Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (13 page)

Rosemary studied her mother over the fluffy stack of lemon-ricotta pancakes on her plate. Patsy hadn’t been able to get a flight out until Sunday afternoon. Or so she’d said. Rosemary swallowed the disappointment of not getting to see Sal until then and tried to be a good daughter.

And Patsy had tried to be a good mother, pretty much going along with her daughter’s suggestions. Still, her mother had taken to NYC like a duck took to the desert. As in she didn’t like it so much.

They’d started the sacrificial day early Saturday morning by purchasing tickets for the on-again, off-again bus. Rosemary had loved hearing about the various neighborhoods they passed through. Her mother had preoccupied herself with hand sanitizer. They’d stopped off at the World Trade Center memorial, visited Battery Park, and taken a tour of Ellis Island. She had a picture on her cell phone of her and her mother at the foot of Lady Liberty. Her mother hadn’t been smiling. Saturday evening they’d scored tickets for
Wicked
. Finally, she’d found something her mother loved. Of course, when they pushed through Times Square, her mother had almost needed a paper bag to breathe into. The cheesecake at Junior’s had eased the panic.

Then that morning they’d walked in Central Park, visiting several gardens, ending their sightseeing at Sarabeth’s with Sunday brunch. The restaurant rambled, making the small, crowded rooms uncomfortable, but the food was delicious, including the famous jams and jellies.

“Well, my veggie frittata was decent,” her mother said, wiping her mouth at each corner and folding the napkin beside her plate. “How are your pancakes?”

“Sinful.”

“Well, that seems to be your theme these days,” her mother said, tempering her comment with a half smile.

Rosemary let it slide. It was the truth. For once in her life, she wanted something a little bit wicked. Nothing wrong with that. Even the Amish had
rumspringa
. That’s what this was for her—a time to sow her oats and find out if the life she had was the one she truly wanted.

“I wish you weren’t so angry with me,” her mother said.

Rosemary had tried over the past day and a half to temper her irritation with her mother. She hadn’t done a good enough job. “I can’t help the way I feel.”

“But I want you to be happy, Rosemary. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“But you can’t get happiness for me. I have to find it myself. You may not approve of my coming here, or of Sal, but it’s what I need right now.”

“When I was eighteen I went on spring break with some of my sorority sisters and I met a guy from New Jersey. I understand the appeal of someone different.”

Rosemary took a sip of the French roast and said, “You went on spring break? Where?”

“Fort Lauderdale.”

“No way,” Rosemary said, disbelief edging her words.

Her mother smiled. “I, too, was young once.”

She tried to imagine her mother in a bikini lying on the beach covered in iodine and baby oil, humming along to the Beach Boys blaring out of a transistor radio. But she couldn’t. For as long as Rosemary could remember, her mother had dressed tastefully, said the right things, and drank only on special occasions.

“What was his name?”

“David. He went to a community college and drove a woody. Do you know what a woody is?”

Rosemary giggled, even though she knew very well what her mother meant.

“Oh, don’t be lewd,” her mother fussed, but she smiled. “It was a paneled wagon that surfers liked to drive. He had the best body, too. Wore those board shorts and flirted with every girl on the beach.”

“And you caught him?”

“For a few days.” Her words were wistful, her smile mysterious. “So I can understand the inclination to . . . uh, play with Sal.”

Rosemary nearly choked on the bite of pancakes. “What?”

“I may be old and set in my ways, but I have eyes. Sal has a certain attraction.”

“Mother.”

“What? His torso was very masculine.”

Rosemary did choke then. She gulped the water she’d ignored in favor of the coffee. Her mother rose and thumped her on the back.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Rosemary finally managed, wiping water from her chin.

“As you said, it’s only sex.” Her mother folded her napkin and lifted her purse. “Now I need to use the little girls’ room before we go. I want to get to the airport in plenty of time. They say it takes two hours to go through the security line.”

A passing waitress heard her and said, “Are you looking for the restroom?” She pointed toward the back. “To your right.”

“Excuse me,” her mother said, proper as ever. As if she’d discussed the weather rather than Rosemary having sex with Sal.

Rosemary watched Patsy weave around the small tables, murmuring, “Excuse me,” nodding her head and giving a warm smile as she made her way to the powder room.

As her mother disappeared, her phone rang.

Eden.

“Hey, you,” she said, answering the phone.

“Oh my God. Your father told Mrs. Daigle that Patsy flew to New York City. Tell me she’s lying,” Eden said.

