Something Unexpected (18 page)

Rosemary's heart went out to her, but she had no idea how to help.
Major history there.
“Um, have either of you seen Dean recently?” she asked in the uncomfortable silence.

“He walked Gwen Gibson to her car,” Irene informed stiffly, shooting a dagger-sharp glance at Henry. “
He's
a gentleman.”

Ouch.
“Thanks. I think I'll get a breath of fresh air myself.”

The little baker looked up. “What do you mean, ‘He's a gentleman'? Are you saying I'm not a gentleman?”

Yikes.
With a wave, Rosemary left the two to whatever they had to work out and threaded through the crowd, escaping finally to the brisk spring night.

Embedded in the clear sky, stars winked more brightly than the twinkle lights in the community hall. Stretching her arms, Rosemary breathed deeply, thinking about the scene that had just transpired. Relationships were so complex. Did anyone find her way through the maze unscathed?

A powerful need to see her husband, to feel the comfort of his solid arms and his eminently reassuring calmness, arose in Rosemary. She squinted in the darkness. Cars had been parked along the curbless street, beside old hitching posts that remained from horse-and-buggy days. A black iron streetlamp flickered, shedding just enough light to see by, but there was no sign of Dean.

Realizing she should have grabbed a coat, Rosemary hugged her arms and made her way around the corner to the
small parking lot behind the community center. It was nice of Dean to walk Gwen Gibson to her car. Rosemary had met the mayor twice—once shortly after she'd been hired to run the library, and once when Ms. Gibson had checked out a book on civic government. Nice lady. Widowed. Probably around sixty, she came across as very poised, with a comfortable elegance and a truckload of natural charm. She'd been in a long, somewhat tumultuous relationship with Dean's father, and though she'd married someone else and had a college-age son from that relationship, she and Victor Kingsley had become, at the very least, good friends again at the end of his life. Dean seemed to like and respect the woman, which was enough to make Rosemary more than happy to get to know Gwen better.

Before she'd completely rounded the brick building, Rosemary heard a female voice.

“It's incredible the way everything's worked out, isn't it? First for Fletcher and now for you.”

The masculine response seemed to rumble through her own chest. “I couldn't have asked for it to turn out better.” Rosemary smiled.
Found you.
She felt her body relax even as anticipation fizzed along her nerves.
I'm like a teenager,
she thought with sappy surrender,
happy just to be getting closer to my guy
. She picked up her pace, but before she reached the parking lot, Gwen spoke again. This time, the words made Rosemary stumble on the gravel.

“I was so afraid your father's will was going to cause a disaster. I don't have to tell you how much I loved Victor, but requiring you to marry to gain an inheritance was incredibly risky. I knew you'd be more tolerant of the situation than Fletcher, but honestly, I thought the will might deter you both from ever marrying.”

Rosemary's brain began to spin inside her skull. She reached reflexively for the brick wall, but her hand only scraped its
rough surface. For several moments she couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think. Then the words just spoken collided with the puzzling comment Claire had made, and her mind filled so horribly with dark thoughts she almost screamed.

She had the presence of mind to do one thing—back away. Stumbling a little, feeling her way along the wall as her legs turned to jelly, she reached the front of the community center. Go back inside? Not possible. Whirling left, adrenaline kicking in, propelling her like a hunted deer, she headed for the cover of the building on the other side of the driveway.
Good choice, Rosemary. Keep moving, keep moving.
Grateful for the Western-style building's deep porch, she headed for its farthest reaches, leaned against the rough wooden facade and hyperventilated.

God in heaven, she couldn't have made a mistake of such magnificent proportions. She couldn't be so wrong, so blind about a man, about their relationship…. Could she? Not this time, not…

With a baby on the way.

Her thoughts progressed to near hysteria.

Dean had married her because of a will. Gwen knew. Claire knew! And how many others?

Rosemary buried her head in her hands. “No, no, no.” Things like this didn't happen to people in the real world; they happened on soap operas and
Jerry Springer
episodes and in nightmares.

