Love Letters, Inc. (18 page)

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was for the best. Sometimes two people were just wrong for each other, and there was no fixing it or forcing it. She was definitely right when she accused him of not letting her go. But she'd been straight with him from the beginning, made it absolutely clear that she didn't want to mess around in a go-nowhere relationship—which he had to admit was his starting point. Even when she'd told him she wanted to settle down and have a family—a very large family—he hadn't stopped. Any sane man would have hit the ground running.

His stomach knotted and he rubbed it, but truth was a tightrope. And the truth was, he hadn't been in his right mind since she'd opened her front door that first day, wearing broken glasses and those crazy checkered socks. And after that first bowl of soup, when she'd tried to fix him up with her accountant, he'd been had.

Abruptly he shoved away from the counter.

What the hell did she want, anyway? Some male version of Martha Stewart, who'd muck out the storm drains in the morning and cobble shoes for the kids at night? Where in hell did that leave Beachline? He had a big commitment there.

And with Con leaving—

He stood there, holding the water glass loosely in one hand, rubbing the back of his neck with the other. It was as if he didn't know which move to make next.

With Con leaving for good, there was no hope for a letup in his workload. His lips curved to a pained smile at the irony of it. Rosie had walked out because he wouldn't give more of himself, and Con walked out because he wouldn't give less.

Well, tough! He slammed the water glass into the sink. It cracked, and a sharp wedge of glass leapt from the sink to the counter top. He left it there. Who the hell cared, anyway? Just who the hell cared?

I like my work, and damn it, I don't have time for a houseful of kids.
He and Rosie were both better off with other partners. And he sure as hell was better off without making commitments he couldn't keep.

He glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. There was one place he was still welcome. At his desk. He slapped his head.

The damn brunch.

He couldn't not show, but if he were lucky, he'd get in an hour's work before his family arrived. Hell, maybe he'd do exactly what Rosie would expect him to do—work right through it. As it stood now, there wasn't a damn soul who'd care anyway. On that fine, uplifting surge of blatant self-pity, he grabbed a jacket, his keys, and headed for his Audi.

* * *

Rosie turned into her driveway, glad to be home. She needed to be alone, lick her emotional wounds, but it wasn't to be. That was definitely Jonesy's Sundancer cozied up to her front step. She sighed, pulled her Geo to a stop behind Jonesy's car, and sat there like the dummy she was.

She wanted to cry, a full-out caterwaul that would carry into the next county. And she wanted Kent Summerton with an ache that made open heart surgery seem restful.

She forced herself out of the car and made it to the first step. But instead of stepping on it, she sat down, deciding to pull herself together before she faced Jonesy. She picked up a rock, turned it over in her hand, and tossed it—hard. It didn't bounce, but settled willingly into a new patch of dirt. Stupid rock.

Stupid Rosie!

She'd done exactly what she said she wouldn't do. Fallen in love with the wrong man. And she'd even thought it through this time, developed a plan of sorts. And where did it get her? Sitting here throwing rocks. Too bad she couldn't drop a few down the hole in her brain. Fill up the blank space.

There was no hope for her. She was a muddled, redheaded fool of a woman, and she couldn't help it. Didn't bode well for her future kids. She probably had terrible genes, some inborn neediness that would make all her daughters-to-be pushovers for politicians and criminals.

Font barked from inside the house. She'd been spotted.

She stood, took a step up, surveyed her pastoral domain, and swiped at the bit of moisture tickling her cheeks. Maybe she did get off track occasionally, jump too fast at too little. For instance, writing those dumb love letters. Why had that even seemed like a good idea? But she knew one thing—how you made your living in life was a distant second to how you chose to live it. She had a hard time seeing anyone standing at the Pearly Gates begging for just one more staff meeting. Couldn't Kent see that? Damn his workaholic hide. Why couldn't he get his priorities straight?

Rosie didn't move for a moment, then tugged at her hair. Was that really her railing about priorities again?

No. That was a desperate woman looking for words to mend a heartache. She turned and headed up the stairs to the house.

