really start hounding me.”
“No, really,” I protested. “I don’t want you to propose.”
He sneered at me. “Good because you’re nuts if you think I’m going to get down on one knee in this place.” He waved his beer bottle at the sticky, filthy, peanut-shell-encrusted floor.
“I don’t want you to get down on one knee,” I said as clearly as I could. For such a long time I had hoped that he would propose. That he would think to ask my sister or my friends what I would want—a sunset picnic by a lake. He never did ask, and now I could see he never would.
“Good.” He took a swig of his drink. “So I suppose you want to then.”
“Want to what?” I could hear the horror in my voice.
“Get married,” he said with a snarl.
Looking at the disdain rolling off him, I realized I had invested far too much of my time in a man who didn’t love me.
“No,” I said as firmly as I could. “I want to break up.” I got up and walked out. There was a rush of relief. I realized suddenly that I would be okay on my own. Far better than to be stuck with a man who spent all his free hours in a dingy bar, playing pool and listening to out-of-date tunes on the jukebox.
After all, I’d discovered a dead body. I’d called the cops. After that there wasn’t much that could faze me—certainly not the sound of Bob Seger singing “Against the Wind.” How old was that song anyway? The music was as old as the bar.
The night air was cool as I shoved the door open. The scent was crisp and clean and free of stale beer and musty peanuts. I really was going to be okay. I had not only discovered a body, but I’d put together a romantic proposal personalized for Felicity.
Maybe Warren was right. Maybe I could start my own business. He’d even given me enough seed money to live on for six months. I would be foolish not to try.
First thing tomorrow I would make up business cards. When Felicity and Warren got back, I would ask them both to hand them out to clients or friends. Surely if there was one considerate, caring man like Warren, there had to be two.
At least that was what I would stake my life on for the next six months.
My heart felt light. I took another deep breath of fresh air. For the first time in a long time, I felt as if I was on the right path. Maybe, just maybe, I could make something out of the ruins of my life.
Chapter 6
Two days later I was at my parents’ home helping Mom with Sunday dinner.
“What’s with the china?” my dad, Frank Pomeroy, asked as he passed through the dining room of the brick bungalow my parents had lived in my entire life.
“We’re celebrating,” my mom, Abigail, said without a blink. She carefully folded her best linen napkins into tiny pockets for the silverware.
“What?” Dad asked. “Did I forget an anniversary?”
“Felicity and Warren are flying home this afternoon,” I said as I put out the silverware.
“I made my famous pot roast,” Mom stated. “I thought you could smell it.”
“I can.” Dad shoved his big workman’s hands in his pockets. Dad was tall, around six feet three inches. He used to be six feet four, but he had started to shrink with age. He didn’t look bad for a man in his late fifties. He still had a full head of hair, although it had gone from red to white pretty early. His blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. Today he wore a light blue denim work shirt and dark blue jeans. My whole life Dad had been a plumber. He was proud of his profession and belonged to the local plumbers’ union. His favorite television show was
Ghost Hunters
because the two main guys were also plumbers.
“I figured there was a sale on roast or something,” he said.
“You did not,” I teased. “I saw you run out of the house the minute you realized it was pot roast.”
“What is she talking about, Frank?” Mom straightened and studied my dad.
He shrugged. “Like I said, I thought it was an anniversary or something.”
“Oh, he bought you
“No, really,” I protested. “I don’t want you to propose.”
He sneered at me. “Good because you’re nuts if you think I’m going to get down on one knee in this place.” He waved his beer bottle at the sticky, filthy, peanut-shell-encrusted floor.
“I don’t want you to get down on one knee,” I said as clearly as I could. For such a long time I had hoped that he would propose. That he would think to ask my sister or my friends what I would want—a sunset picnic by a lake. He never did ask, and now I could see he never would.
“Good.” He took a swig of his drink. “So I suppose you want to then.”
“Want to what?” I could hear the horror in my voice.
“Get married,” he said with a snarl.
Looking at the disdain rolling off him, I realized I had invested far too much of my time in a man who didn’t love me.
“No,” I said as firmly as I could. “I want to break up.” I got up and walked out. There was a rush of relief. I realized suddenly that I would be okay on my own. Far better than to be stuck with a man who spent all his free hours in a dingy bar, playing pool and listening to out-of-date tunes on the jukebox.
After all, I’d discovered a dead body. I’d called the cops. After that there wasn’t much that could faze me—certainly not the sound of Bob Seger singing “Against the Wind.” How old was that song anyway? The music was as old as the bar.
The night air was cool as I shoved the door open. The scent was crisp and clean and free of stale beer and musty peanuts. I really was going to be okay. I had not only discovered a body, but I’d put together a romantic proposal personalized for Felicity.
Maybe Warren was right. Maybe I could start my own business. He’d even given me enough seed money to live on for six months. I would be foolish not to try.
First thing tomorrow I would make up business cards. When Felicity and Warren got back, I would ask them both to hand them out to clients or friends. Surely if there was one considerate, caring man like Warren, there had to be two.
At least that was what I would stake my life on for the next six months.
My heart felt light. I took another deep breath of fresh air. For the first time in a long time, I felt as if I was on the right path. Maybe, just maybe, I could make something out of the ruins of my life.
Chapter 6
Two days later I was at my parents’ home helping Mom with Sunday dinner.
“What’s with the china?” my dad, Frank Pomeroy, asked as he passed through the dining room of the brick bungalow my parents had lived in my entire life.
“We’re celebrating,” my mom, Abigail, said without a blink. She carefully folded her best linen napkins into tiny pockets for the silverware.
“What?” Dad asked. “Did I forget an anniversary?”
“Felicity and Warren are flying home this afternoon,” I said as I put out the silverware.
“I made my famous pot roast,” Mom stated. “I thought you could smell it.”
“I can.” Dad shoved his big workman’s hands in his pockets. Dad was tall, around six feet three inches. He used to be six feet four, but he had started to shrink with age. He didn’t look bad for a man in his late fifties. He still had a full head of hair, although it had gone from red to white pretty early. His blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. Today he wore a light blue denim work shirt and dark blue jeans. My whole life Dad had been a plumber. He was proud of his profession and belonged to the local plumbers’ union. His favorite television show was
Ghost Hunters
because the two main guys were also plumbers.
“I figured there was a sale on roast or something,” he said.
“You did not,” I teased. “I saw you run out of the house the minute you realized it was pot roast.”
“What is she talking about, Frank?” Mom straightened and studied my dad.
He shrugged. “Like I said, I thought it was an anniversary or something.”
“Oh, he bought you
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