Love Like Rosemary's Read online

  Love Like Rosemary’s

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The night Grady's great-uncle Edwin passed away, a star fell from the heavens in a stream of white light like a comet. That was the way Grady remembered it happening at the time, although years later he was forced to admit some of this memory was a tad exaggerated.

  The important part, however, was that he remembered what Uncle Edwin had said and what he, Grady, said in return. Twelve years old, sitting beside his uncle's bed as the old man slept, his chest rising and falling slowly. Downstairs, the rest of the family closing the house for the night, the clatter of dishes and the sound of window shutters swinging closed. The only other sound was the breeze fanning through the open French doors, stirring the pendulums trimming the bedside lamp.

  Uncle Edwin stirred, his eyes opening slightly. "Grady," he whispered.

  The boy raised his head from the textbook on his lap. "Uncle Edwin," he said. "What is it? You want Aunt Marianne?" Referring to his mother's oldest sister, who had made him swear to call her the moment the patient woke up.

  The old man shook his head. "No, no," he said. "She'll fuss. I don't want to be fussed. Just want to talk a little."

  Grady hesitated. "Okay," he said, after glancing reluctantly in the direction of the door, wary of disobeying another family member's wishes. "Sure." He closed his book, a heavy economics volume his older brother Seth loaned him.

  "Gonna be a big tycoon, aren't you?" murmured Edwin. "Make all the millions like my brother William. He was the brains in the family. The money–that's why everybody wants you to be like him."

  "I do all right in school," Grady shrugged. "Seth's smarter than me -- he took Calculus freshman year in college." In the back of his mind, however, he imagined himself surpassing his brother and becoming the owner of a Fortune 500 company.

  Edwin shook his head. "Who cares?" he said. "It's not important. Money's not the end all. Something better than that."

  "Is that why you ran a match factory instead of going into business with Grampa?" asked Grady. "I mean, he offered you something, right? But you didn't take it."

  The old man's eyes opened a little wider. "I had something better," he whispered, hoarsely. "When I saw it, I thought to myself ... there's nothing else going to happen to you so great as this, Eddie. Nothing else. So take it before someone else gets away with it."

  "What was it, Uncle Edwin?" Grady asked, curious. After a moment, his uncle stirred.

  "Her," he said. "Most beautiful thing I ever saw when she smiled. Like lighting a whole room of candles, all different colors. Voice that made my knees weak." He paused, a cough rattling his chest.

  "But she was going west with her family. Wouldn't stay. So I had a choice–go with her or chase down the money." His eyes drooped lower. "So I chose her. Seven happy years together."

  As his uncle dozed off again, Grady slowly opened the cover of his book. He felt a hand grab his wrist in a tight grip as Edwin opened his eyes again.

  "Don't listen to them, he said. "If you have to chose, don't take the money. Take her."

  Eyes wide, Grady nodded. "Sure," he said, slowly. "I will."

  "Promise me, boy," Edwin murmured. "You'll see the signs...when you're with the one. Don't let them talk you out of it. Take the advice of someone who knows." He gave his nephew's arm a friendly squeeze.

  Staring at his uncle's face, Grady felt a strange emotion stirring in him. The man's gaze was directed towards the open window, the night sky filled with brilliant stars framed by the jasmine vine creeping around the sill. As if he saw something else that made his face light up with a smile.

  Grady touched his uncle's arm. "I promise," he said, his voice solemn.

  "Good boy." In his uncle's eyes, he saw a flash of white. Turning his head, he saw the trail of a star vanish below the skyline. Another breeze swept through, carrying the petals of the jasmine vine in a trail of lavender across the floor and bedspread.

  "Coming, Lou." Edwin's voice was soft as he stared at a vision unseen by Grady's eyes.

  The door opened suddenly, Grady's Aunt Marianne peering around the edge.

  "Ready to go downstairs, Grady?" she asked. "I'll sit with him for awhile."

  Jolted back to the present, Grady nodded. "Sure," he said. Slowly, he slipped from his chair, glancing back as Uncle Edwin lolled against the pile of pillows, dozing again.

  Four hours later, Uncle Edwin was gone. His request, however, was burned into his nephew's mind forever.

  *****

  Grady Hillerman's plan for life was based largely upon the perfect scenario laid out by his family. Like his brother, he was supposed to graduate with honors and apply to a major university; then, he was supposed to major in business, minor in economics and math. Afterwards, he was meant to follow Seth's footsteps further and take a position in their grandfather's company, now a publicly-traded investment firm.

  Grady did better than that, however; he graduated from Princeton with a dual major in business and economics, then proceeded to land a middle management position at Sturman and Hewett Investment, one of the most prestigious trading firms in Connecticut.

  Tall and confident, Grady possessed an easygoing nature beneath the layers of success. His life had come naturally, a combination of good luck, charm, and hard work. Comparisons between himself and his grandfather were drawn by his family more often, a cheering section of adults who believed they found the family member to restore the business triumphs of old. Even his mother, whose marriage tied her to a successful law firm and black tie galas, was excited by his future prospects.

  "I just think it's a stroke of good fortune for our family," she argued, over the phone. "That you and Seth may break ground in your own companies someday–that's what your grandfather would have admired, if he were here today."