Sobs built inside her, but she refused to let them gain power. She needed every wit she possessed. Lifting her head, she felt her heart buck as Dean walked around the community center, his shadowed form as tall and straight as ever.

Liar. Fake. Criminal.

If what she'd heard held even a kernel of truth then there were no words bad enough for what he'd done, for the way
he'd misled and encouraged her to trust in him. For the way he'd made her love again.

I have to talk to Lucy. I have to dissolve this marriage!

A car rolled out of the parking lot and down the block. Gwen Gibson, the mayor of their fair town.
“I don't have to tell you how much I loved your father.”
The Kingsleys wove a large and tangled web.

The town that had seemed like such a haven mere minutes ago now felt about as wholesome as Wisteria Lane.

“I've got to get out of here.” Rosemary struggled for breath as Dean disappeared inside the community center.
Run. Run as fast and as far as you can.

Two years ago Rosemary was supposed to have worked on the evening of her tenth wedding anniversary, which had been her birthday, too, because Neil, bless him, had insisted, “I want to get married on the day God made the perfect woman for me.”

When her boss had let her go home early, she'd made reservations at their favorite restaurant and rushed home to surprise him. He'd looked surprised, all right. Naked, having sex on their couch with his paralegal, and surprised.

Rosemary had been too stunned to say a word. She'd simply run out the door while Neil yelled after her, “I didn't use our bed, Rosemary!”

That was true: he hadn't used their bed—that time. During their divorce, however, there had been a steady stream of informants, more than willing to assure her that divorce was the right decision, that her husband had been cheating on her for years.

Slowly Rosemary walked to the edge of the porch, hot now despite the chill night air. She had loved Neil once, would never have suspected him capable of such treachery, yet even during their marriage she had known there was something missing, an elusive, soul-deep sense of…rightness…of
completion, a click for which she had reached and reached before finally telling herself it would come with age.

Then she met Dean. What had scared—and thrilled—her most that first night was that she had felt the click the first time his eyes had crinkled at her.

Tears gathered, then began to squirt like projectiles.

Blast.
She pressed a hand over her mouth and prayed for calm, for composure, for a shot of Novocain straight to the heart. What lesson, damn it, was she supposed to be learning?

Don't run.

As if the voice were outside her, loud and clear, she heard the message:
Stop running. Stand and face up to your life. Face your dreams, even the ones that are broken, and for pity's sake, face the sonofabitch who's breaking them.

Stock-still, but panting as if she'd broken the tape in a marathon, Rosemary waited for her mind to catch up with that voice.

She'd fallen in love. Again. More wildly than before. And unfortunately, being duped didn't change that fact.

Now she was going to have a daughter to raise. That was the news she'd planned to give Dean tonight. They were having a baby girl. And no matter what her mama told her, that baby girl that would someday be a young woman who yearned to love and be loved. What could Rosemary teach her? What kind of role model would she be?

Just don't run.

Maybe she couldn't keep her daughter's heart safe or pain-free. Of course she couldn't. If Maeve and all her preaching against the myth of the romantic fairy tale hadn't worked, what would?

Not a damn thing, probably.

Like Rosemary, her daughter would choose her own path to tread. God willing, she'd be lucky. As for Rosemary…

“I'm done.”

There was only one thing left to do, as far as she could tell. Wiping her eyes, she sniffed hard. Time to be a big girl, broken or not.

Rosemary headed resolutely toward the building where her wedding reception was still going strong despite the fact the marriage had tanked. Her family and friends were in there. They'd driven three hours to celebrate with her; she wasn't going to abandon them. No. She was going to go back in there and finish this reception. In style.

Allowing a moment's grief for the loss of the beautiful future she had planned, Rosemary sucked it up and kept walking. She couldn't stay in Honeyford after this. The details of where she would move and when could be settled in the light of day. Right now, she had a surprise for the man who had turned her dream to dust. It was time to toast the groom…or turn the groom to toast.

