was after ten, and Zach had been in the office since before six. Yet he didn’t feel tired at all.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked in a neutral voice, implying that it didn’t matter to her one way or the other.
Zach checked his watch, although he already knew the precise time from the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
“The kids will probably still be up,” Rosie told him when he came around and opened the door for her. “Allison stays up till all hours of the night whenever she gets the chance.”
Zach knew that and struggled with it, too. He and Allison had discussed this volatile subject on a number of occasions. His final conclusion was that if his daughter got too tired, she’d learn to adjust. He was saving his big guns for when she started driving.
Zach unlocked the front door and Rosie entered the foyer ahead of him. Two steps into the house, she stopped abruptly. “What’s this?” she gasped.
“What?” Zach moved around her to find rose petals strewn about. The red petals seemed to take a path away from the door, down the hallway that led to the master bedroom. Talk about blatant manipulation! His children had set up a romantic interlude for him and Rosie. This, no doubt, was primarily Allison’s doing, since Eddie, as a nine-year-old boy, didn’t have much of a clue about love and romance.
“Everything is suspiciously quiet,” Rosie murmured.
That was when a soft waltz started to play.
“Music, too?” Zach asked in a whisper.
“Romantic music,” Rosie elaborated. “It’s from Swan Lake.” She moved into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, in the middle of the kitchen table, was another surprise.
“Wine?” Zach asked, following her.
“Looks that way.”
Sure enough, their children had strategically placed two wineglasses on the kitchen table with one long-stem rose lying between them. A bottle of wine sat in a bucket of ice. Unfortunately, it was a red wine, but Zach wasn’t about to complain.
“I believe our children have planned a bit of romance for us,” Rosie said sheepishly. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t put them up to this.”
“I didn’t, either, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea, do you?” He held out his hand to her. “How long since we last danced?” He had no recollection of their doing so in the past half-dozen years.
Rosie laughed. “I don’t think we ever waltzed.”
“Then it’s definitely time to rectify that.” Hand in hand, Zach and Rosie hurried into the family room. He brought her into his embrace and they moved to the classic rhythms of the waltz. Amazing, Zach thought. This seemed so natural.
When the music ended, Rosie flashed him a radiant smile.
Zach could never resist one of Rosie’s smiles. Their eyes met in the dim light, and all at once he knew he had to kiss her. He prayed she felt the same way, because waiting a moment longer was entirely out of the question.
They nearly collided in their eagerness. Rosie had her arms around his neck and his were around her waist. Their kisses were wild and wet and urgent, as though it was necessary to feel and taste as much of each other as possible.
With the kissing came something else Zach had forgotten, something that had been buried deep in the mud they’d slung at each other during the divorce. He loved Rosie. He’d loved her as a young man and, despite everything, he loved her now.
Loved her and wanted her, desperately wanted her.
It was the little things that Bruce Peyton missed most about his wife. Stephanie had died in a car accident almost two years ago, and he’d thought, he’d hoped, he’d be able to adjust with time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. His friends insisted he date again, and several had set him up with blind dates, but he’d always come away feeling guilty and uneasy. He’d read that a year was long enough to heal substantially from a loss like his. It wasn’t true, not for him. He didn’t think he’d ever get over her death.
Stephanie had been his only love. Bruce felt lost without her, and so lonely. Jolene, their daughter, kept Stephanie’s picture on her nightstand because she was afraid she’d forget what her mother had looked like. That tore at Bruce’s heart, but he had no such problem. He carried the memory of her face in his heart. She was with him every minute of every day.
Although he tried, Bruce just wasn’t good at little-girl stuff. Right now, for instance, Jolene needed a haircut. Her pigtails fell halfway down her back. Her hair had been cut only once in the two years since Stephanie’s death. Not thinking it mattered, Bruce had taken his daughter to the barbershop with him. Seven-year-old Jolene had primly informed him he’d done the wrong thing.
“Girls don’t get their hair cut in the same places boys do,” she told him afterward.
Now Jolene was saying she wanted her hair short.
“You’re supposed to take me to a beauty shop,” his daughter said when he picked her up at the after-school child-care facility.
“I’ll make an appointment,” Bruce promised her. He chose a name out of the yellow pages, a place that promised great cuts, phoned and wrote down the day and time. Monday at four. Then he dutifully arrived at the mall with Jolene in tow.
“Get Nai-led,” Jolene said, sounding out the second word. They stood in front of the shop. His daughter nodded approvingly, and he was relieved he’d apparently made the right choice this time.
Taking her by the hand, Bruce walked into the salon. It was like stepping into an alien world. Women draped with plastic sheets and huge looped curlers twisted about their heads sat in chairs and stared at him as if he was the odd-looking one. The smell was none too pleasant, either. He didn’t know what these women did to themselves or why, but they had his pity.
Tentatively Bruce walked over to the receptionist’s desk. “I’m Bruce Peyton,” he managed to get out. “I have an appointment for my daughter.” He leaned against the counter. “She needs a haircut.”
The woman, who must’ve been about eighteen, ran her index finger down the appointment schedule. Her fingernail had to be a good two inches long and had something painted on it. He stared hard and realized it was some psychedelic print. Very sixties. But why? He shook his head slightly.
“Here you are,” she said in a chirpy voice. “She’s booked with Rachel.” Looking past him, she shouted, “Rachel, your four o’clock is here.”
Bruce stepped away from the counter.
“Rachel will just be a moment. Would you like to take a seat over here and wait?” The receptionist gestured to a row of chairs against the wall, all of which were empty.
“Ah, sure.” Bruce sat down on one of the chairs and Jolene sat next to him. He reached for a magazine and quickly replaced it when he saw the lead article was “Ten Ways to Achieve an Orgasm.” In case Jolene tried to sound out the word orgasm, he turned the magazine facedown. Luckily, the latest issue of The Cedar Cove Chronicle
