Something Unexpected (9 page)

She coughed lightly to clear her throat.

Then sighed.

Then she reached for her orange juice, took a shaky sip and replaced the glass on its cocktail napkin.

She folded her hands in her lap.

One of her feet began to tap madly, so she crossed her legs to quell the anxious motion.

Spit it out, Rosemary!

“I've been thinking about our situation all afternoon. It's hard to think of anything else, isn't it? I told one of my friends—she was here the night I met you—Daphne. I don't know whether you remember?”

“The blonde.” Dean nodded. “My friend Len was smitten.”

“Oh. Well, I told Daphne what was going on. I hope you don't mind—”

He waved the concern away. “I'd expect you to discuss a
major life event with your friends. I'd be more worried if you didn't. I assume you've told your family, too?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “No. I'd rather not tell my family until we have certain decisions ironed out.”

Crossing his arms, Dean settled himself against the ladder-back chair, observing her soberly. He wasn't a husky man, but he was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked too big for the stingy piece of furniture. “Maybe,” he said, “your family can help you reach those decisions.”

She nearly groaned. If only he could appreciate the irony.

Her mother, after lamenting Rosemary's apparent inability to navigate birth control at the age of thirty-two, would remind her that the decision to forfeit one's independence this way lasted at least eighteen years.

One thing Rosemary had to say about Dean: at no time had he chosen the easy way out of this situation. He could have walked; she'd certainly given him the opportunity to turn a blind eye to her pregnancy.

Frowning, she folded the edges of her cocktail napkin. “We've both had a few days to let this sink in,” she began, needing to know more about him before she said what she'd come here to say. “Have you—at any time—considered asking me to end the pregnancy?”

It took her a few seconds to lift her gaze from the napkin and let it focus on his face. She saw an expression she had not witnessed on him before. Blue lasers, his eyes pinned her with a steely intensity. His shoulders grew rigid, and he looked as if only a mighty effort allowed him to control his voice when he responded. “If you don't want this baby, I do. Your body is the one that has to go through nine months of pregnancy, I realize that, but you're carrying something that belongs to me, too. If you need help—with money, time, anything—I'll give it to you, but don't do anything—”

Rosemary held up a hand. “I'm not, I'm not.” She shook
her head. “I asked because I wondered how committed you are to the idea of being a father.” She smiled wryly. “I guess we're clear on that now.”

He watched her closely a moment longer. Slowly, his shoulders began to relax.

What an interesting man he was. Never married although he was thirty-five, not above a one-night stand, yet willing to become a single father if necessary.

“Have you always wanted children?” she asked. “Or is this a philosophical conviction?”

He gave the question the consideration it was due. “I used to want children. In my twenties, I figured I'd be a father by the time I was thirty. Somewhere along the line I became less convinced, and more recently…” he hesitated “…I thought I'd marry, but wasn't sure kids were in the picture.”

“That would have been all right with you?”

Again Dean gazed at her a long time before answering. “No. For a while I thought it would be, but…no.” Uncrossing his arms, he leaned forward, moving his untouched orange juice to the side and resting his elbows on the table. “What about you? How eager are you to be a mother?”

That's what Daphne had asked her, and after getting off the phone with her longtime friend she'd spent the rest of last night letting the reality sink in. For as long as she could remember, she'd wanted the trappings of family life—dinners around a big table with everyone talking too much; holidays filled with chaos; summers that were lazy and laughter-filled. Neil, her ex, had convinced her that wanting to do family activities and needing to expand the family in order to do them were two entirely different things. They were already a family, just the two of them, he'd insisted, and someday they could seriously discuss the addition of children, when they were
both
ready.

Neil had decided he was ready to add a mistress before he became ready to add children, and even now, two years beyond
the discovery, his betrayal still felt like a bayonet slashing at Rosemary's soul. That seemed so melodramatic, but it was true. She wished she could get over it, forget him, forget how good they had once felt. But she had pictured herself at eighty, with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren…and with Neil, happily counting the wrinkles and the years. She had defied her family's warnings, braved their wagging heads and ignored how often the word
naive
came up in conversation so she could continue to believe in her dream.

Neil had taken much more than himself out of her life. Never before had she believed hope was something that could die; now she knew it was possible. To lose her dream, something so intrinsic to her spirit, was a feeling she never wanted to experience again.

She looked at Dean, waiting patiently for her answer. Was she eager to be a mother?

