fruit of their hard-earned labor and, rather than admiring them for packing as much living into their lives as she did, only bemoaned the loss of his dwindling inheritance. Though they both lived in Middleton, she rarely saw him, which, sadly, was fine with her.
Were her parents aware of her circumstances, Rowan knew they wouldn’t hesitate to help her out, but pride, the insistent desire to fend for herself and the idea that they might miss another stamp because of her kept her from asking. She scowled. Besides, her brother had his hand out often enough for both of them.
She could make it on her own.
Would make it on her own. All she had to do was get through another month, then hopefully she’d get called back to school. Until then, she’d just answer her 1-900 line every time it rang and take care of her neighbor. It was a small price to pay for her independence.
Rowan summoned a weak smile as Ida drew near and silently—fervently—prayed that the woman hadn’t developed another ingrown toenail.
“I swear, you’re the dirtiest female I think I’ve ever seen,” Ida chided. “Gardening is dirty work, I’ll grant you. But—” her lips twisted with displeasure as she inventoried every smudge and smear on Rowan’s body “—I think that you get down and roll in it.” Her lined face folded into a frown. “How do you ever expect to find a man when you look more fit to be the bride of a pig?”
Rowan barely smothered a sigh. In addition to being part of the no-eyebrow generation, Ida was also of the outdated opinion that a woman wasn’t complete until she had a man to make her whole. It was penis envy to the nth degree and the mentality never ceased to make her grind her teeth in frustration.
Furthermore, Rowan had been burned once and, call her crazy, but she simply wasn’t up to a repeat performance of that disaster at the moment. She’d been in love, imagining the happily ever after that Ida relentlessly preached—she’d even reluctantly let that bastard drive her car, her biggest regret because he hadn’t been vintage-Vette worthy and she’d known it—but hadn’t heeded her own intuition because she’d been too busy picking out china patterns and bridesmaids’ dresses. She’d tricked herself into thinking that she was in love, and he’d tricked her into believing he reciprocated the sentiment.
He’d been reciprocating something all right, but it hadn’t been with her.
Two weeks before the wedding, she’d shown up at her fiancé’s apartment for some surprise sex. It turned out to be surprise sex, too, only she was the one surprised and he was the one having sex.
Bitter pill, hard lesson.
Since then, she’d developed an unspoken code of sorts, one that her father had unwittingly inspired. She didn’t date anyone who didn’t fully appreciate her car, and she didn’t sleep with anyone who had the gall to ask to drive it. Bizarre? Yes. But it worked.
Rowan glanced at the sleek little convertible parked in her driveway and felt her lips curl at the corners. Dubbed the first American sports car, the Vette was an unparalleled testament to fine engineering at its best. Honduras Maroon with fawn interior and a white ragtop, it had a 327 V-eight with four on the floor, and it purred with megahorse-power perfection. It had been her dad’s first brand-new car and he’d cared for it with the kind of reverent regard the vehicle deserved. She’d shared his passion and, as a result, he’d handed her the keys when she’d graduated from high school.
Rowan had decided that while she might not be a ’62 Vette, she nonetheless deserved the same care and attention, and the same reverence. Until she found a guy willing to ante up all of the above, she planned to play her cards close to her vest. Did she occasionally long for more? Of course she did. She enjoyed her independence, yes, but not to the point of being a perpetual loner. There were nights when the silence closed in around her and she literally ached for the presence of another body. A big, warm masculine body. Nights when she craved conversation and companionship, a lover and friend. A safe harbor amid the ordered chaos of her life. But she refused to settle for anything less than the total package, and therein lay the rub.
Ignoring Ida’s bride-of-a-pig remark, Rowan summoned a smile. “Was there something I could do for you, Ida?”
Ida started. Her preoccupied gaze darted away from Rowan’s grimy shirt and settled on her face. Then she frowned, huffed an exaggerated breath and fished a napkin from the front pocket of her housecoat. “Honestly,” Ida complained as she wiped Rowan’s cheek. “It’s all over your face, too.” She tsked under her breath. “I hope you’re hosing yourself down before you climb into that old tub. Those drains are slow enough as it is.”
“I always do,” Rowan lied easily. Ida was forever offering little tips on how to care for the aging guest house. Don’t overload the circuits. Use oil soap to clean the floors. Ida Holcomb was a woman of many opinions and she could be counted on to share them—liberally—whether one wanted to hear them or not. A droll smiled curled Rowan’s lips.
Seemingly satisfied, the older woman stuffed the napkin back into her pocket. “There. That’s better, though I really wish you had time to change. You’re my representative, you know,” she said, drawing herself up primly. “How you look reflects directly upon me.”
So an errand was in order, Rowan thought, resisting the urge to smile. “I can change in a flash, Ida. Where do you need me to go?”
“To the drug store.” She winced uncomfortably and rubbed her belly. “The fiber and prunes didn’t do the trick. I need an enema.”
And she should definitely be turned out for that mission, Rowan thought dimly, equally horrified and revolted. After all, buying an enema was important business. But just par for the course in her train wreck of a life. She was so used to being humiliated she often wondered what it would feel like to be normal. To not blush or squirm or writhe with embarrassment.
Rowan swallowed, nodded jerkily, not trusting herself to speak.
“In fact, you’d better get two. Better safe than sorry,” Ida prophesied grimly.
Rowan managed a sick smile. Right. And better this than hungry, she tried to tell herself.
The argument might have worked, too…if she hadn’t just lost her appetite.
2
AT THIRTY-TWO and in perfect health, Will Foster found himself skating the edge of an anger-induced aneurysm, or at the very least, a massive stroke.
Doris Whitaker had screwed him again.
Not in the literal sense, of course—Will shuddered as her heavily made-up, wrinkled face flashed through his mind’s eye—but figuratively, he might as well have painted a big bull’s-eye on his ass.
The ass she was undoubtedly watching, the old perv, Will thought with an unhappy start as he strode across her yard to his truck. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and sure enough, she’d been watching him leave. Her painted lips slid into a wider smile and she twinkled her arthritic, bejeweled fingers at him.
Will forced a tight smile and waved back. “Goodbye,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
His company, Foster’s Landscape Design, had spent the better part of three summers, not to mention thousands of dollars, trying to fulfill their “satisfaction guaranteed” promise.
To no avail.
Though
