Love Like Rosemary's Read online

  A hand seized his arm, pulling him back as a minivan barreled past. It was then that Grady realized he was partway in the street, past the ramped-down edge lined out for the crosswalk.

  "That was close," said a voice at his elbow.

  "Thanks–" he began, turning towards his rescuer. His statement died away at the sight of a freckled girl in a sweater and skirt, frizzy blond hair escaping a pair of sequined barrettes on either side.

  "It's you," he said.

  She grinned. "Guess now you owe me two," she said, letting go of his arm.

  The secretary’s inquisitive voice echoed distantly from the phone, recalling his previous conversation. “Thanks for the information,” he said, his eyes on Rosemary as he hung up. Aware that she carried a large basket filled with bundles and boxes like Wednesday's, small bouquets of fresh green bundled on top.

  "Your deliveries," he said. "I'm sorry about your bike, really I am–"

  "No, it's okay," she said, tucking aside a strand of her hair. "I have to walk a little fast, catch the bus now and then–" She shrugged her shoulders.

  The impulse seized him before he could stop it. "Let me help you," he said. "My car's right on the other side–I could take you wherever you're going, you'll be done in half the time."

  Eagerly, he took hold of her basket, shifting the weight to his arm. "Come on, I owe you," he said, "let me make it up a little." He couldn't tear himself away from her eyes, try as he might.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll take you up on that offer. If you’re not too busy?” This, with a meaningful glance at the phone in his hand.

  “This?” he said. “No, it’s ... cancelled. Nothing for an hour at least.” Stuffing it in his pocket, he made a mental note about the meeting at two, a guilty decision not to phone his office in the meantime. Despite the fact he was supposed to be working, not chauffeuring a strange girl around the city in the middle of the day, his mind could think of only one thing. This may be my last chance to see her.

  He opened the car door for her, helping her angle the large basket into the passenger space. Climbing in beside her, he flashed her a smile. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Actually, I have a list,” she answered, fishing it from the pocket of her sweater. “There’s three for this afternoon–”

  “Perfect,” he said. “Just tell me where to go.” He shifted the car into drive, feeling confident as he pulled into the street. A glance at the girl beside him fueled his boldness, the flash of enthusiasm in her eyes, the sea of freckles across her cheekbones. Eyes drifting closed in a moment of fantasy before he caught himself, eyes directed at the road again.

  The first stop was in front of a brick bungalow lined with box hedges. He hopped out of the driver’s seat to open the door, but Rosemary had already emerged, basket in hand.

  “You can wait if you like,” she said, half-apologizing. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Ten at the most.”

  “No, I’m happy to help,” he said. She shrugged her shoulders with a smile and turned towards the front door. Rapping on it as the form of an elderly woman became visible on the other side of the glass pane.

  “Hello, Rosemary!” The woman’s face brightened as she answered the door. “Have you got them?” She sounded eager as she ushered them inside.

  A small, dried figure in a sweater, she barely reached Grady’s arm, which she patted with politeness. “And who is this young man?” she enquired.

  “Oh, he’s giving me a lift today, Mrs. Slotsky,” Rosemary answered. “My bike’s in the shop.” With a wink in Grady’s direction, to prove she wouldn’t give him away.

  “That’s nice,” the woman answered. “And you have got them?” she repeated.

  “I have,” Rosemary answered. “Chives, thyme, sage, and a bundle of fresh dill for your salad.” Following the old lady down a dim, crowded corridor, towards a brightly lit kitchen. A pot of soup bubbled on the stove, filling the room with a seasoned aroma.

  Rosemary set her basket on the kitchen table, lifting out several bundles. Grady watched as the elderly woman hobbled to the boiling pot, stirring it with a large spoon. Yellow squash bubbled to the top, sliced carrots and onions transparent like carbon paper.

  “Smells really good,” said Grady, drawing closer in spite of his sense of polite distance, an observer in Rosemary’s life. Mrs. Slotsky filled a bowl without hesitation and placed it in his hands.