“Nope. I mean . . . yes, Patsy’s here.”

“Oh my Lord,” Eden breathed. “Why in the world did she do that?”

“Because she thinks I’m lonely and making bad decisions,” Rosemary said, unable to stop her lips from twitching.

“She beats all I’ve ever seen. I hope you told her to get the hell back down here and to leave you alone,” Eden said.

“I’m about to put her in a cab for LaGuardia.”

Eden gave a hushed laugh, telling Rosemary she was at work at Penny Pinchers. “Good girl. So I’m on a fifteen-minute break and need to hear something good. Mr. Grabby Hands comes this week to go over reports.”

“Well, my bad decision has a killer smile and took me to eat at this cool marketplace called Eataly.”

Eden squealed and then caught herself. “You bad girl.”

Rosemary laughed. “Well, didn’t Lacy want us to kick up our heels, stretch ourselves, and grab on to something good?”

“I’m not sure those were the requirement for me, but for you? Probably.”

“I’m grabbing on to something with an amazing six-pack.”

“And how would you know that?” Eden’s voice went singsong.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Rosemary said, warmth flooding her. She’d not had a good talk with either Eden or Jess beyond a few text messages. It felt good to hear Eden’s voice. Something about the much put-upon Eden always soothed Rosemary, putting everything in context. Eden recognized how hard it was for Rosemary to step outside the box since she was trapped in a box herself, with nary a box cutter in sight.

“So you met a guy. Spill the deets.”

“Not much to tell other than he’s sexy, Italian, and likes to dance to Etta James and Sinatra. He helps run his family restaurant in Little Italy and has incredible puppy dog eyes.”

Eden sighed. “He sounds perfect. Seriously.”

“Only two weeks’ perfect. It’s not a forever thing.”

Eden was silent for a few seconds. “Why can’t it be forever? I mean, what if he’s the one?”

“He’s not. I mean, he can’t be,” Rosemary answered before she could latch on to a thought like that. Stay in New York City? No. This wasn’t where she belonged or what she wanted. Morning Glory cradled her business, her family, her friends, her entire world in its arms. Being in Manhattan was about living a fantasy. Here she could take chances, play naughty, and live for the moment. Coming to pet-sit in SoHo wasn’t the start of a new life. It was a break from her real one. “This isn’t about falling in love, Eden.”

“Why do you love it here so much?”

“I don’t know. I’m happy in Morning Glory.”

“So you didn’t need Lacy’s money or to live a dream?” Eden sounded perturbed.

“No. Look, Lacy was right. I’ve been treading water even if I’ve been doing it in a happy place. The problem isn’t Morning Glory. It’s me. Maybe coming here to NYC will shake me loose again. Maybe when I come back, I’ll be ready to find a shore.”

“Yeah,” Eden said halfheartedly. Rosemary knew what her friend felt. Eden was trapped in Morning Glory. Until her sister came back home, Eden would stay and care for her mother. “Then don’t go falling in love then, you hear?”

“In two weeks? That’s ridiculous.”

Yet Rosemary knew herself to be a hopeless romantic who’d slurped up fairy tales one right after the other . . . and not the original gruesome fairy tales. No, she loved the sanitized ones that nestled happily ever after deep within her heart like a . . . princess tiara in an upswept pile of golden curls. True love was real to her, and she knew falling in love didn’t necessarily happen when it was super convenient. No, it was apt to knock the wind out of her, leaving her on the floor gasping for breath.

“Don’t worry, E. I won’t. This is just sex . . . or will be if I can get my mother on the next plane out,” Rosemary said. “Now, how are things there?”

“About as exciting as watching paint dry.”

“That much, huh?”

“Well, it
is
Sunday, so someone’s slip is bound to show at the Greater Galilee Baptist Church. I’ll let you know who as soon as the gossip trickles in.”

“Definitely let me know. Have to stay up on the gossip,” Rosemary said, acknowledging her mother, who suddenly looked lost. She waved her hand and both Patsy and the waitress headed her way. “Well, I need to go.”

“Me, too. I have to mark down some clearance stuff. And Margie’s gout is acting up, so I’m shorthanded. Have fun with tall, dark, and Italian.”

“I never said he was tall,” Rosemary joked as her mother slipped into the chair and took the bill jacket from the waitress. “’Bye, E. I love ya.”

“You, too,” she said, hanging up.

“Who was that?” Patsy asked, sliding her American Express into the pocket and handing it back.

“Eden.”

“Poor child. Having to work at that horrible store.”