After a rousing reunion with Font, during which he managed to lick her forehead, and she hugged him so tight that he yelped, she strolled into the kitchen, determined to be cool and nonchalant. She would not bleed, figuratively speaking, all over her clean kitchen floor.

Jonesy, wearing Rosie's favorite scarlet bathrobe, was at the sink filling a kettle with water.

"What are you doing?" Rosie asked. She dropped her tote on the wing chair near the fireplace and tried to sidestep Font's tail, still whipping about with enough force to bruise.

"Making tea. Where are your bags?" Jonesy said, then looked at her. "Other than the ones under your bloodshot eyes, I mean."

"Very funny." Rosie took the kettle out of Jonesy's hand. "Sit down. I'll make you some tea.
You
tell me what you're doing here."

Jonesy yawned. "I came to walk Font last night because you called and asked me to—remember? Then I just kind of fell asleep on your sofa."

"In my best robe?"

Jonesy smiled. "What are friends for? Besides, it's a terrible color for you. The fashion police said so."

"Hm-m." Rosie said absently. She didn't really care about her robe. Her carping was only a momentary diversion to distract her from the pain in her heart.

"Now for the real question," Jonesy said. "What are you doing here? I figured you were locked in the arms of love."

"I live here, dontcha know?" Rosie quipped. Then with the kettle set to boil, she leaned against the counter, stroked Font's bristly gray head, and tried to grin. Damn, but this smiling-through-your-tears bit was tough.

Jonesy tilted her head, narrowed her gaze, and made a sound that was a curious cross between Harrumph and Ha. "Judging from that non-answer, my guess is you blew it," she accused, with what Rosie read as an evil grin. At the very least, it was a know-it-all grin. Same thing.

"I did not blow it. Kent Summerton did—"

"I'll bet he was good at it, too."

"Jonesy!" Rosie tried to be stern, but she couldn't quite squash a fleeting grin. Then she sobered. "He took me to meet his family," she complained.

"The bastard."

"He said he wanted to talk about us. But his partner arrived and then walked out on him because he's fed up with Kent not letting him do his job, and Kent wouldn't give him another chance, which means Kent will have to work even harder than he does now, which means he won't have time for... anything. Let alone me and the kids."

"Rosie, I hate to tell you this, but you don't have any kids."

"He's a work addict, Jonesy. I don't want that. I want a husband, a blue-ribbon dad, and a family—a big family—that comes before anything.
Anything!"
She was going to cry. She sniffed hard and held her nose as though she were going to sneeze. Font nuzzled her other hand with his cold nose and leaned against her leg. She was
not
going to cry.

"Sure you do." Jonesy came up beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. "And you're going to have it. You've still got your plan, haven't you?" Jonesy patted her shoulder kindly.

Jonesy's voice was too soft, too soothing. "You know, the one about dating every man on the North American continent until you find one who'll put his hand up, certify he has the appropriate sperm count, then guarantee you exactly the life you want."

Rosie's hackles rose. "So what's wrong with that?"

"I'd say your crazy plan has as much chance of finding you a man as
Cyrano, Inc.
has of paying for a month's supply of toothpicks." Jonesy dropped her hand from Rosie's shoulder. "Ever consider that maybe you can't think straight when it comes to Kent Summerton, Rosie?"

Rosie glared at her.

"Don't glower at me. I'm right and you know it. You just listen up, Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon."

When Jonesy started tapping her thumb against the index finger of her opposite hand, Rosaleen knew she was in for a lecture. "He's a hardworking man, and you hold it against him. He doesn't want a dozen kids—" Jonesy gave her a slanted look "—but then, who in this day and age does? You hold that against him. He takes you to meet his family, and you give him another bad mark." Jonesy tapped the final finger. "The man has knocked himself out trying to get your attention, and you're mad about that. God help him if he ever brings you flowers."

Rosie puckered her mouth then bit on her lower lip. Jonesy's finger-counted list did make her uncomfortable. Her best friend seemed to think she was unreasonable.
No. Not Rosie O'Hanlon. She was the most reasonable of beings. Wasn't she?

She felt Jonesy's hand grip her shoulder, squeeze. "He loves you, Rosaleen. And you love him. Make it work."