Last night, she had pictured her future with—and without—a child. She'd imagined being a single mother, in a small town and in a city…perhaps Portland, but perhaps someplace entirely new, where she would be a stranger among strangers. She'd bathed herself in the details and the feelings that had come up, trying not to judge or censor her reactions, and finally she'd found her way to what was, for her, the truth.

Being a single parent, like her mother before her, was not her dream come true. But having a child to hold, to love unconditionally, to introduce to butterflies and rainbows and monster slides and swimming pools, to wipe sticky hands and dry salty tears, and to know that until the end of her own life, she would love someone with every breath she took—

“Yes,” she said aloud and without any doubt. “I'm eager to be a mother. I'm excited about the baby.” It felt
soooo
good to be able to say it out loud! Hopefully when the time came, she would be able to say the same thing to her family—without stuttering or apologizing for being the sole Jeffers woman who
wanted the whole package—mother, father, backseat full of kids. “I don't think it's too soon to start addressing the baby's needs.”

Dean shifted, sitting up straighter. He had begun to smile when she said she was thrilled. Once she mentioned the baby's needs, however, he came to full attention, serious as a judge. “I plan to be financially responsible throughout my child's life. If there's anything you need right now—”

“Oh, no, no! I wasn't talking about finances. I don't need money. And neither does the baby right now.”

“There are things you'll need. And days you might not feel up to working. I'll see my lawyer and set something up.”

“That is not necessary, really.” He started to rebut, but she held firm. “If there are things you want to buy for the baby, that's up to you, but
I
do not want financial help, especially not before she's born. Thank you, anyway.” She smiled to sweeten the edict, but was careful not to appear to waver, because Dean Kingsley could be stubborn.

He took her words in, not liking them much, though he nodded his acceptance. He raised a brow. “‘She,' huh?”

“Or he.”

“When it's time to pick out names, do you mind if I help? At least with the middle name.”

Baby names. Rosemary blinked in surprise. He wanted to pick out baby names? She nearly laughed aloud at the irony.

Years ago, when she and Neil had still been in college, they'd gone to Canon Beach for the weekend. Two darling chubby toddler girls in tiny bikinis had played in the sand next to them, and Rosemary had asked Neil what he might like to name a little girl if they ever had one. He'd leaped from their blanket as if the sand had caught fire, ran into the ocean and returned twenty minutes later, dripping wet and silent.

Back in Portland, Rosemary had relayed the story to Vi, who told her that playing “What Do We Name the Baby?”
with a man was like “handing him a knife and inviting him to cut off his own testicles.” Rosemary had not broached the topic again until they'd been married three years.

Now she managed a wry smile. “As long as your favorite names are pronounceable and have nothing to do with states, cars or local tributaries, I think we can work it out.”

For the first time this evening, she got a glimpse of the more relaxed Dean, the one who laughed easily. “Aww. I was hoping for Montana if it's a girl and Nissan if it's a boy. I guess I can bend.”

“Montana is kind of pretty, actually.”

They shared their first un-tense moment since the night they'd met. Rosemary hated to ruin it by introducing another issue, but she'd come here with an agenda that had to be addressed.

“What?” he said when she hesitated. “You're frowning again. Whatever it is, why not get it over with fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid?”

“I usually use a wet towel and soak a Band-Aid off.”

“Sounds time-consuming.”

She nodded.

“Gotcha.” He reached for his orange juice and settled back. “Okay, take your time.”

She took a deep breath. No matter how much time she took, this was still going to be awkward in the extreme. Her heart thumped heavily. If only she knew more about him….

“All right,” she breathed, gripping the table's edge as if she were hanging from a cliff. “You asked me once if I was married before. I was. My plan was never to be married again. When I moved to Honeyford, I wanted to focus on my career and the community. I like it here. A lot.”

From her first word, Dean gave her his full attention, as usual. His face was a mask of polite interest, using neutrality to invite her to keep speaking.

“Being a single mother will change how I feel about the town,” she continued, “and how the town feels about me. I've had half a dozen people describe the scandal of the interim librarian.” At his puzzled expression, Rosemary explained, “She had a pierced lip and tried to introduce the book club to erotica.”

Dean's mouth twitched.

“I've given a lot of thought to moving away.” She saw Dean tense perceptibly, so she stated quickly, “I've decided that I want to stay.” Like magic, his shoulders relaxed again. “At least for now,” she added cautiously. “But being the single pregnant librarian doesn't sound like a good idea, especially when people discover that you're the father.”

