“Drag my suitcase into the suite,” he told Boyd, taking a first laborious step down the hall.
Rose made a small noise, not quite an objection, more a note of surprise.
Tom swung his head back toward her.
“Nope,” he said, though Rose hadn’t even finished thinking it through. “We’re done with that. Not one more night.”
The calm determination on his face wasn’t an expression Rose was very familiar with. The features were familiar: thesteady brown eyes, the straight bold line of his lips. But Tom never put his foot down on anything. He was never totally sure he was right. Except now he was.
Let’s talk about it, she nearly said. But hadn’t they already talked about it? She’d told him she got tired of missing him.
Rose had noted the occasional electric sensation in her brain of remembering something she had almost forgotten. Some memory about to be overwritten, some last item on the grocery list as she approached the checkout station. Wait, hold on a minute. I almost missed this.
“I can get him from here,” she told Boyd, putting her hand on Tom’s elbow.
As though she’d planned it all from the beginning, she guided Tom into the suite. She put his cane against the free nightstand and helped him strip down to his boxers. She collected the rest of his things from the other room. People were watching as she carried his suitcase down the hall, but not with a lot of surprise. They’d known this was where Tom belonged even before Rose had, and they’d been right then too.
24
Dominoshot the basement with oversaturated Kodachrome filters to make the pink accents pop.Country Livingtook pictures of the handmade throw cushions in the honeymoon suite.Peoplegot them in the kitchen so they could take pictures of Boyd juicing oranges in his giant fists.
Boyd’s slightly bewildered publicist had arranged it all, marking a sharp turn in Boyd’s public persona from salmon-scarfing exercise maniac and possible sex fiend to cottage design enthusiast. But either way, Boyd sold magazines, especially with Tom dragged into the frame to slump over the furniture as though he’d just gotten sexed up so good he couldn’t walk. By Boyd, the framing always suggested.
“Stop laughing at me,” Tom begged Rosie and Ximena as the photographer’s assistant poured water down the front of his white linen shirt. “And why do I have to bewet?”
“The concept is ‘After the Storm,’ ” the photographer gamely explained. “The idea is that you and Mr. Kellagher found and renovated this little haven after the hurricane. There’s acontrast—raw nature and domesticity. The storm, the inn. So you’re wet. And all the textures are warm. Could you try to relax, please?”
“Be good baby. This is the last one,” Rosie scolded him, barely able to speak for giggling so hard. “And they said they might leave some stuff behind that we can use.”
Tom had beenverygood. He’d barely complained at all about two days of pretending to smolder at Boyd, even though Rosie wasright thereoutside the camera frame. He wanted to point to her, sayActually, that’s my wife, and have the story that the entire world heard be the real one: Tom had come out here for her, to do all of this for her, and he’ddone it.
“You’re whoring me out for table lamps?” Tom muttered, trying not to whine as he reluctantly leaned backward over the kitchen island. He and Boyd sucked in their stomachs and flexed for the test shot.
“Not just lamps,” Rosie said brightly, her hands clasped possessively around a gilded birdcage. The expensive couches and antique rugs were going home along with the photographers, but the inn was dotted with a dozen vases of fresh flowers, several new potted plants, and an antique fair’s worth of bird-themed miscellany.
Look at her!Tom nearly said to the photographer. He finally had the Rosie he’d longed for: she was pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing a pretty green dress, with her hair and makeup done just in case she popped up in the background of some picture. The Rosie he’d gotten the past two weeks was top Rosie—anxious about getting everything finished on time, baking five dozen bacon-wrapped dates about it, curling underhis arm to press her face against his chest and then propelling herself forward to her next important task.
He didn’t realize they were finished until she was standing in front of him, hands smoothing his damp shirt and resting against his stomach.
“That’s it,” she said, going up on her toes to press a warm kiss across his lower lip.
“That’s what?” he said.
“Everyone’s packing up,” she said. And Tom was astonished to note that it was true—not just the photographers, but everyone else too. He’d been told that Rosie wanted everyone else out by the next day so that the property management service could clean and prep for guests, but the actual date had snuck up on him. People were carrying suitcases down the stairs, and the photographers were sweeping up after themselves. Tomorrow, that would be him and Rosie. He’d done it.
Tom had been involved in many theatrical productions that came together just before opening night, but he couldn’t think of anything else that he’d started andfinishedthe way the inn was finished. Rosie had her perfect place, and he had his perfect Rosie back.
“Back to the real world tomorrow,” she said, and her smile dimmed a little.
Tom did not have any mixed emotions about that, but he slung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. He didn’t begrudge Rosie her holidays out here, and he’d be happy to come back when it wasn’t fifty-five degrees and raining outside, but he was looking forward to going home. To Rosie’sapartment, specifically, where he’d claim a side of the bed and a spot on the couch and a coffee mug in the kitchen.
“We should do something to celebrate,” Tom said.
Rosie perked up a little. “Yeah? We should.” She thought for a moment. “We haven’t used the crêpe maker on this trip. We could do a dessert station. I could make crêpes suzette.”
“Sure,” said Tom, who had been thinking more along the lines of taking Rosie upstairs and bending her in half with her knees over his elbows. But these were not mutually exclusive ideas. Something of his own plans must have shown on his face, because Rosie colored prettily, looked around, then copped a covert feel on his ass. He was ready to pursue that impulse, and he turned to crowd her into the broom closet, but someone loudly cleared his throat behind them.
“Knock-knock,” said Seth, sticking his head into the kitchen. Tom didn’t appreciate the shit-eating grin the guy had on his face, nor the way he strutted into the kitchen like he’d done anything to contribute, but Rosie’s smile was still fond when it landed on her cousin, so Tom controlled himself.