“Mama, she can’t help her situation. At least she’s the manager.”

“Well, if her mother hadn’t been such a whore. We were in the same class, you know. I could tell you stories that would freeze the blood in your veins. Running around with all kinds of men, marrying a common criminal and then leaving her girls alone—”

“Mama.” Rosemary lowered her voice in warning. It wasn’t as though Eden chose to be born a Voorhees. After all, Eden hadn’t robbed a bank at gunpoint and ended up in prison. Her stepfather had. And Eden hadn’t twined herself around a stripper pole and fought a heroin addiction. That was her mother. Eden hadn’t done anything but fight, scratch, and sacrifice her whole life.

“No, Eden has to pay for her mother’s sins. And her father’s. I don’t know how she manages it. Betty brought all that on them with her loose living.”

“Eden’s mother had a stroke, Mother.”

Patsy gave Rosemary a flat look. “You’re more than kind. You and I both know what a burden that poor girl carries in taking care of her mother and working at that dead-end job.”

Rosemary didn’t want to talk about Eden’s issues. As far as Rosemary was concerned, Eden had achieved sainthood in their small town . . . but they didn’t have to discuss how terrible Eden’s mother was every time her friend’s name came up. “Why don’t we do a little window shopping? Bergdorf’s will be perfect.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Patsy said, patting her ash-blonde bob. Rosemary could see her mother had powdered her nose and reapplied her favorite coral lipstick while in the restroom.

“Of course I am,” Rosemary said, starting to rise.

“Just a second, dear,” her mother said, reaching over to place a hand on Rosemary’s.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have imposed my will on you by coming here. It wasn’t fair. I sometimes forget you’re a grown woman. That’s my fault. Not yours.”

Her mother’s earnestness took her aback. Was this some new manipulation or was Patsy truly sorry for showing up where she was not wanted? She didn’t want to give in so easily, but again, Rosemary didn’t want to stack another brick in the wall of blame she’d started long ago with her mother. If she wanted her mother to treat her like an adult, she couldn’t hold onto grudges like a child. Even though the anger at her mother’s presumptuous stunt still lingered, she didn’t want her mother to leave believing Rosemary held the grievance against her.

“Okay. You’re my mother and I understand you want what is best for me. But you have to let me make my own decisions—both good and bad—from here on out. If I want your help, I will ask for it.”

Her mother took the bill from the waitress. Rosemary plopped down a few bills as tip and her mother started to pick the cash up and hand it back to her. She caught herself and instead stuck the money in the jacket and scrawled her name at the bottom of the receipt. “I’ll try very hard. You may have to remind me at times, though. Old dog and all that.”

Rosemary nodded. “And you shouldn’t call yourself a dog. You’re a strong southern lady, a steel magnolia, a—”

“—bossy britches?”

“That, too,” Rosemary teased, stepping out into the New York City sunshine.

Just as she turned onto the sidewalk, her phone rang again.

Sal.

“Hey,” he said, “I have to see you tonight. I just spent a miserable lunch with my whole family. Only a pretty girl can help me now.”

“Where?”

“Uh . . . let me think. Some place that is you. Oh, how about the Rose Club at the Plaza?”

Rosemary smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Eight?”

“I’ll be there,” she said hanging up.

“Was that him?” her mother asked.

“Sal? Yeah. We’re going to meet there.” She pointed to the sumptuous Plaza, the hotel that had housed her favorite child heroine, Eloise.

“So is that a booty call?” Patsy asked.

“Oh good Lord, Mother.”

“What? I watch TV.”

Chapter Eleven

Sal didn’t feel comfortable standing in the Plaza. He’d been there only two other times. Once when he was drunk with his buddies and they’d decided to go slumming . . . something they thought enormously funny at the time. And once with Hillary for high tea. It should be known that the concierge did not find him and his cohorts the least bit amusing and also that he didn’t know the difference between high tea and low tea and thought the whole thing was stupid.

So, no, he wasn’t comfortable standing at the sumptuous bar in the Rose Club, sipping a gin and tonic. He didn’t really care for gin, but it was an easy enough drink to request. He’d showered and tugged on his best slacks and a button-down shirt that was not white but a nice light purple linen for her. He stood here because of her. Because somehow he knew Rosemary would like this place.

Not because she was ritzy, but more because she had a romantic streak. And meeting at the Plaza and taking a ride in a carriage through Central Park would please her.

And for the second time in his life, he really wanted to step outside his comfort zone in order to make someone happy.

She walked in and a few heads turned.