Placing his glass on the table, Dean shrugged. “Why? I don't like to brag, but most people in town find me pretty likeable.”

Rosemary looked at the thick, earth-brown hair he kept neatly trimmed, at the features that were classically handsome and aging like fine wine, at the blue eyes that smiled even when his lips hadn't moved a bit, and she knew that although he was being facetious, he had told the truth. Women probably faked all manner of ailments merely to visit the pharmacist for advice.

“It's going to seem ridiculous that a librarian and a pharmacist didn't have the sense to use birth control, don't you think?” she said.

Dean's eyes darkened. “Obviously ‘sense' is not my forte when you're in my arms.” He paused. “Past tense, I mean.”

The temperature in the tavern—or simply inside Rosemary—shot up ten degrees.
Concentrate on the topic.
A gentle, ironic smile curved his lips, and suddenly she remembered exactly how they felt pressed to hers…and to other parts of her body.
Concentrate.

“Anyway, I think there would be a lot of gossip. And even
if it isn't ill intentioned, it would be difficult to deal with. Difficult for the library and, when the baby grows up enough to understand, difficult for her. Or him.”

A silence as pregnant as Rosemary ensued. Dean broke it.

“What's your solution?”

Her heart began to race at a dizzying speed. “I think it's not unreasonable to cater to the conservatives in this case. I mean, I think sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

As gentlemanly as he was, he didn't intend to rescue her. Rosemary broke a sweat.

“Yes. So here's what I propose.” She winced when the last word left her mouth. Couldn't help it. Deep breath. “I think we should…or at least
I
would like to…for the baby's sake more than anything…get…”
Say it, Rosemary, say it.
“Mm… Mmm…” She swallowed, licked her dry lips. “Mmm-a…” Oh, God in heaven.

She was going to have a heart attack before she said the damn word. Maybe there was another solution, after all. Maybe she really should move….

Dean reached into his back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet. He pulled out a few bills, tossed them onto the table and reached for her wrist. “Let's go.”

T
hey wound up driving their own vehicles to Dean's apartment. He led the way, driving slowly enough for her to follow even though she knew exactly how to get there. Upon arriving on Main Street, Dean directed her around the rear of his building, where they parked and walked up the alley entrance to his place.

Neither of them mentioned her botched proposal again until they were seated at the small dining table, eating omelets he'd made expertly with Gruyère cheese, oil-cured olives and thin crescent-shaped slices of avocado.

“You're good at this,” Rosemary commented, awkwardly breaking their tense silence. “I'm not a very inspired cook.”

“I took a class when I was in college. My roommate and I thought it would be a good way to meet girls.”

“Was it?”

“For him. He married someone he met the first night.”

“And she got a husband who could cook.”

“No. He dropped the class.”

“You stayed and learned how to make omelets?”

“And fish tacos and a dangerous chocolate cake.” He pointed the tines of his fork in her direction. “
You're
getting a husband who can cook.”

With the point of their meeting on the table, they both set down their forks.

Wiping his mouth, Dean rested his forearms on the table and made his usual straightforward eye contact. “I like the idea of getting married.”

Rosemary nodded slowly. With that one decision agreed upon, a host of new issues opened up, and her stomach roiled. “It seems like the best solution…for now.”

Dean watched her closely. “Are you putting a time limit on it?”

He'd hit fine-point number one solidly on the head. “Yes. I think it should be time-limited from the outset. Everything should be as clear and businesslike as possible to avoid confusion and resentment down the line.” She'd already given this point extensive consideration and was able to present her case without stumbling. “Confusion and resentment on the parents' part is toxic for a child. If we plan in advance exactly when and how we're going to separate, then when the time comes we should be able to do it amicably. And that will be good for everyone.”

“What makes you certain there'll be a time when we want to part?”

The question truly shocked her. “We don't know each other. We're getting married for the sake of the baby…and maybe our jobs. But mostly for the baby.”

“Marriages have begun on flimsier foundations than wanting to create a family for a child.”

“I doubt those marriages last.”

“I'm sure they take work.” He buttered one of the rolls he'd
set out. “Then again, all marriages do. We'd be more aware of that than most, which could give us a leg up.”

She frowned, watching the steady, even swipes of the butter knife over the bread. “I've already told you, I don't want to be married again. Ever.”

“Which seems to be the real crux of the matter.” Calmly, he took a bite of the roll then reached for his fork and tucked into the omelet again.