S
omething was wrong. Damn wrong.

For the past hour, Dean had watched his bride work the room—her smile wide and ready, her gaze sharp, her laughter bold. But to him, she looked like a piece of crystal—solid and beautiful, yet teetering on the edge of a table over a hardwood floor, about to shatter at any minute. Worse, she wouldn't let him get anywhere near her.

Five minutes ago he'd spotted her dancing with his nephew Will. As he began to make his way through the crowd, which hadn't thinned a hair since the start of the evening, Rosemary glanced up, ignored his smile and twirled Will over to her friend Vi. Then she whispered something in the redhead's ear and took off without another glance in Dean's direction.

Enough was definitely enough, so he'd pressed after her, but Len had stopped him, having a
man
ic (man in panic) attack, because Daphne had just revealed that she planned to be celibate until she met her future husband, no matter how
long it took. “She thinks a man's going to go for that? Partner, that's like saddling a racehorse then putting it in the barn.”

It had taken a few minutes to calm Len down. Now Dean was looking for Rosemary again.

A loud, amplified whistle rent the air. “Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please? Up here.”

Dean turned toward the far end of the hall, where the band played on a raised stage. Eugene Brock, former sheriff and current lead guitarist of Crystallized Honey, was speaking into the mike. Rosemary stood next to him, looking nervous, but brave.

“Folks, we're here to celebrate another couple God put together right here in Honeyford. Now it happens that the very last time we were here in this room 'cause of a wedding, Dean's brother, Fletcher, had just tied the knot. Seems like the Kingsleys are having more than their fair share of luck this year.”

Laughter and ribbing erupted from the crowd. “Yeah!” Reginald Jacobson, who owned a small sheep ranch outside of town, hollered, “Two pretty women move to town, and the Kingsleys get 'em both. What's up with that? The next one's mine!”

“Well, soon as you take care of that comb-over, Reg, I believe you'll have better luck.” More hooting followed Eugene's comment. He patted the air to calm everyone down. “We've got to give our attention to the guest of honor here. The brand-spankin'-new Mrs. Kingsley would like to make a toast.” Detaching the microphone from its stand, he handed it to Rosemary. “Mrs. Kingsley, the floor is yours.”

Dean tensed as his wife accepted the mike with a nod and a deep breath. Shouldn't he be up there with her? One of Claire's more elaborate cakes had been carried out and placed on the end of the buffet table. He'd assumed they would make their toasts while cutting the tiered creation. Perhaps Rosemary
wanted to surprise him, and that's what her avoidance had been about. He began to move toward the stage, this time propelled by shoulder slaps.

As he reached the steps leading to where his wife stood, their gazes locked. Instead of the melting sugar look he expected…wanted…to see, Rosemary's brow puckered. Her lids lowered, narrowing her expression to a cloud-covered puzzle. He stopped walking, remained at the foot of the steps and knew instantly she wanted it that way.

Instead of inviting her husband onto the stage, Rosemary raised the microphone, turned toward the crowd and gave them a smile they may have believed was genuine, but which he realized went no further than the stretch of her lips.

“Thank you.” She acknowledged the former sheriff then expelled a breath that reverberated in the mike. “Thank you all for coming.” Taking a moment, she centered herself, looking poised and self-possessed as the toast began. “It's no secret that I arrived in Honeyford a single woman. Yet now here I am, very unexpectedly married.” Happy applause punctuated the comment. She nodded to recognize it. “Some might say I let Dean sweep me off my feet—” increased cheerful hollers “—or that we rushed things. And maybe that's true.”

Her eyes skittered toward his again. Dean felt his heart drop heavily toward his gut. What the hell… Her glance was brief. Brittle.