Rosie looked at her friend. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Yes. Compromise."

"Yuck. I hate that word." She brushed a damp spot on her cheek and dropped her hand. Font licked it and gave her a pleading look. She could swear he knew about her and Kent's plans for him and Lacy. Was he mourning the loss of a litter he'd dreamed about?

"I said compromise, Rosie, not cave in. There's a big difference."

Rosie wasn't so sure, but she didn't want to talk about it any more. "I'll think about it."

"Good, now let's eat. I'm starved."

* * *

"You look good," Mike said, stepping up to Kent at the buffet table. His tone as dry as the toast he plucked from the long, food-laden table. "Kind of like the last artifact up from the Titanic."

"Thanks." Kent said. He picked up a plate and stared at the food. He didn't want any of it, but if he didn't eat, he'd never hear the end of it. He dug in.

He still couldn't figure out why he was even here. He should be at his desk. That's what he'd planned. But when he'd stepped into his office this morning, the silence, the neat desk, the brooding computer, and all those sparkling windows overlooking his precious investment property had felt as welcoming as a prisoner's holding cell.

Then he'd heard a faint rustling sound. Con was in the next office, clearing out his desk. That did it.

Kent had walked out then and there. And he must have looked damn strange, striding down the hall. Mae Smythe had gaped at him, and so had Susan Lyle. Too bad, he'd needed some air. He'd needed to
not
think about Rosie. By the time he got back from his not-thinking trek, his family was spread out along the east patio. And somehow, he hadn't been able to get away—make that tear himself away—since.

"Where's Rosie?" Mike asked, eyeing Kent's full-to-capacity plate. "I figured she'd be here today."

"Home, I guess." Kent piled some kind of egg soufflé thing on top of roast beef, pickles, and baked beans.

Mike grimaced. "You blew it, didn't you?"

"Blew what?" Kent stalked the table, added a bun before picking four strips of crisp bacon to add to his plate. And Rosie said he didn't eat right. If only she could see him now.
If only he could see her.

"Rosie. The romance thing."

Kent glared at his brother. "Give it up, Mike. I don't want to talk about it."

After a brief silence, Mike said, "Okay," and took his place beside Kent.

Kent stared at his plate as if seeing it for the first time; his stomach rolled. He shoved the plate aside and downed some orange juice. "She thinks I work too much."

"You do," Mike said, before forking in some hash browns.

"She wants a zillion kids."

"So?" Mike waved his empty fork around the patio, encompassing Mom, Dad, their eight other siblings, their wives and husbands and all their kids. "She'll fit right in."

Kent followed Mike's gesture and let out a breath. "You don't get it. None of you get it. I don't want that kind of confusion. I want—"

"Your own room, your own toys, and a brand new shirt with store creases in it. Something. Anything that hasn't passed through nine sets of hands before it lands in yours."

What the hell was Mike trying to say? Kent wasn't talking about his childhood, damn it. He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again, strangely disturbed. Then again, maybe he was.

"I know the feeling." Mike went on. "Only in my case, being close to the top of the pecking order, most of the stuff passed through only a quarter of the hands yours did. It was hell, though." He smiled. "I used to dream about my own place, neat bookshelves, my own football—" He stopped. "And I got it, too. Then I met Leona, and she ruined everything."

"I don't get it. I thought everything was going great between you two." Kent felt a keen disappointment. He'd always thought his brother and Leona were happily married. Just proved his case. The strain of too many offspring was taking its inevitable toll.

Mike rolled his eyes. "I never thought of you as the slow one, Kent. I was joking. But let me put it in terms you'll understand. I'd rather have Leona, my boys, and those twin girls of over there—" he gestured to the long table, where Leona was helping Emma and Jane with their plates "—than any moldy old football. You got it, bro?"

Kent rotated his chair so he faced the buffet table, His attention fixed on the girls, captured by the intense effort they were making to balance their plates and navigate between the adult giants to where he and Mike sat. Both of them had their tongues tucked firmly into the edge of their lips. Their concentration was total. Taking one careful step at a time, they were almost there.

"Zach, don't!" Jayne yelled.