Love Like Rosemary's Read online

  "I'm so, so sorry," he stammered, his arms lifting heaps of garments from the pile as the panicked store owner snatched them from him. "Please, Ma'am–Miss–"

  His hand seized a pale green coat, only to discover it was attached to the girl struggling upwards from beneath the sale items. Her own dress every bit as outspoken as the bright fabrics and colorful prints piled around her.

  "It's okay, really." The girl's hat tumbled from her head as she sat up, a green cloche that landed at Grady's feet. Frizzy blond corkscrews escaping in every direction as she disentangled a silk scarf from her shoulder and handed it to the store owner.

  The girl at his feet was none other than the girl from the marketplace tent.

  Grady stared at her, as if this scene was a dream and not a nightmare from reality. His eyes traced the freckles on her cheeks, the metal charm dangling around her neck by a ribbon as if seeing her again had cast some sort of spell over his faculties.

  The same girl. A coincidence that seemed like fate at this moment.

  His jaw snapped shut after a moment as reality took over again, his fingers closing around the girl's hand as her feet propelled her towards standing.

  "I'm really sorry," he stammered. "Please–I'll pay for everything. The clothes, the ambulance–" He noticed the long scrape on her knee, tangible proof that she was human and not a figment of his imagination.

  "No, I'm fine, really," she answered. "Just a little scuffed up, that's all.” He saw a red stain on the sleeve of her coat, scuff marks on the brown, round-toed shoes like grown-up Mary Jane's. She pulled her skirts free from the blue Schwinn bicycle rammed against the collapsed clothing rack.

  "But you're bleeding–" A pair of dark brown eyes met his own as he spoke again. The girl glanced away, reaching down to pull her bicycle free of the metal stand.

  With a squeal of metal, it scooted away, revealing a twisted front tire and broken chain dragging along the sidewalk. A crushed wicker basket on the front, a pile of white paper bundles and small boxes spilling forth.

  "Rats," she groaned, bending down to pick them up. Grady's fingers closed over the bike, moving it aside as he caught the girl by her arm.

  "Listen, Miss–" he trailed off momentarily, "I need to take you to the emergency room. Just to make sure you're all right. As for the bike, I have insurance–" he fished around for his wallet.

  "If you don't mind, would you two please move along now that you've established she's fine?" The store's owner interrupted. "You're keeping my customers at bay." Her hands were snapping the hangers back on the sales rack, jerking garments onto display hooks again.

  "Let me cover any damages," Grady answered, his attention swiveling in the owner's direction. "The rack or the clothes–"

  "Just move along, please," the woman snapped. The girl from the sidewalk had lifted her bike and was limping away, the broken basket and its contents tucked beneath her arm. Her movement attracted Grady's eye, forcing him to chase after her.

  "Wait," he called. The girl glanced over her shoulder as he caught up with her.

  "I'm okay," she assured him. "I'll just call my friend to pick me up–I can't be late."

  A slightly dizzy look came over her face as she swayed forward. He caught her in his arms, the scent of dried lavender and peppermint leaves drifting from the collar of her coat. Wrapping one arm around her, he took hold of her bike and steered it on its remaining good wheel towards his car.

  "We better get you checked out," he said. Helping her into the passenger seat as he ignored the honking horns and rude gestures of drivers forced to go around his haphazard parking job. The girl leaned back against the seat, eyes closed as she touched her forehead.

  "Sometimes seeing blood makes me dizzy," she said, half-giggling. A strange, almost giddy remark for this moment, Grady thought, as he struggled to force her bike into his trunk.

  "The emergency room's a block from here," he said, sliding in the driver's side and shifting into gear. "Don't worry if you don't have insurance–" He cut off as he glanced at her, where she was visible pressing a handful of dried leaves over the cut on her knee.

  "To stop the bleeding," she explained. "It's mullion–used as a natural bandage, actually." A series of unwrapped bundles in her basket, dried leaves and blossoms from various herbs and flowers.

