”
Maeve had told her twelve-year-old romantic, not ungently,
“do you know that some of the world's great feminist writers have compared marriage to slavery?”

Face-to-face with her daughter's second husband, Maeve extended her hand with a kind of militaristic grace. Like a marine sniper at high tea. “How do you do? I'm Maeve Jeffers, your new mother-in-law…apparently.”

“Dean Kingsley.” Dean accepted her hand graciously, glancing at Rosemary. “Luckiest man alive.”

Despite the pleasure rush that engulfed her, Rosemary knew too well that Dean had just slapped a bull's eye on his own forehead. Her mother and sisters were always extrasuspicious of a man who appeared besotted and had the temerity to talk about it. At their cousin Madeline's wedding to a man who toasted his bride by tearfully quoting Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Lucy had leaned in to Rosemary and cracked,
“I'll be seeing him in court when he uses the child support to pay for his mistress's boob job.”

For the first time, Rosemary wasn't concerned about her relatives' opinions, not on her own behalf. They could think whatever the heck they wanted; she was happy, dang it! She did, however, feel a ferocious surge of protectiveness toward Dean.

Hugging her mother and sisters, Rosemary whispered, “Play nicely,” and wondered how to draw Lucy aside to make sure her lawyer sister had kept mum about the prenup and
Rosemary's pregnancy. Lucy's thin body was as tense as piano wire, not an unusual state for her, but she appeared particularly stiff this evening.

Rosemary made bug eyes at Vi, hoping for a little inspiration about how to handle the moment, but Vi mouthed
Lotsa luck
and took an extralong swig of diet soda.

“You look lovely, Rosemary,” Maeve admitted, scrutinizing her youngest daughter closely then turning her attention to Dean. “Do you mind if I pull you away from my daughter for a moment? I'd like to get to know you a little better before I head back to Portland.”

“I'll come, too, Mom,” Rosemary said immediately. “I haven't seen you in months.”

“We're hoping you'll stay in Honeyford a few days,” Dean added, including Evelyn and Lucy as well, which caused Vi to choke on her soda and Rosemary nearly to gag on her own spit.

“Unfortunately that won't be possible,” Maeve declined. “I'm due in court on Monday and need to prepare. I'm going to put the screws to a multimillionaire who had the audacity to suggest his wife of twenty years should be happy with a lump-sum settlement that doesn't even reach seven figures.” She smiled brightly at her new son-in-law. “Men can be so naive.”

“Mom,” Rosemary chastised at the blatant warning.
This
was what she'd had to overcome all her life in order to believe in romance.

Dean squeezed her waist and merely smiled. He'd asked about her family a couple of nights ago, and she hadn't held back. He'd laughed at some of the things she'd told him, winced at others and commiserated. He hadn't grown up in a Beaver Cleaver world, either. Though his parents' brief marriage had been happy, his father had apparently had a far more difficult second union. Dean had also divulged that
the current
mayor
of Honeyford, Gwen Gibson, had been his father's mistress for many years.

“In the end, though, my father believed a committed marriage was the most important ingredient to happiness,”
Dean had surprised her by saying.
“I'm sure he wished he'd married Gwen. My father's problem was that he had no idea how to achieve the kind of marriage he believed in.”

For several moments after that conversation, Dean had seemed distracted, distant for the first time since she'd met him. Glancing at him now, she saw that he was plenty connected and assessing the situation with his new in-laws correctly.

With great politeness, he invited, “I'd love to have some time to know you better before you leave, Maeve. And, I'm sure you have a number of questions I'd be happy to answer.” He squeezed Rosemary's waist again, a pointedly reassuring caress, and added, “Sweetheart, why don't you introduce your sisters around. I see Fletcher and Claire over by the fireplace.”

“Fletcher?” Vi perked up. “Absolutely let's go see Fletcher. I've got my camera.”

“Fletcher…Kinglsey?” Evelyn, the senior director of advertising at a firm that served the west coast from San Francisco to Anchorage, busily put two and two together. “Your brother-in-law is the Tuff Enuff jeans model?” she asked Rosemary.

Vi raised her can of soda. “Ain't life grand?”

“I'll tag along with Mom and Dean,” Lucy announced, far more interested in interrogating a new victim than ogling a cowboy—or snagging him for an ad campaign, which Rosemary figured was Evelyn's angle.

Rosemary looked at Dean, undecided. Should she allow her mother and sister, two self-avowed man-distrusting divorce attorneys, to be alone with her new husband when there was no telling what kind of shape they'd leave him in?

She looked Dean square in the eye. He winked.

Team Kingsley vs. Team Jeffers,
his expression said.
This one's a slam dunk.

The silent communication made her feel more than ever like part of a couple, and her nervous heart settled.

All right, then,
she winked back.
Good luck.