  "Yeah, I know, Mom." Grady shifted his weight in his office chair, swiveling towards the high-rise window behind him. "But you realize, I kind of have to make business decisions based on what's best for this company first, right?"

  "Don't be silly," his mother answered, as if scolding him. With a laugh, she clicked off the line.

  He cradled the receiver, eyeing his own reflection in the windowpane. Dark hair and eyes, muscular shoulders outlined beneath his tailored business jacket. A roll of fortune's dice seemed to have landed him with every attribute necessary for a perfect life, except for a perfect mate. Until now, that is.

  His latest love interest, Emily, was smart, successful, and confident–a blond with a model-thin body and a fast-track career in a marketing firm. They had met at a party a month ago and slowly eased towards a relationship in the weeks following. Emily's calendar was busy, her social circle large, her desk piled with weekend assignments–the progress from "something more than friends" to "dating" was a road paved with deadlines and delays.

  This afternoon she was free, forcing him to drop everything and rush downtown to meet her for a couple of hours. If he missed this opportunity, he wouldn't see her again for almost two days, meaning two more days of wondering if he had only imagined the possibility of a relationship.

  But why imagine? Emily had everything his family wanted, everything his own life seemed to demand from a romantic partner. Without drawing up a list on paper,
he could draw the comparisons between their careers and fortunes in his mind. A mere mention of her accomplishments had left his mother breathless, had made his now-married brother go wide-eyed, had created a buzz in his family that Grady may have met his match.

  Yes, Emily was definitely, possibly, the one.

  *****

  Downtown was the farmer's market open one day a week, in a district Grady usually had no reason to visit. It was a strange spot for Emily to pick, but given how little he knew about her, there was no reason for surprise. She might be a hobby cook, an Italian recipe enthusiast for all he knew.

  "Hello, Mr. Successful." He felt a tug on his sleeve. Emily was beside him, a cell phone pressed against her ear. She flashed him a quick smile with this greeting before moving the receiver into position again and continuing with a heated business debate.

  Her white tailored coat outlined her narrow shoulders and tall physique, her curtain of blond hair pinned in a immaculate knot as she listened, red nails tapping against a wicker basket.

  "Sorry about that," she apologized, as she hung up. "Larry is such a bore at the office–you'd think I ran the firm instead of him." Shoving the phone in her pocket, she lifted a bundle of green beans from a nearby table.

  Grady lifted the basket from her arm in a gentlemanly gesture. "So which is it?" he asked. "Culinary chef or budding cook?" Eyebrows raised, a playful smile below as he waited for the answer.

  Emily looked confused. "I'm sorry?" she began. Then, glancing at the basket, realization dawned on her face. "Oh, neither," she answered. "I'm just here for my grandmother. She insists that her produce be fresh. Something about chemicals in the grocery stores?" Rolling her eyes, she tossed a bundle of soup greens in with a few carrots.

  At least she shops for her grandmother. Grady made a mental note of this as he followed along, watching Emily inspect heads of cabbage and garlic cloves. She wiped her fingers on a handkerchief in between, removing traces of dirt.

  "So, how goes the stock portfolio?" she asked. "You told me you were building up your retirement with investments."

  "Fine," he answered, feeling this topic was hardly the romantic intro he imagined. "It's no big deal. Just a little experiment to see if I can earn enough for an early retirement, that's all." In his mind, he had no plans to actually retire. His grandfather William had died at his desk, as he recalled.

  "What about college funds?" Emily's voice jerked him back to the present. "I mean, have you started building those accounts yet? It's never too early to plan for sending kids to Harvard or Princeton. My father was saying the other night ..." Her voice trailed off as she lifted a radish from the neighboring stand.

  "Is this a root vegetable?" she asked, "Or do these grow on trees? I can never remember." She tossed it in the basket.

  School funds, retirement–this was the modern language of courtship in the corporate world, Grady supposed. He had been hoping they might discuss favorite movies or books instead of listing off personal assets by way of evaluation.

  "Read any good books lately?" he said. "I mean, I'm guessing gardening's not your thing." Teasingly, as he held up a squash from the table where she inspected a pile of yellow-skinned vegetables.

  "What?" she asked. "Oh, no. I'm not really into dirt, as you can see." She glanced in the basket, silently listing the items under her breath.

  "That's enough for a woman of eighty to eat, right?" she asked. "I don't know why she's always having me pick up extras. Nobody ever stops by for dinner and she's practically killing herself, making all the soups for the neighbors." She lifted the basket from his arm and moved towards the parking lot across the street from the stands. Grady followed along, hands stuffed in his pockets, his stride trailing behind hers as he pondered what subject would steer the conversation in the direction of their personalities.

  He glanced at the stands disappearing on either side of him, the baskets of colorful produce on display. The faint tinkling of music made him crane his neck towards the marketplace behind him, where strains drifted from an instrument someone was playing, a dulcimer maybe.