He considered this one of the most important nights in his life. Earlier today he had contacted his father's lawyer, instructing him to sell the building on Main Street to the city of Honeyford for the bargain-basement price of one dollar. The only stipulation was that he be allowed to lease the space occupied by the pharmacy for the next ten years and that Clinica Adelina be allowed to lease the two neighboring storefronts at current market value for the same period of time. He'd told Gwen as much this evening when he'd walked her to her car.
She was the executor of the will and believed, as he did, that the city would go for the terms. Because he had married in time to meet the will's demands, he held the cards. What they didn't have to know was that he would relinquish the building no matter what. He couldn't conduct this marriage under the shadow of his father's will.

All his life Dean had tried to do the right thing. Now the “right thing” was whatever it took to make his relationship with Rosemary work.

So that glance of hers, sharp as glass, raised an alarm in his head. He met her eyes with a question in his own.

“The thing is,” she said, again addressing the room, managing to look poised yet vulnerable, “all my life I wanted to marry a man I knew would never let me down. A man I could trust, because his word would be as good as gold, and his love…” for a breath of space, her voice hovered before she completed the thought “…his love would be immovable. I wanted to look into his eyes and know that the man I loved when I was thirty would be standing beside me fifty years later. And nothing would have changed except the lines on our faces.” She looked at the crowd of neighbors, friends and family, her smile inviting their comradeship and offering her own. “When you get down to it, that's what most of us are looking for, isn't it? To know that the person we go to sleep beside each night will be in our corner the next day?”

Dean heard a feminine sniffle. In his mind, a bull's eye began to take shape on his back.

His own brother, formerly the devil incarnate, had pointed out that Dean had been lying by omission for the duration of his relationship with Rosemary. Now he stared at his wife, at the hazel eyes that looked like a lake on fire, and though he had no idea what had transpired between their dance and this moment, he knew she delivered no ordinary toast.

Rosemary held the microphone with both hands. “Some
people—people in my own family, even—” she grinned to minimize any implied judgment “—say true love is a fairy tale. That to keep from falling down, a strong woman has to stand up alone. Well, to tell you the truth, after surviving a broken heart once, I was all set to agree with them. I even told my friends I wasn't going to date again.
Ever.
” More laughter from their guests. Rosemary nodded. “I know, I know. You speak, the universe laughs. And, of course, then I met Dean.” As the chuckles died down, she lowered her voice, sounding almost wistful. “I never expected to meet someone so caring. So willing to put other people first. So deeply, deeply moral. I don't mind telling you that at first I thought he was too good to be true. And I decided to keep my distance. But that Dean, he's a persistent—” she paused, slightly but significantly “—devil. When I married him, I knew that with a man like him, I could put my fears to rest.” Her eyes cut to her husband, who felt her gaze like the point of a saber aimed at his heart. “Because Dean Kingsley—the honest, up-front man you all know, the Prince Charming I had started to believe didn't exist—that man would never, ever,
willingly
let me fall.”

There was more sniffling. Rosemary raised her glass of punch, and while their guests drank, she and Dean looked at each other with one thing crystal clear between them: the honeymoon was over. In spades.

 

Rosemary pressed her shoulder against the Prius's passenger-side door, gazing out the window at the clear, sharp night. They'd left the party five minutes ago; it was almost 11:00 p.m.

In the driver's seat—literally, but most definitely not figuratively—Dean had been mostly silent. He hadn't said much at all, in fact, since her toast, and she wasn't sure whether she was glad or angrier than ever.

Now as they neared her cottage, he asked, “Do you want to talk now or wait until we get home?”

If she were a porcupine, he'd be covered in quills right now. When she'd discovered the extent of Neil's cheating, Rosemary had left her house and hadn't returned. She'd let Neil live there until they'd sold the lovely Lake Oswego three-bedroom in the divorce settlement. Not this time. The cottage belonged to her, and she was no pushover. Not anymore.

“My home is on 4th Street,” she said quietly but firmly. “Yours is above the pharmacy.” They would have to talk, yes, but she wanted the ground rules established: the marriage, as they had so briefly known it, was over.

Still a couple of blocks from the house, Dean pulled over and cut the engine. He turned toward her. “Who told you?”

“Who told me what, Dean? What is there to tell? Honeyford's favorite son is an open book, right?”