All the while she stood beside Vi and Evelyn—and eventually Daphne and Ginger, who made their way over, too—as they pelted Fletcher with requests for photos and his agent's phone number, Rosemary knew she had found her needle in the haystack, the man who made her want to believe again.

Yesterday she had seen her obstetrician, making the two-hour round-trip trek to Bend for what she hoped would be the last time. Now that she and Dean were married she could see a doctor here in town. Maybe Dean would even come with her. There would be gossip, no doubt, when folks did the math, but if they knew that she and Dean loved each other…

Love. A grin spread across her face. After promising herself that never again would she have expectations of any man, here she was, expecting. Expecting like crazy! Expecting Dean's baby, expecting his friendship, expecting a lifetime together.

They had gone into this relationship entirely backward and had a lot of catching up to do. Thankfully they'd gotten a good head start: he was becoming a wonderful friend already.

Her thoughts a million miles away, she didn't notice her sister-in-law trying to catch her attention until Claire tugged her away from the group. “Fletcher says I shouldn't ask, but you look so happy I just have to. How are things? Are you and Dean enjoying marriage?” She put a hand to her mouth, adorably. “Oh, shoot, that sounds way too personal. Scratch that. Are you getting excited about the baby?”

Rosemary grinned. “I am. I really, really am.”

“Do you know what you're having?”

Glancing around to be sure no one else could hear their conversation, Rosemary nodded. “I found out yesterday. I've been trying to think of a creative way to tell Dean.”

Claire's eyes glowed with sweet remembering. “I loved that part—telling Arlo what we were going to have. I usually strung it out a good long while.”

Dean had told Rosemary that Arlo was Claire's first husband. He'd died before their third child, Rosalind, had made her appearance. Rosemary could tell by Claire's expression and by the tone of her lovely Southern voice that her marriage to Arlo had been a good one. Now that the young woman (Rosemary guessed Claire to be several years younger than her own thirty-two) was in a second happy marriage, Rosemary wondered whether she and Fletcher would add a fourth child to their brood. She decided to ask and earned a sigh.

“Well, I have brought that up, and Fletcher has agreed to discuss it in ten years or so.”

“Ten years,” Rosemary laughed. “Oh, no. I was hoping for lots and lots of cousins for our little one.”

Claire glanced lovingly at her husband, surrounded and looking none too thrilled about it, by Rosemary's sister and friends. “Well,” Claire mused, “Fletcher is a new daddy still. He's in that deer-caught-in-the-headlights stage where he's afraid he'll make a mistake that will destroy the world as we know it. Poor baby dreamed last night that he dropped Will on his head. And Will's seven.”

“No kidding.” It was hard to believe they were talking about the six-foot-plus rodeo star. “Wasn't Fletcher a bull rider?”

“Yes. But I haven't met a bull yet that could bring a man to his knees quick as a baby can.” Claire inched closer and lowered her voice even though the music and chatter would have made it hard for anyone to overhear their conversation. “Also you've got to remember that Fletcher and Dean's daddy left them fairly confused about what it takes to be a
husband and father. It's hard to understand that man's motives, isn't it?”

Clueless, Rosemary didn't bother to mask her bemusement. “Sorry? I'm not sure what you mean by ‘motives.' Motives for what?”

The change in Claire's expression was swift and more confusing than her comment. The cheerful openness from a moment before fled, replaced by a shuttered, uncertain look. “Oh, it was nothing. I don't know why I even brought it up.” She looked at Fletcher…a little desperately, Rosemary thought. “I'd better rescue my husband. I wonder if your sister or one of your friends just used the word
model,
'cause he's wincing like he's in a lot of pain.”

Rosemary smiled, but watched curiously as Claire pulled her husband away. The girls began to animatedly discuss Fletcher's assets, but Rosemary's attention was halfhearted at best. When she found an appropriate moment to excuse herself, she took it.

Wandering the room in search of Dean proved to be futile. Every few steps, someone stopped her to chat, but no one knew where Dean had gone. Finally she came upon Irene Gould and Henry Berns, the owner of Honey Bea's Bakery.

Henry, a couple of inches shorter than Irene and obviously no more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, carried a full plate of food and was about to bite into a sauce-covered cabbage roll. Irene, who had known the little baker most of their lives, hovered over him. “Henry Berns, you're closer to eighty than eighteen. What are you thinking, eating like that?”

“Eighty? Speak for yourself. I may be no spring chicken, but I can still crow like a rooster.” He winked at Rosemary, popped the cabbage roll in his mouth and scooped up kasha
varnishkas.

Irene compressed her lips and turned to Rosemary.
“Congratulations, darling. So exciting. Marriage is a wonderful thing.”

“How do you know?” Henry asked good-naturedly enough, scraping the plate with his fork.

Irene's eyes widened, shocked and, if Rosemary was correct, deeply hurt. “Why you old—” she began then clamped her lips shut. Her chest rose and fell heavily.