  "Are you a–delivery girl?" he asked, puzzled. "I mean, the bundles, the boxes–" he signaled for a left turn at the intersection, taking care to drive more carefully even though he felt the need for haste.

  This time, it was for something more serious than Mr. Henson's portfolio.

  "You're correct," she answered. "Deliveries are Wednesdays and Fridays. I was already running a little late–that's why I need to call my friend. He'll pick me up," she added, as if reassuring Grady that she wasn't planning to be further trouble.

  Him. Grady pictured a tan figure in a sports car, muscles rippling beneath a leather jacket, feeling an inexplicable twinge of jealousy. He forced himself to switch to the image of a kind, fatherly figure–maybe a brother or an uncle, even.

  "You can borrow my cell," he said, turning swiftly into the emergency room entrance. "I can cover any losses to your–your–" He trailed off, eyes glancing in the direction of the dried leaves plastered over her wound.

  "Merchandise," she corrected. "Dried herbs, flowers, teas–you name it." She held onto the basket even as he helped her out of the car. Arm around the narrow waist beneath her green coat, brushing against the coral printed fabric of her skirts.

  "Sorry, Miss–" he began, flushing slightly with embarrassment.

  "Rosemary," she answered, shifting the basket closer as she hobbled towards the entrance. He held out his hand.

  "Grady," he said. "The guy who ran over you."

  Her lips twitched into a smile, a laugh evident in the corners of her mouth–until her eyes grew wide.

  "My bike," she began.

  "Oh, it's in my trunk," he said. "When I take you–wherever, I'll lift it out for you." The image popping into his head of pulling into the driveway of her home, as if expecting to encounter a carnival of jugglers and fire eaters to match the magic of the golden striped tent.

  "Don't worry, Herman will pick me up," she said, letting go of his arm to lean against the desk.

  "Hi, I was in an accident," she began. "It's nothing serious–"

  "Is there a doctor available?" Grady interrupted. "I think she may have hit her head–I struck her with my car–" Another flush of embarrassment on his face as the nurse shuffled through the forms and placed them in front of Rosemary. Whose fingers filled in the blanks swiftly–her handwriting too slanted for Grady to make out more than a handful of words.

  "Send the bill to this address," he said, fishing his wallet and a business card from his insurance company out of his pocket, along with his cell phone. At the sight of the phone, Rosemary snatched it up and swiftly dialed a number.

  "Thank you," she whispered. Hand over the receiver before she limped towards the seating area. "Herman? It's Rosemary. I need you to ..." The sound of her voice faded from his hearing as he hunched over the desk, writing his personal information on the card. Although he strained his ears to hear more, he felt a twinge of self-anger. What right did he have to eavesdrop on her personal calls?

  "Excuse me," said the nurse. "Follow me." She lifted the chart and motioned for Rosemary to come with her. Dropping his pen, Grady followed until the nurse stopped him.

  "Patients and family only," she said. He felt disappointed, a strange response to being excused from comforting a stranger. The girl turned and pressed the cell phone into his hand.

  "Thanks again," she said. With a smile beneath the green cloche hat that made his heart pinwheel with emotion. A slightly dizzy feeling in his head almost made him forget to tuck the business card in her coat.

  "Wait," he said, slipping it in her pocket at the same moment she turned towards him.

  "I'm sorry to ask," she said. "But could you take my bike to a shop
on Hyard Street? It's a vintage bike shop–I wouldn't ask, but Herman can't fit it in his car."

  Gazing into her eyes, he saw a splash of gold in the brown, like sunlight infused in melting chocolate. Refusal was impossible, his knees weakening slightly.

  "Sure," he said. "Love to." Standing with a strange grin on his face as she hurried after the emergency room nurse.

  By the time he climbed back into his car, the thought of Sturman and the business meeting struck him like a mallet's blow. Glancing at his watch, he saw the digits for ten-twenty. The meeting was scheduled in ten minutes. With a groan, he pulled out of the parking lot.