  “Here, taste, taste,” she urged. “I cook it all the time–every week, for others to enjoy.” She filled a similar bowl for Rosemary, who was sticking the fresh strands of dill into a jar of water on the counter.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Slotsky,” she answered. Tasting it, she closed her eyes.

  “Now, that is absolutely perfect,” she said. “How do you do it? Is it the recipe, the hours of simmering? You have to tell me your secret someday, you know.”

  “Maybe it’s the herbs,” answered the old woman, with a wink. To Grady, she asked, “And how do you like it, young man?”

  “It’s delicious,” he answered. “Really delicious.” As it rolled over his tongue, he recalled a dish his grandmother once made, a rich herbal broth boiled with new potatoes.

  “And now, what of the tea?” asked Mrs. Slotsky. With these words, Rosemary’s face fell.

  “The tea,” she groaned, smacking her forehead. “I forgot it, Mrs. Slotsky–I am so, so sorry. I’m not used to making deliveries on Thursday, and it must’ve been left in the basket with the things that didn’t get delivered Wednesday morning.”

  “Next time, next time,” said the old woman. “Then you can try my cucumber and spice recipe. I haven’t made it in a long time. The cucumbers are for summer–it’s early, but I cannot wait, even if it means using hothouse fruits.” She bustled towards the pot again, sprinkling a heavy pinch of the dried chives over the top.

  “Another bowl?” she asked. Glancing at Grady, then Rosemary, who hesitated.

  Grady held out his bowl. “Please,” he answered.

  He drove quickly to the second address, aware that they lost time. Beside him, Rosemary hummed a Polish folk tune under her breath, similar to one Mrs. Slotsky had been singing as she dished up two jars of soup for them to take with them.

  “Do all your customers give you soup?” he asked, with a smile.

  “No,” she laughed. “Mrs. Slotsky is one of my longest-standing customers. She loves to cook for people and now has nobody but a few neighbors and friends who are interested in her recipes. Someday she’s promised to teach me her secrets.” Her fingers played with a bundle of parsley at the top of her basket.

  “What about you?” she asked. “You’re a–lawyer?” Guessing by the briefcase visible in his back seat, the corporate suit.

  “Investments, actually,” he answered. “Does that make you think ‘stuffy’, and ‘Wall Street tycoon’?” he asked. Crossing his fingers that she would confess to a secret crush on corporate types with padded portfolios.

  She shrugged. “I think people are what they are,” she said. “We can’t all do the same thing.” She cocked her head to the side as she studied his face intently, then glanced at the contents of her basket again.

  So no burning desire for an investment planner. At least she didn’t rebuff him.

  “Where to next?” he asked. Whistling as he switched the radio to a music station.

  “Take a left up here,” she answered. Swaying her head slightly to a forties jazz beat emerging from the speakers, shoulders moving as if the two of them were on a dance floor somewhere. He pictured her in a frilly spread skirt, himself in a World War II uniform, the strains of Glenn Miller’s orchestra serenading them in a swing dance.

  He pulled up into the house’s driveway, a carved front door visible from the open, meticulous lawn. Rosemary climbed out, hurried up the steps to the door, lifting a brass knocker affixed. As he caught up with her, he could see the look of dismay on her face.

  “No one’s answering,” she said. “I should have come yesterday. T
hey’re one of our biggest orders...” Her fist added a gentle pound to the door, as if to emphasize her disappointment.

  It was his fault; he couldn’t help feeling it was true as he patted her shoulder. The thought of her going home with a basket heavy with undelivered herbs, refunding someone’s check–

  “Wait,” he said. Seizing a lawn chair from in front of the house, he shoved it up against the fence. “Do you know if they have a back door?” he asked, climbing onto the seat.

  “What are you thinking?” She stepped away from the doorway, staring at him with a puzzled expression.

  “I’m thinking we can leave their order in their backyard,” he answered. “It’ll be safe, you can scribble a note and stick it to the front door and they’ll know to collect their stuff. He slid one leg over the fence as he spoke.

  His second-best suit was at risk here; as were the bones in his leg if he took a tumble. But the look on her face was worth it, wide-eyed admiration as she moved towards him.