Rosemary wasn’t a bombshell, radiating sex appeal, stalking in too-high
heels toward him. On the contrary, she was subtle and pleasing in her beauty. Her light auburn hair brushed shoulders covered by a white blouse that looked like something hippies had worn in the seventies. A smart skirt the same color of his khaki pants hit right above her knee. She wore another pair of sandals, along with a gold necklace with a single pearl nestled in a gilded oyster shell that sat under the hollow of her neck. Of course she wore a pearl.

Spying him, she smiled.

And his heart started thumping.

“Hey,” she said, reaching him and setting down a small purse his sisters called a clutch with a fancy gold cross on it. “What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

She wrinkled her adorable nose and then looked at the bored bartender. “I’ll have a white zinfandel.”

The bartender raised his eyebrows and his lips might have smirked a bit.

“Yeah, I know. It’s the opposite of what a wine aficionado would choose, but I’m a bumpkin from Mississippi, so humor me,” she said with a smile.

Sal gave a bark of laughter. “She’s very honest.”

“So I see.” The bartender smiled and poured her a glass of the sweet wine. “And it’s what my sister drinks, too. I can’t turn her on to anything else. Here ya go, Mississippi.”

Rosemary took the glass and held it to his. “Here’s to two weeks without my mother.”

He tapped his glass to hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

She took a sip of her wine. “I have to say I’m relieved you wanted to see me again. After that fiasco in the hall of my cousin’s place, I wasn’t so sure. It was sort of horrifying.”

Not want to see her? Not a chance. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, but it
was
embarrassing, and my mother is not the most . . . subtle of women. I was afraid you’d wash your hands of my craziness.”

“Are you kidding? That was nothing. Wait until you meet my mother,” he said.

“You want me to meet your mother?” Rosemary sipped her wine, looking over her glass at him with gray eyes he couldn’t read.

He knew why. He kept forgetting they were like a crazy camp romance or a cross-Atlantic cruise hookup. Because every time he was with Rosemary it felt more like the start of forever instead of a here-and-present sort of thing.

They were from two different worlds . . . incredibly different worlds. Yet he felt so much himself when he was with her. No, he felt true to himself. That was what it was. Being with Rosemary made him feel like the man he wanted to be, the man who longed to blaze his own path, to choose his own life. One in which his father wasn’t having walls painted, counters mounted, and a new grill installed in a deli twenty blocks away. One in which his mother hadn’t picked out the future mother of her grandchildren. One not in Brooklyn. Or Manhattan.

But that was crazy.

He’d only known Rosemary for a few days. Besides, being impulsive about love hadn’t worked out so well last time. So why did he feel like saying the hell with a two-week verbal agreement? Why did he feel like scrubbing away all his family had given him? To prove a point?

Vincent had once berated him for his stubbornness when he’d wanted to spend the money he’d inherited from his grandparents on a truck. The more everyone said the truck was a foolish idea, the more Sal wanted it. On the day he turned eighteen and received the lump sum, he went to the DMV and got a driver’s license. Then he went to a used lot and bought a Ford F-150 with shiny chrome and leather seats. But six months, a fortune in parking, and two fender-benders later, he admitted he’d made an unwise decision. His family was good at told-ya-sos.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Rosemary asked, jarring him back to the Plaza and the gin and tonic paused at his lips.

“That you’re like a truck I once bought,” he said.

“You bought a truck? Like a pickup truck?”

He nodded. “Had her for six months before I realized parking in New York City comes with consequences—dinged doors, parking tickets, and a big-ass monthly garage bill.”

“So you’re saying I’m dinged? Or that I’m going to run up a steep bill?” She laughed but her forehead crinkled.

“Nah, I’m just thinking about how much I want you.”

Rosemary’s cheeks pinked and she gave a nervous laugh. “Says he who was denied the final article of clothing.”

“Damn straight.”

“Well, maybe I can skip a few steps for you.” Her cheeks turned persimmon but her eyes sparkled. Her embarrassment was so cute it made him want to say all sorts of dirty things to her.

Hell, made him want to do all sorts of dirty things to her.

“Will you really?” he drawled, lowering his gaze to her breasts, which looked encapsulated in rayon or spandex or whatever bras were made out of. Going braless might be too in-your-face for Rosemary, but . . . “You have something in mind?”

He ran a finger along the skin showing at her skirt hem.

Rosemary’s intake of breath made him smile wider. He arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Maybe,” she said, mischief skipping across her face.

He set his half-full glass on the bar. “So you need to go to the bathroom?”