  Ten minutes to find the bike shop on Hyard and make it to his office. Impossible–he should wait until afterwards to find a repair shop for a total stranger. The sound of the bike clanging around in his trunk brought back the flash of blue in his windshield, the green felt hat tumbling to his feet on the sidewalk. A scent of lavender perfume as she collapsed in his arms.

  Fighting his way through heavy midday traffic, he pulled against the curb outside a shop with heavy awning shading its glass display windows, yawning antique letter's spelling out the name "Wiley's Wheels". On display, a Victorian bicycle with an exaggerated front wheel–the shop's logo, apparently.

  Lugging the bike out of his trunk, he noticed the scratches in the blue paint were not fresh, the handle grips worn from touch. Rosemary the delivery girl must be crazy about this bike, he decided; or else, had no other means of transport besides Herman.

  Herman. He pictured a blond German god, bench-pressing three times his weight in a home gym, impressive enough to catch the eye of the magical girl with the corkscrew curls and freckles.

  The shop door rang with a bell suspended above; a man glanced up from a newspaper open on the counter.

  "Ah, good morning," he said. "What can I do for you?" A slightly foreign accent from his throat, his gaze traveled to the bent Schwinn in Grady's hands.

  "Um, I need to have this repaired for a friend," Grady began. The man was already lifting the bike onto a table, where a handful of tools were on display. A tisking sound from his lips.

  "It will take several days," he said, studying the frame. His frown deepened after a moment.

  "This is Rosemary's bike–did she tip it off into a pit of rocks?" he asked. "And she was always so careful–"

  "It's my fault, actually," said Grady. "I kind of –bumped it. With my car." The severity in the older man's voice made him hesitate to mention the girl was on it at the time.

  "Well, it will be out of commission for several days until I can get new handlebars and fix this front axel," the man scolded. "Where should I send the bill?" As Grady produced a business card, his face softened slightly.

  "At least you take responsibility," he said, gruffly. "So many do not these days. Rosemary had better watch you–" he added, shaking a warning finger in Grady's direction.

  "Yes, sir," Grady answered. Edging towards the door. "Thanks again–"

  "Yes, yes, go," the man answered, impatient. He did not glance up from the bike as Grady opened the door to leave, his attention focused solely on the bike as if it were a wounded child in need of care.

  Grady paused to check his watch. Ten minutes until eleven. He was too late for the meeting, too late to do anything except make his excuses to Sturman. All because of his chance encounter with Rosemary.

  Rosemary who? It suddenly occurred to him that he forgot to ask Wiley for the girl's last name–or where she lived, for that matter. Unless she contacted him over the emergency room bill, he might never see her again. As if this whole morning had been a crazy dream.

  He wasn't brave enough to go back inside the shop. Or track down Herman, whom he suspected would take offense to the presence of a potential rival, if he was anything like Grady's imagined version.

  And if he didn't hurry, he would have plenty of time to think about Rosemary's magic from the long unemployment line.

  *****

  Grady's fingers toyed with a pencil in the cup on his desk. His ear was listening to Mr. Henson drone on about potential stock investments, but his mind was somewhere else. Fantasizing about this morning, replaying the events so he appeared more dashing and confident, as opposed to stammering, terrified he had just broken a girl's arm.

  "What about commodities? I really see them as a way to recoup business profits long-term," said Henson. "I consulted the board about this and they want to learn more about it, naturally..."

  "Uh-huh, of course," replied Grady. In his mind, Rosemary was aglow in the brown-striped marketplace tent, casting a knowing glance at him as she bundled together herbs. The sweet scent of lavender drifting up like a cloud as she tied a silk pink ribbon, lips parting in a bewitching smile that beckoned him closer.

  "Hillerman." The sound of Sturman's voice boomed in his office doorway. "Is that Henson? Tell him we have a conference call scheduled for Thursday morning if that's convenient for his members.

  "Convenient?" repeated Grady. "Sure, I'll tell him." He nodded, seeing his boss's eyes narrow before he moved on.

  Sturman had chosen to treat his late arrival with dignified silence at first–until Grady shifted his story to one about concern for the company name if one of its members struck a pedestrian. He received a begrudging forgiveness, something he was lucky to receive given the tight business crunch squeezing the agency of Sturman and Hewett right now.