  “Grady, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “If someone sees you–” she reached for his arm to stop him. Instead, he slid the basket from her wrist to the fence beside him.

  “Coming?” he asked, half-teasingly. To his surprise, she planted her foot on the seat and climbed up to stand across from him. Face to face, her golden brown eyes meeting his own from mere inches away. The scent of lavender drifting from the collar of her sweater.

  “Help me over,” she said. For a moment, he was frozen in place, as if under a spell.

  “Come on,” she prompted him. Grasping either side of the board fence, she clambered up beside him, her saddle shoes struggling for traction.

  Glancing behind him, he saw an open section of lawn next to two recycling bins, a series of planters filled with begonias, a little wooden house in one corner behind trimmed hedges. Hopping down, he held out his arms to her.

  “Jump,” he said. To his surprise, she obeyed. Arms wrapping around his neck as she dropped into his arms, her feet thudding against the lawn.

  “Thanks,” she answered. Ahead was the back door, a gardening shelf with clogs and hand tools tucked in its cubbies. In one of these she piled several packages, including a white paper box tied shut with a ribbon. Scribbling a note on a torn piece of paper in the bottom.

  “Your ... herbs ... are by ... the back door,” she read aloud, as her pencil crawled over the paper’s surface. “Have ... a nice day.” Glancing behind her with a smile for Grady.

  “This was really brilliant of you,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. Other than you’re a lifesaver.”

  A bolt of adrenaline passed through him with these words. “Thank you,” he answered. Stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watched her cross swiftly to the fence, clambering up on one of the lidded garbage cans. Flared grey skirt, a checkered sweater like a schoolgirl–nothing striking or elegant, but he couldn’t imagine her any other way at this moment.

  The sound of something stirring behind him drew his attention. A low rumbling sound, a warning from deep in the throat of a Doberman emerging from the little house in the corner.

  “Grady.” He heard a slight note of panic in Rosemary’s voice. “Run for it, Grady.” Her tone remaining calm as she crouched on the fence.

  With a swift glance behind him, he took off running towards the fence. The grass sliding beneath his shoes as he closed ground between himself and the fence, aware of the dog’s feet pounding against the lawn.

  As he grabbed the top of the fence to propel himself upwards, the dog leaped for him. Snagging the sleeve of his shirt between its teeth, trying to pull him back over the edge. Rosemary clung to his shoulders, dragging him towards the driveway.

  “Bad dog!” she scolded. “Bad!” The fabric on Grady’s sleeve ripped free as he jerked himself onto the narrow edge of the boards, tumbling over the other side with Rosemary as the dog threw itself against the fence.

  As he landed on the patch of green below, his arms tangled with Rosemary’s, he felt no sense of the ground or the pounding heart in his chest. Instead, he felt more heroic than he had in his entire life.

  *****

  “How’s the arm?” Rosemary patted the makeshift bandage wrapped above his wrist. A wound sustained in the tumble over the fence.

  Grady grinned. “It’s fine, thanks.” He held his jacket with one hand, draped over his shoulder as if he were a character in an old spy movie instead of a white collar idiot who almost got ripped in half by a dog. Strolling along the sidewalk outside her last apartment delivery, he felt more alive than he had in months. Even more than the rare occasion he went wilderness camping as a child.

  “I should do something to make up for this,” said Rosemary. “I mean, you risked your life with that dog.” Pulling a change purse from her pocket, she approached a food vendor on the sidewalk.

  “One of those, please,” she said. The vendor sliced off a thick slab of cheese-covered bread and shoved it in a paper basket.

  “Try this,” she said, placing it in Grady’s hand. “Foccacia bread. The least I can do is buy you lunch after shuttling me around the city.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he argued.

  “Yes, I do,” she answered. Lips pressed together firmly. “Now, eat it.”

  He pulled off a generous piece, threads of mozzarella trailing from its edges. Dried peppers and tomatoes studded its surface, red onions like a Cobb salad. Tasting it, he recognized the flavors of herb pretzels, garlic bread, and spicy Italian salad all rolled into one dish.