Suddenly they could have been discussing Honeyford's plan to hold a spring parade rather than a matter that would affect the rest of their lives; he was that nonchalant. The tide of tension inside Rosemary rose dangerously. “How can you still be hungry when we're talking about this?”

“About marriage?” He shrugged as he forked up another bite of egg oozing with melted cheese. “See, that's the difference between us. The thought of marriage doesn't kill my appetite.”

I have good reason,
she almost said, but wisely remained silent. They didn't have to know everything about each other to make this work.
For the length of time that it had to work.

“All right.” Someone had to be reasonable and realistic here, and obviously it was going to be her. “What I'm thinking is that a year and a half of marriage will give us time to have the baby, establish that you are the legal father and that we tried to make the relationship a go. Unfortunately, because we rushed into things, we will realize that we need to separate before the baby is old enough to be confused and hurt by our continual problems. We'll say we did our best, but the writing was on the wall.”

“Why didn't we get counseling?”

“Because—” She shook her head and blinked. “What?”

“Counseling. Professional advice about how to make it work.”

Rosemary squinted as if that might help her see his point. “We're not trying to make it work.”

He washed the food down with decaf then nodded. “Ah, right. What if someone asks that, though? It's a reasonable question, especially with a child involved.”

“We'll say we tried, and
it didn't help.
”

He gazed at her. “Pity. So a year and a half. Is there a contingency plan if we decide we don't want to separate?”

“We're not going to decide that.”

“
You
might. I'm incredibly easy to live with.” Polishing off his roll, he spied the one she hadn't yet touched and plucked it off her plate. She regarded him dubiously as he picked up his knife to split and butter
her
bread.

“Why do you want to talk about staying together?” she asked, snatching the roll back. “If you want a wife that badly, why haven't you gotten married before now?” She took a big bite of roll. She was the pregnant one, after all, the one who needed the most nourishment. If he could eat during this conversation, then by golly so would she.

He looked at his plate, and she wondered if he was going to respond at all. Finally, instead of answering her, he looked up and asked a question. “Why did you go to the motel with me?”

Oh, Lord in heaven, what a question. “Lust,” she said baldly, shoving every other memory from her mind. “I was using you. Sorry, but that's all.”

He laughed. “That statement doesn't carry the same negativity for a man that it does for a woman. We're generally happy to have you go ahead and use us. From whom were you on the rebound?”

“I didn't say I was on the rebound.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Fine.
“My ex, of course.” She took another bite of the roll, this time a big one. “Good bread.”

“It's from Honey Bea's. I'll take you there one morning before work for decaf coffee and the best apple fritters you've ever tasted.”

“One apple fritter has enough calories to feed a major city,” she informed him, seriously tucking into the omelet now while simultaneously shaking her head. “Do they serve dry toast?”

“I sincerely hope not. Why are you worried about calories? Your body's great.”

“I've always been kind of fleshy. By month nine of this pregnancy I'll probably weigh more than you.”

“Fleshy.” This time he muttered an expletive. “Women and body image. This is why I won't carry weight-loss aids in the pharmacy.” He buttered the other half of her roll. “So you were on the rebound from your ex-husband. Somehow I was under the impression you've been divorced awhile.”

“Two years.” She held out her hand. He put the roll into it.

“And you're still rebounding?”

“Not ‘still.'” She put a little bit of the omelet onto the roll. “You were my first rebound. And my last. I'm done with all that. I'm going to be celibate now.” She popped the impromptu sandwich into her mouth and rolled her eyes in pleasure. “I can't believe how hungry I get at night.”

“Join the club.”

Rosemary glanced up from the food to find him gazing at her with an appetite that couldn't be misunderstood. Her body responded like a firecracker set alight.

Exploding low in her body, desire rushed through her, making her limbs go weak as noodles. The food lost its appeal.

Dean leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, but his intention was clear in every angle of his tightly wound body. He looked as if he was waiting for her to give him the okay
so he could leap across the table to devour her instead of the food.

Wanting him wasn't the question. Whether Rosemary was willing to give in to the urges trying to overtake her—that was the question.

Never one to be carried away by the needs of her body, she could hardly fathom the strength of her desire to rip off his clothes and to feel him again over, inside and around her.

“A year and a half.” His voice, deep and gravelly, interrupted her thoughts. “That won't be nearly enough time to burn out this desire. If we make love again, even once, I'll end up wanting you more, not less. So my answer to ‘Do you want to get married?' Yes.” His mouth quirked. “Great idea. But unless we're going to keep it open-ended—and very real—I think we should call it a night tonight.”

