204 Rosewood Lane by Debbie Macomber
Maryellen stared at her with stricken eyes. “Do you…think it was Dad?”
Grace had already guessed exactly that, but she had no way of knowing for sure. Cutting back on expenses had been important, and soon after Dan’s disappearance, she’d cancelled Caller ID and the other extras the phone company offered.
“Why would he do such a thing?” Maryellen demanded, sounding angry now. “Why can’t he just stay out of our lives instead of playing these sick games?”
“I suppose he misses us,” Grace said. It was the only reason she could think of.
“If he misses us so much, why doesn’t he come home?” Maryellen shouted. “I’m going to tell him that.” She reached for the phone and started punching in numbers.
“Who are you calling?” Grace asked.
“Star 69.”
“It won’t work,” Grace said, her voice tight. “I couldn’t afford all those extras…. Dan must’ve known that. He must’ve figured out that I wouldn’t be able to trace the call.” She closed her eyes in a futile effort to regain her emotional balance. “Sometimes I think I hate him for doing this to us.”
“Mom, it’s all right. We can’t let him ruin our day….”
“Your father and I were married for more than thirty-five years.” Her legs felt shaky and she sank into a kitchen chair.
The phone rang again.
“Don’t answer it!” Grace said. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. Let it ring, just let it ring.”
On the fifth ring, the answering machine came on, and once more the only sound they heard was static.
Maryellen pulled out a chair and sat down across from Grace. She took her mother’s hands, clasping them tightly. “I don’t know why Dad left,” she whispered, “but whatever the reason, it wasn’t because of anything you did or didn’t do. You’re a wonderful mother and you were a good wife.”
Grace hung her head, watching as her tears dripped onto the quilted place mat. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She wished she could believe Maryellen, but she didn’t think men walked away from long-term marriages if they were content.
She sniffled and made an effort to put the phone calls out of her mind. Maryellen released her hands, passing her a tissue to wipe her eyes.
“I wish Cliff Harding was here,” Maryellen said forcefully. “That would shake Dad up, wouldn’t it? It’d serve him right if a man answered the phone.”
Grace smiled shakily. “That it would.”
The potato water had begun to boil over, and Grace leaped up to turn down the burner. She used those few seconds to compose herself and when she returned to the table, she was smiling.
“Mom,” Maryellen said hesitantly. “What about you and Mr. Harding? Are the two of you going to start dating now that the divorce is final?”
Grace had been thinking about this for weeks, unable to arrive at a firm decision. In fact, she’d put Cliff off once already. “Probably not,” she told her daughter.
“You should,” Maryellen urged. “I like him. I know Kelly might have a hard time accepting another man in your life, but she’ll get used to it.”
“It isn’t because of what Kelly will say—or you or anyone else, for that matter,” Grace confessed. “Don’t misunderstand me, I like Cliff, but I’m not ready to enter the dating world.”
“But, Mom…”
“It’s too soon. I still feel too raw. I thought…I hoped I’d find some closure when the divorce became final, but I can see now that isn’t going to happen. I have to know, Maryellen. I need answers. Where’s your father? Why couldn’t he tell me where he went or why? What deep, dark secret is he hiding from us?”
Grace knew very well that life didn’t always supply the answers. Perhaps one day she’d find peace. But for now there was none. Instead, the uncertainty and the anger and grief raged inside her, as strong as they’d been the day her husband disappeared. Not that her life was devoid of happiness or that she didn’t still have plenty to be thankful for. She had her daughters, her friends, her job, but—
“You have to, Mom. You have to.”
Her daughter said this with such urgency Grace didn’t know how to respond.
“If you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll end up like me.”
“And what exactly is wrong with you?” Grace asked sharply.
“Look at me!” Maryellen cried. “I’m thirty-five and I’m terrified of falling in love again. I don’t trust my own judgment. I practically have a panic attack if a man wants to kiss me. I’m so afraid of what might happen that I refuse to allow any man close to me. I look at Kelly and Paul, and they seem so happy and so normal. Why couldn’t my marriage have been like that?”
“Oh, Maryellen…” Grace had no idea what to tell her daughter. Maryellen so rarely spoke of her marriage that she felt at a loss as to how to comfort her.
“I love little Tyler so much. But I’m never going to have a child of my own.”
“Don’t say that. You’re still young,” Grace insisted.
Maryellen shook her head. “Don’t let your divorce do to you what mine did to me,” she repeated. “Please, Mom. You have a lot of good years ahead of you. If you get another chance at love, take it! Promise me you’ll take it—and that you’ll be happy. Otherwise I don’t think I’ll ever find any kind of contentment myself.”
Thanksgiving with her mother had been one of the most disturbing days of her life, Maryellen thought as she opened the gallery first thing Friday morning. She still felt emotionally drained from it. If she could’ve taken today off, she would have. But she expected to be swamped with customers in what was traditionally the biggest shopping day of the year.