  A large gold and brown striped tent was pinned open near the end of the marketplace, garlands of dried green and lavender strung like boughs of springtime holly. Beneath them, a girl in a soft green blouse, a thick cloud of corkscrew blonde curls spilling over her face and shoulders as she bundled stacks of dried plants for a customer. Bathed in the haze of golden sunlight, her smile seemed like magic as she responded to something her customer said, her fingers tying a long piece of ribbon in a gift bow.

  "Grady! What are you doing?" Emily's tone was one of bewilderment tinged with panic. It was then that Grady realized he was standing in the middle of the street, a line of traffic barreling towards him. He stepped aside swiftly, a moving van passing between him and the marketplace.

  "Sorry," he said. "Just a little distracted." The truck swept by–and the girl was gone. The sides of the tent lowered, revealing a commonplace striped pattern, stirred by an ordinary breeze. No magical golden light, no smile like sunshine.

  "Distracted?" Emily raised one eyebrow as he trotted forwards to catch up with her. "I think maybe you need a break from your office, Grady. You almost got creamed by that van."

  "I know," he said, taking her arm as they crossed the sidewalk together. "I saw something in the marketplace. It was this ... I don't know ... weird light. From this tent where a musician was playing..." he trailed off, unable to describe it. Feeling silly just trying.

  "There's a lot of weirdoes performing there," she answered. Her finger pressed a button on her keychain, the alarm on her BMW blipping from its parking site. "I just try to ignore them whenever I'm picking up grandmother's things." She placed the basket in the trunk of her car and slammed it shut.

  "Need a ride to your office?" she asked, with a smile.

  "I'll walk," Grady answered, shaking his head. "It's not far–"

  "Are you sure you should be walking anywhere right now?" she asked.

  He let out a short laugh. "Point taken," he answered. Sliding into the passenger seat, where he moved aside a pile of brochures and product layouts.

  As Emily adjusted her mirrors, he couldn't help but glance at the market behind them. The crowds of customers and vendors, the long tables holding baskets and bushels of edible commodities. No sign of anything unusual before it disappeared around the corner as Emily's car made the turn towards his office.

  *****

  Maybe it was a sign. That's what Grady told himself later, curled up on the sofa in his mother's study, formerly his bedroom. Now an antique lounge and a walnut desk were shoved in the room where his twin bed and framed baseball collection once occupied space.

  In his hand, he held a shooting star postcard, one from a boxful of antique images his Uncle Edwin had once given him. Some from a world's fair, some from the brief travels of his youth before he ended up in a factory out West. Prosperous and content enough, even without the elegant life of wealth enjoyed by his brother.

  What he was thinking of was not Edwin's life, but his words. The night his uncle died, but not before making his youngest great-nephew promise to marry for love. You'll see the signs, he said. Only he didn't say what signs, leaving Grady to ponder exactly what he meant.

  Would seeing a tent illuminated in golden light be one, perhaps? With a girl like an angel peddling bundles of pastel color tied together like Christmas presents? It was possible, he supposed; after all, he was on a sort-of date at the time, his mind distracted by thoughts of how to romantically approach the woman ahead of him.

  Or maybe it was something else. As he tossed the photo onto his mother's desk, which was piled mostly with society Christmas cards and charity invites.

  The door opened a crack as his mother peered inside. "Are you staying here tonight?" she asked. "Or going back to your apartment? If not, I'll make lemon pancakes in the morning." Society wife or not, his mother believed at least one meal a day should be served to her family by her own hands
.

  "Yeah, I'm staying," he answered. "I'll just crash on the sofa. Too tired to drive home." He flashed her a smile as she closed the door again.

  Maybe it was a sign, maybe it wasn't. Maybe Uncle Edwin was made a little crazy by the sight of a meteor streaking across the sky. This, as Grady pulled the cord on the desk's antique lamp and plunged the room into darkness. Leaving only starlight visible through the window's half-drawn curtains.

  *****

  "No, I didn't discuss stock portfolio options with Mr. Henson yet." Grady's foot eased off the accelerator as he made the turn at the intersection. "I was under the impression his board members hadn't weighed in–"

  "Then call him back pronto," Sturman interrupted, his voice sounding squawkish over Grady's cell speakerphone. "We'll talk strategy at this morning's meeting, along with the Takasi merger plans–"

  "Grayson has the proposals, sir," said Grady. His eyes glancing briefly both ways before he took off again, a trifle more speed than technically allowed by law.

  He was on the verge of being late, something he was accustomed to on his mother's breakfast mornings. Part of the charm of the business world, his father always said– but Grady had begun to think of it more as a hassle than excitement.

  Sturman's voice rambled on as Grady's foot brushed the brake, hands steering his car swiftly around the corner. And straight into the path of a girl on a bike.

  In a split-second, his foot slammed on the brake. The car's bumper made contact with the bicycle, sending its rider skidding off into a sidewalk clothing sale outside a boutique.

  Grady's body pitched forward, blasting the car horn in the steering wheel.

  "What was that noise?" squawked Sturman.

  "There's been an accident–I have to go," he answered, snapping the phone shut. Heart pounding, he threw open the driver's side door and sprinted towards the scene. Had he killed her? Had he broken her arms and legs? A still-spinning bicycle wheel protruded from a pile of coats and caftans, the store's owner bustling forth from the doorway.