  “Mmm, this is really good,” he said. “Better than the cinnamon roll I had at the coffee shop.” He watched Rosemary break a piece off and sample it, eyes closed as if savoring a delicacy.

  “Not bad,” she answered, when she opened them. “I have a better recipe at home. But this is good enough for the time being.” Instead of wiping her fingers on the napkin in finicky fashion, she let her hand dangle at her side, the basket handle tucked in its crook.

  He cleared his throat. “You know, I still owe you for the incident the other day. I mean, I’ll cover the bike and the emergency room,” he added, hastily, “but I was thinking something more. Maybe coffee sometime.” He left the statement hanging in the air, waiting for an answer. Feeling suspense tingling in his skin at the thought of what was going through her mind in the silence.

  What was he doing, asking her for coffee? He was practically dating someone -- well, trying to date someone, anyway. The girl next to him was a random stranger who stumbled into his life less than forty-eight hours ago.

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Let me think about it.” Glancing sideways at him as she spoke.

  He paused on the edge of the sidewalk and held out his hand. “Grady Hillerman,” he said. “Decent guy, not-so-great driver, no history as a serial killer. As of yet.” Taking her fingers in his, he shook her hand.

  She laughed. “I like that,” she replied. “If you get into the serial killer business, let me know how that goes, okay?”

  Proof that she had a decent sense of humor; Grady resisted the urge to slide an arm around her shoulder as a passing pedestrian cast an admiring glance at Rosemary.

  You can reach me here.” She continued, pulling a card from her change purse. “In case you have an emergency need for some dried herbs.” Backing a few steps away, she flashed him a final smile.

  “Goodbye, Grady Hillerman.” Her skirt flounced softly as she walked on, past a flower stand and a pretzel vendor who was smearing mustard over a customer’s order. He watched her until she was out of sight, then turned, whistling towards his car.

  In his office, he tossed his jacket on his desk and plopped down in his chair. His fingers turned the card in his hand over, glancing briefly at it before tucking it in his wallet.

  Rosemary Moore. Dried and Fresh Herbs, Ferry Greenhouse. An address printed below.

  What was wrong with him? The sheer senselessness of his actions today, the way he found himself talked into erratic decisio
ns by an unseen source. His family would say he was crazy if they knew what happened. Right down to the dog attack while trespassing in a stranger’s backyard.

  A shadow fell across his office doorway. Glancing up, he saw Sturman waiting there, arms crossed.

  “And what happened to your two o’ clock meeting with Mr. Henson?” A cold voice emerging as he held up a watch reading three-fifteen.

  *****

  “More risotto?” Grady’s mother held out the dish temptingly as she hovered at his elbow. Already, his plate was piled with a generous serving, a platter of garlic bread positioned temptingly across from him in the candlelight.

  “Hey, Mom, don’t serve it all to him,” Seth protested teasingly. He and his wife were at dinner, along with Grady’s Aunt Marianne and her husband. Hence, the flower arrangement and bottle of decent wine, one of two his mother made him collect–the second was reserved for dinner with Emily.

  “Fine,” his mother scolded, moving to Seth’s plate in her serving rotation. Across from him, Marianne was drizzling olive oil on her slice of bread.

  “Uncle Edwin used to serve it like this,” she said. “Do you remember, Harold? With fresh garlic crushed over it. He always said it was Lou’s way, to serve the bread like that.” She was speaking to Grady’s father, who was pouring another glass of wine.

  “Of course,” Harold answered. “Edwin used to cook for us sometimes. Especially after he retired from the match factory.”

  “Poor Edwin,” chuckled Grady’s Uncle Sam. “A victim of bad karma when it came to money, always losing a buck more than he made. It’s like love was bad luck for him.”

  Grady looked up from his plate. “Love as bad luck?” he asked. “What do you mean?” His relatives exchanged glances of amusement.

  “Oh, it’s just an old story, Grady,” his mother answered. “People used to tease Edwin about it. Because after he fell in love, he gave up everything. Even quit his job and went west to get married.”