With so many people stopping by the gallery, it was almost two before she had a chance to eat her leftover-turkey sandwich. The only reason she had a moment to herself then was due to her assistant, Lois Habbersmith, who’d agreed to work the afternoon with her. The gallery’s absentee owners, the Webbers, lived in California and trusted Maryellen to handle all aspects of the business.
Sitting on a stool in the back room, Maryellen crossed her legs and had just taken the first bite of her sandwich when Jon Bowman entered the room.
“Jon…” She hadn’t expected him. Already her heart was hammering wildly. He’d phoned twice since the Halloween party and she’d managed to avoid speaking to him both times.
“Still running away?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.
He grinned, letting her know she hadn’t fooled him. “Could you use some more pictures?”
“Yes,” she said, eager for as much of his work as he was willing to let her have. “That last group completely sold out.”
“Can I get them to you this evening?”
She wondered why he hadn’t brought them now. “Yes, that would be fine. What time?”
“Seven.”
The gallery closed at six. “I can wait for you here,” she told him. She’d hang the photographs right away so they’d be ready for sale tomorrow.
“I want you to pick them up at my house,” he said matter-of-factly. “I promise you, the drive will be worth your while.”
Maryellen frowned. How clever of him to make sure she didn’t have a previous commitment. “I’d prefer to have you bring them here.” That was how their arrangement had worked in the past.
“I know you would, but not this time. I’m making dinner for you. If you want the pictures you’ll be at my place at seven.”
She started to argue, to tell him she wouldn’t be blackmailed, but he didn’t give her the opportunity. He simply walked away. If she was going to argue, she’d have to follow him into the crowded gallery, and he knew she wouldn’t do that.
Twice that same afternoon, Maryellen had inquiries about Jon’s work, and she found herself promising they’d be available the next day. His pictures sold almost as fast as they appeared on the walls. If she wanted more, he’d made it plain she’d have to come and get them herself.
At seven,
She parked in the back, climbed out and stopped to look over the dancing lights of Seattle twinkling on the other side of Puget Sound. His home must be close to the waterfront. A ferry, with lights blazing, glided across the water in the distance.
“I wondered if you’d come,” Jon said from somewhere in the darkness. He emerged from the shadows to welcome her.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She wasn’t happy about this and she wanted him to know it.
“No, I didn’t,” he agreed. “Come inside.”
“I…I can’t stay for dinner. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”
“I went to a tremendous amount of trouble. I’d like you to stay. Please.”
“But…” He left her no option but to follow him into the house.
The interior was only partially finished, she noticed. Pieces of furniture were positioned on bare floors. The walls were mostly framed in although unpainted. The kitchen had new appliances and white-tile countertops, but only a plywood sub-floor. A linen-covered table with candles sat in what must be the living room. The light was dim, coming entirely from a couple of small table lamps and what spilled through from the kitchen. Large picture windows revealed a staggering view of the Seattle skyline.
“Let me take your coat,” Jon said.
Maryellen wanted to resist, she really did. Instead she slipped the coat from her shoulders. Jon took it and walked over to a closet without doors and placed it on a hanger.
“Would you like to see my home?” he asked.
She nodded. “Who’s the builder?”
“Me,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m doing everything myself.”
She remembered Jon telling Teri he was a jack-of-all-trades. Now she realized how accurate that statement was. He led her through the house. The only room with a door was the bathroom. The master bedroom was upstairs and had a balcony facing the water.
“I sit out there in the summer with my morning coffee,” Jon told her.
Maryellen could imagine it—the peace and silence, the clear, fresh beauty of Puget Sound in early morning.
“I have five acres here,” he continued. “Before you wonder how could I afford this property, I should tell you the land belonged to my grandfather. He purchased it back in the 1950s for practically nothing. When he died he left it to me.” A timer rang in the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
He helped her down the stairs, leading the way and clasping her hand in his own. Once back in the main part of the house, he escorted her to the table and pulled out a chair.
“Can I do anything?” she asked.
“No,” he assured her.
First he lit the candles. The he poured the wine, a spicy gewürztraminer. After that, he brought out a salad—lettuce with sliced fresh pear, shaves of Roquefort cheese and wonderful honey-coated roasted walnuts. The dressing was a delicate raspberry vinaigrette.
“Oh, my,” Maryellen whispered after one taste. “This is incredible.”
“It’s only the beginning,” Jon promised.
They had one glass of wine with the salad and another before the entrée of baked salmon with a dill sauce so creamy Maryellen closed her eyes to savor the first bite. Dessert was an apple-and-date torte.
Between courses, Jon filled her wineglass again, opening a second bottle, and when they’d finished dinner, Maryellen was warm and slightly dizzy. He brought her to a comfortable sofa. A classical CD—she recognized Vivaldi’s Four Seasons—played in the background.
“I’m going to need lots of coffee,” she told him.
“It’s already brewing.”
She could smell the rich aroma. Feeling flushed and utterly content, she leaned her head against the back of the sofa and looked out over the astonishing view. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the distance, and the dark water reflected a three-quarter moon. Jon had turned off the lights, so her own image wasn’t mirrored in the glass. There was nothing to interfere with the view.