“Rosie—”

She held her hand up between them. “Refrain from using nicknames or endearments, please. These days they tend to make me gag.”

Dean kept a hand on the steering wheel. His knuckles tightened around it, whitening. He shook his head. “I'm an ass. Whether you believe it or not, Rosie—” She glared at him. “Rosemary—I was going to tell you about my father's will tonight.”

“You were going to tell me
tonight.
After our wedding reception.” She blinked, affecting a broad smile. “Gosh, that makes all the difference. Thanks. Oh, wait.” She began counting off points on her fingers. “Four months after we slept together, two months after you found out I was pregnant and almost three weeks after we got married, you were just going to tell me that according to your father's will you
had
to get married. Ooh, you know what? I'm not that grateful, after all.” She shrugged broadly. “Sorry.” Dropping the sarcasm,
she went for the jugular. “What is the matter with you? What kind of person does something like this? Who gets married because of a will? And
deceives
people about it?” The interior of the small car filled with her wrath. She had plenty more to say, but then remembered something. “Oh, my god. Amanda found out about the will, didn't she? That's why she broke up with you.”

“Amanda did not break up with me.” Twisting as fully as he could toward Rosemary, Dean said, carefully and clearly, “I broke up with her, because when I saw you again I knew I couldn't marry anyone else. Amanda was aware of the will from the start. She wasn't in love with me.”

Rage, hot and furious, exploded within her, and Rosemary kept her arms rigidly by her side so she wouldn't attack him. Never in her life, not even with Neil, had she felt so outraged, so dangerously furious.

“I don't know Amanda, I didn't know your father, and I obviously
don't know you,
but it's clear that not one of you understands or cares that marriage is something sacred, not a game. You don't play with it, and you don't mess with other people's lives.”

Dean's face knotted with regret and contrition. He looked so aggrieved, in fact, that she might have comforted him if she hadn't wanted, at that moment, to turn his male parts into pudding.

“Rosie—” he began. Once more channeling one of the witches in
Macbeth,
she raised a brow. “Rosemary,” he corrected, “only a handful of people know about my father's will. I'm not sure who told you—”

“Nobody told me,” she said, omitting what she now recognized as a slip on Claire's part, earlier. She didn't want to involve anyone else in this mess. “I was coming to look for you and overheard Gwen Gibson say how beautifully everything had worked out for you and Fletcher. Imagine my surprise
when I heard the mayor congratulate my husband on his
forced
marriage.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly, swearing beneath his breath. “I'm sorry. That isn't what I intended—” He stopped as a new realization dawned. “Wait. If you overheard Gwen and me then you—” He shook his head. “You didn't stay for the whole conversation, did you?”

“No. Although, golly, that would have been fun. What'd you two talk about next? Insurance scams? Pyramid schemes?”

Dean did not answer. He merely started the car again, and Rosemary was glad. Sarcasm was not her usual modus operandi. She felt as if an alien force had taken over her tongue, and she was already sick of it, sick of the hatred she felt. She wanted to be done.

Exhaustion, as swift and global as her fury, drained her. When Dean passed her cottage without stopping, it took her a moment to react.

“What are you doing? Go back, please. I want to go home.”

Dean didn't look at her. “We're going to see Gwen.” He set his jaw as if steeling himself to press forward no matter what.

“I don't want to see anyone, and it's eleven p.m. I doubt Gwen will be happy to see us.”

Dean turned right on Oak Street then made a left on Second, heading for an area of lovely old Victorians. “You heard a fraction of our conversation,” he said. “You're not going to believe anything I tell you right now, and I don't blame you. So you're going to hear the rest of it from Gwen.” He stared forward, through the windshield again, his face illuminated by the occasional streetlamp. “From the second I saw you, I felt differently about you than I've felt about any other woman in my life. I didn't tell you the truth right away, because—” Now he glanced her way. “How the hell do you tell someone
your father's will requires you to marry? I was afraid I'd lose you before we ever got started.”