  As he played with the pencil in his fingers, it became the stalk of a plant in his mind. Little flowers beyond his identification, like the ones tumbling from Rosemary's cardboard boxes.

  His phone rang again. "Sturman and Hewett, this is Hillerman speaking," he said, lifting the receiver.

  "Grady?" He recognized his mother's voice. "Thank heavens I caught you before lunch. I need you to stop by the wine shop and see if the new Bordeaux has arrived. I don't have anything in the house suitable for when Emily comes to dinner on Friday --"

  "Emily?" he repeated, sitting upright. "Coming to dinner? Mom, I think you must be mistaken–"

  "I called and asked her," his mother answered. "I saw her name on your calendar and thought 'why not?' It's time we finally met one of your girlfriends–and the way you described this one, I think she may be the last."

  He sighed. "Mom, don't–"

  "Just pick up the bottle," his mother repeated. "And don't 'oh, mother' me. Maybe if you'd brought a few of your dates around in the past, we wouldn't be so anxious to meet one now."

  He groaned. "Fine. I'll pick up the bottle on my way home." Rubbing his forehead, he thought of his mother reading his social calendar, making little checklists about the quality of his girlfriend choices. It was too much, too soon, to spring his family on a girl he barely knew.

  He suspected, however, that Emily could hold her own against his brother on the subject of retirement portfolios and investment planning.

  "Do you believe in coincidences?" He asked Seth this question later that night. The two of them were in Seth's old room–now a makeshift game parlor of their father's design, complete with a small billiards table and a pinball machine. Seth's fingers worked the button on the side, sending the colorful marble shooting past sensors and noisemakers.

  "Sure," Seth answered. "I mean, the other day, when I was in line to buy Melanie a package of gorgonzola, the shop posted a special cheese discount to all new members just as I reached the register–"

  "Not that kind of coincidence," said Grady. "I'm talking about meeting people. Or things happening you can't believe are real. The existence of signs, maybe." He swished the ice cubes in his glass, watching them float to the top again.

  Seth shrugged his shoulders. "Absolutely," he answered. "Why not? Everybody looks to signs somewhere. Street signs, signs that you've picked the wrong major in college. Signs that your boss is crazy..." In the machine, the marble spun to the top, then shot down a long tunnel to disappear from sight.

  "Do you think you should you follow them?" Grady asked, casually. "Or maybe i
t isn't worth the risk. Picking the wrong sign and ending up in the wrong place."

  "Everyone picks the wrong sign now and then," said Seth. "Just part of life." Flashing a grin in his brother's direction. The marble slipped between the trigger's arms, the console lighting up with Seth's score.

  "Lucky winner!" it proclaimed in bold letters. The flashing sign of neon lights reflected on the curve of Grady's glass.

  *****

  Grady drummed his fingers against the outdoor table before a downtown cafe. Despite the awning, he felt the springtime heat acutely, as if summer was marking off calendar pages to make its debut early.

  Mr. Henson was supposed to arrive at any moment along with a few board members to discuss their future portfolio. They were already fifteen minutes late, but this meant nothing in the world of business–as Grady himself had proved all too well on Wednesday morning.

  Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he popped it open and scrolled past the digital planner and business calendar apps, searching for his client's phone number somewhere in his database.

  No signal. With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and made his way through the lunchtime crowds, to a narrow street on the other side of the building.

  He dialed the number as soon as a few bars were visible, strolling along the shadowy aisle.

  "Hello, Mr. Henson?" he asked. "No–his secretary? I see. Is it possible to put me in touch with the number of one of his associates who's carrying a cell phone? I'm supposed to be meeting members of the board and the chairman about their investment platform..." As he talked, he approached the street corner, where a few pedestrians were visible crossing to the opposite side.

  "Rescheduled for two? No, I didn't get that message," he continued, sliding his free hand into his pocket, as if searching for pen and paper to jot down her words as he walked. “Did you phone one of the members of my firm? If so, do you know if–"