He sat down next to her. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Then as if she might misunderstand the question, he added, “Being here with me, I mean.”
“It’s been very…nice.”
“Admit it. I’m not so frightening, am I?”
She shifted sideways to look at him and smiled. “You can be.”
“When?”
“When you kiss me.” It must be the wine talking, yet it was the truth.
Jon took her hand and examined her long, tapering fingers. “This might come as a surprise, but your kisses frighten me, too.”
“I frighten you?” This didn’t surprise so much as amuse Maryellen.
As if to prove his point, he bent forward and pressed his mouth to hers. It was a gentle, undemanding kiss but one that promised so much more.
“See?” he said in a low voice, sounding unlike himself. He flattened her hand against his chest. “Feel my heart.”
“Yes… It’s beating hard.” Her own heart was pounding, too. Wanting to reveal what his kisses did to her, she leaned toward him and placed her mouth over his. The kiss was deeper, longer, more involved. By the time it ended, Maryellen’s head was swimming. “Feel my heart,” she whispered.
Jon laid his large hand over her chest, but then as though he couldn’t resist, he cupped her breast. He gave her ample opportunity to stop him, but she couldn’t. The feelings his touch produced in her were too exciting. Too enticing. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as he continued to kiss her. Even before he’d finished, she reached behind and released her bra, letting her breasts spill forward. Jon caught them with both hands and groaned when she leaned closer and ran her tongue along the inner edge of his ear.
After that, everything happened so fast, Maryellen lost track of who undressed whom. All she knew was that they were on the sofa and Jon was about to make love to her. His eyes held hers as he positioned himself above her.
“Do you want this?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and nodded, so eager for him that she wrapped her arms tightly around him and urged his mouth back to hers.
“Say it,” he insisted.
“Yes, please.”
Their lovemaking was long and slow. And it was exquisite, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. At some point during the night, they moved upstairs to his bed. Exhausted, Maryellen fell into a deep sleep with Jon’s body curled around hers, his arm over her waist, his hand pressing her close.
Shortly before dawn, with morning just beginning to light the sky, she stirred. Startled, barely aware of her surroundings, Maryellen woke and abruptly sat up. “Where am I?” she asked.
“You’re with me,” Jon said and brought her back into his arms. He kissed her again and she turned to face him.
The second time they made love, she sat atop him, her long hair streaming over her shoulders and onto her breasts.
In the morning, Maryellen woke first and lay quietly in his arms for several moments, considering what she’d done. Jon Bowman had seduced her—and she’d let him. He’d wined and dined her and then he’d lured her into his bed—and she’d let him. She’d been a willing participant, without a thought to birth control or any form of protection. This was insanity.
Careful not to disturb him, she slipped out of the bed, mortified to find she was completely nude. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she gathered her clothes piece by piece and held them against her breasts. She’d put her underwear on and was stepping into her wool slacks when Jon appeared at the top of the stairs, naked from the waist up.
“You’re sneaking away?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Her intentions were obvious, and they didn’t include breakfast over coffee and a newspaper, either. ?
“But it did. Are you going to pretend it didn’t?”
Her face burned red. “Yes.”
“Maryellen, be reasonable.”
“No—we have a professional relationship. It can’t be anything else.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t have any answers without launching into explanations she didn’t want to give. “Because it can’t. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be.”
“You owe me more than that.”
“I owe you nothing.” She continued dressing as fast as she could, zipping up her pants. “You planned this little seduction. The wine, the dinner, the music…”
“The hell I did! You wanted me as much as I wanted you. If you’re going to be angry, fine, but at least be honest.”
“Yes, I wanted you, but I would never have slept with you if you hadn’t blackmailed me into coming out here. You had everything planned—right down to the three glasses of wine, didn’t you?” She flipped the hair away from her face and grabbed her blouse. She jerked her arms into the sleeves and didn’t bother to fasten the buttons before walking over to the closet and grabbing her coat. She yanked it free and left the hanger swinging.
“Maryellen,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave like this. Don’t lie to me, and don’t lie to yourself. I didn’t plan what happened.”
“It’s very clear that you did.” When she was young and naive and a virgin, Clint had lured her into his bed with wine and promises. They’d taken wild, irresponsible chances with pregnancy, just as she’d done now. In all the years since her marriage and divorce, she’d apparently learned nothing.
“Fine,” he snapped. “Believe what you want, but I know the truth and so do you.”
Maryellen stomped out, and it wasn’t until she’d driven halfway home that she remembered the photographs.
Eight
Jack didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to stand having Eric in his house. His very small house. When he went to make breakfast that morning, he discovered an empty bread sack. Eric had eaten the last of the bread. That was just the most recent instance of his son’s thoughtlessness. He wondered how Shelly coped with Eric’s slovenly behavior, cursing as he shoved plates and cups into the dishwasher.