She looked confused.

He looked pointedly at her skirt.

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks growing even redder. “You’re suggesting . . . oh.”

“But of course,” he said, once again stroking the sweet flesh of her knee. “You want to be a little bad, don’t you? Why not start right now?”

She nodded, swallowing. Picking up the glass of wine, she downed it. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Rosemary locked the stall and then leaned her head against the door. Her pulse skipped and something warm slithered through her belly. Sal liked sexy games, and damned if the man didn’t believe in extended foreplay.

She reached beneath her too-tight skirt, cursing the Godiva truffles she’d eaten last month when she drowned her grief in chocolate, and snapped the elastic band of her shapewear. Yeah, she wore a veritable granny girdle beneath the skirt.

What had she been thinking when she got dressed earlier?

Well, she hadn’t, because she’d only been thinking of fitting into the skirt, looking sexy and sophisticated. Of course, taking the slimming shapewear off would pretty much save her the mortification of pulling them off later. If there was a later.

But to go without panties . . .

Without any more thought, she peeled the Lycra underwear down and wiggled to get out of it. Then she contemplated what to do with her drawers. The Tory Burch crossover bag had room, but it would look bulky. Why in the heck hadn’t she worn the cute thong she’d bought in Jackson?

Taking a deep breath, she wadded up the underwear and shoved them into her purse, making the leather bulge. Stepping out of the stall, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Her face was crimson and now the skirt revealed a small belly poof. Darn it. She should have joined a gym and done ab crunches or something. Obviously long walks down the back roads of Yazoo County weren’t cutting it. She sucked in her stomach and turned sideways and then nodded. Would have to do. Then she moved the undies to the side and fetched her smoky plum lipstick.

The door opened and a well-dressed woman came in, startling her.

“Oh, hello,” Rosemary said to the woman, feeling guilty for some reason. She set the tube of lipstick down so she could adjust the flipped-up hem of her skirt.

The woman gave a quick and confused hello before moving to the nearest stall and slamming the door.

Rosemary washed her hands, straightened her shoulders, and pushed back out the door.

The Rose Club was decadent and red, perfect for seduction. Rosemary dug beneath all her insecurities to pull out her very seldom used inner vamp and sashayed across the room toward where Sal lazed at the bar. He looked dashing and dangerous. Made her feel too warm just by looking at him.

“Ma’am?” someone said behind her.

She turned to find the lady she’d scared with her friendliness in the bathroom.

“I think you left your lipstick,” she said, holding out Rosemary’s tube of Elizabeth Arden.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, taking it from the woman. She took the few more steps she needed to reach Sal, who’d dropped his gaze to her knees. Lifting his eyebrows, he silently asked her.

She merely smiled.

Opening her purse, she jabbed the lipstick in. But her fingers accidentally grabbed the girdle when she lifted the flap of her purse. The nude Lycra flopped out and before she could catch them, they fluttered to the floor, where they landed beside Sal’s shoe like a giant beached jellyfish.

“Oh my God,” Rosemary hissed, kneeling to snatch them up.

But Sal beat her to them. Lifting them between his thumb and forefinger, he raised his gaze to hers.

She knew she was the color of the velvet banquettes lining the wall. Never should she have tried being naughty. This is what happened when she—

“Kinky,” Sal drawled, his dark eyes teasing her as he handed the horrid shaper back to her.

“And it hides flaws, too,” she tried to joke.

Leaning toward her, he kissed her on the nose. “So why would you need it?”

Rosemary closed her eyes and stifled a laugh. Only she would walk across a posh bar in the Plaza Hotel and drop her girdle on the floor. Big ol’ sexy fail.

Sal downed his drink and pulled her to him. “Wanna go for a carriage ride?”

Rosemary’s smile was answer enough.

“I’m not too fond of studying the back end of a horse, but since you did such a nice thing for me, I’ll manage. Let’s go.”

Rosemary took his hand.

The horse’s name was Buttercup and he was a gray dapple with a swayback. But Rosemary didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, Buttercup was a magnificent steed and the man next to her a dashing Italian prince. Such as fairy tales go.

“Now over across the lake you can just glimpse the Loeb Boathouse, reimagined by Stuart Constable in the 1950s. Here you can rent a rowboat, a one-hundred-fifty-year tradition, or ride in an authentic Venetian gondola. Don’t forget to look for the many birds and native butterflies as you row across the lake,” Simon said. Simon was the fairy-tale coachman wearing the requisite frock coat and vest.