Even though he'd made a statement, a question lingered in his tone and in his eyes.

An open-ended marriage…one that was ‘real'…

What made a marriage real? Sex? That wasn't enough to turn a legal union for the baby's sake into the genuine article—or to make a marriage last. Sometimes not even the best intentions or the strongest desire could do that.

Edging out sexual hunger came the fear that was never far from the surface for Rosemary. What if she really did fall for Dean? Or for the dream of a traditional family again? What if she bought it all, hook, line and sinker, and he turned out to be another really good salesman?

Her sister Lucy was a family law attorney in Portland, specializing in divorce for women. Lucy had handled the dissolution of Rosemary's first marriage, and Rosemary planned to have her handle this one, too. Lucy was a pit bull, one of the most sought-after attorneys in Oregon. She didn't have a sentimental or romantic bone in her entire body.

Lucy was thirty-four, but she had never thrown herself into
a relationship with the fervor of an Olympic athlete going for the gold. She had never cried for months because a man no longer loved her.

Channel Lucy.

As it turned out, Rosemary didn't have to say a word. Dean read her answer on her face.

“A shame,” he murmured, removing the napkin from his lap and setting it on the table.

The evening was over.

She thought—although she wasn't positive—that they had just come to an agreement: a time-limited marriage, no sex.

That was good. That was…that was smart.

The next time she and Dean were together they would need to discuss an actual prenuptial agreement—printed on paper with a watermark, witnessed signatures, the whole nine yards. Lucy would scream if Rosemary entered another marriage without one.

And, her sister would positively murder her if she knew that right now Rosemary wasn't thinking about practicalities at all, but rather imagining what it would feel like to have one more night of astounding sex with Dean then walk to the bakery in the morning before work, thinking of nothing more important than the calories in an apple fritter…and of how fortunate a woman was when her lover thought she was simply delicious just the way she was.

 

Three days later, Dean had agreed to allow Lucy Jeffers to draft a prenuptial agreement. It would include the details of the apparently inevitable dissolution of his marriage to Rosemary and specify that he agreed to an uncontested divorce when the time came.

“Give me something to do,” he told his brother as they stood before a section of barbed-wire fencing Fletcher was working on. It was Sunday, the day Dean typically spent riding
his mountain bike when the weather was good, or working on plans for the clinic he dreamed of opening. More recently, he spent his day off here at Pine Road Ranch, playing uncle to his brother's new family and enjoying one of his sister-in-law's stellar home-cooked meals. Today, though, he was here to get advice—from the brother he'd once thought wasn't fit to advise a toddler not to play in the street.

“What are you doing,” he pressed when Fletcher continued to work without responding, “twisting those pieces together? Do you have another pair of pliers?”

Fletcher continued to work steadily and with practiced skill. “This is manual labor, Deano. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Why don't you stand there, look pretty and keep talking. So far, this has been the most interesting conversation we've ever had.”

“Hand me the damn pliers.” Shrugging, Fletcher complied, and Dean attacked the fence, working without skill, but with a fervor fueled by frustration.

Fletcher stepped back and took a long drink of the lemonade Claire had packed for him. Then he sat on the hard ground and recapped what his brother had told him. “So you're going to get married in time to fulfill that one condition of Victor's will, but you're not going to
stay
married long enough to actually claim your inheritance. And this woman, Rosemary, doesn't know you need to be married two years to inherit the building on Main, because you haven't told her about the will at all, even though this isn't a love match to begin with. Have I got that right?”

“That's the gist of it.” Dean gave a vicious twist of the pliers.

“Don't snap that wire. If you leave me with more work to do, it'll piss me off, and I've been working damn hard lately to control my temper.”

Dean clenched his jaw as he wrapped one piece of wire
around another. “I thought marriage has mellowed you naturally.”

“It has. Toward Claire and the kids. Fools still try my patience.”

Looking over his shoulder, Dean glared. “Meaning I'm a fool.”

Fletcher removed his sweat-stained Stetson and scratched his scalp. “Ah, let's see, how did Claire tell me to word this crap? Oh, yeah. I don't agree with your
decisions
in this
arena,
Dean. I'm afraid you may get yourself into some trouble.” He replaced his hat and spit on the ground. “But as soon as you take your head out of your ass you'll be fine.”