Pretty Woman - Softcover

Three Years Later

Rosie Bliss feigned sleep in the early-morning light. There had been a time when she'd loved lying in bed watching her husband get dressed for the day. Two years and fifty-one weeks ago. Now, she dreaded opening her eyes in the morning to watch him fuss and fiddle and primp like some movie star.

Oh, Kent had the looks of a movie star, that was for sure. He could have doubled for George Clooney with his dark unruly hair and bedroom brown eyes. It was the rest of him that didn't go with the image. She'd found that out, too, two years and fifty-one weeks ago.

She sneezed. The jig was up. Rolling over, Rosie turned on the bedside lamp and sat up. She hugged her knees close to her chest. No mean feat with the extra pounds she'd put on over those two years and fifty-one weeks. She waited now for the verbal onslaught she knew was coming. When she finally got tired of waiting, she said, "Well, let's get on with it so we can both start our day."

Today he wouldn't look at her. She wondered what that meant. Once she had cared about every little thing he did. She'd done everything but turn herself inside out to please the man she'd married. It had taken her exactly seven days, the length of their honeymoon, to figure out it was never going to happen.

The realization that her friend Vickie had been right made the knowledge all the more bitter. So she'd doubled her efforts to win her husband's love. She'd bought him outrageous gifts, mountains of pricey clothes, a Rolex, a Mont Blanc pen, a speedboat, a flatscreen television set, any number of electronic toys, the memberships at the country club and the Olympus Gym in the hopes of a smile and maybe a lovemaking session. It never worked.

Rosie wondered if Kent even remembered that it was their wedding anniversary. She bit down on her tongue to make sure she didn't blurt it out. Instead, she let her gaze go to a small television set perched on the corner of the dresser. Kent liked to hear the local news while he got ready for his day. Her ears perked up when she heard him make a sound. Maybe it was a grunt. He rarely spoke so early in the morning. He did point to the screen. She grimaced as the morning news anchor rattled on about the Wonderball lottery drawing that was going to be held that night. Someone, the news anchor said, was really going to win 302 million dollars, the largest Wonderball drawing ever. He went on to say people were coming to Savannah from other states, mostly South Carolina and North Carolina, to buy tickets. The wait in line, according to the newsperson, was up to four hours.

Rosie blinked when she heard her husband say, "I bought a hundred dollars' worth of tickets yesterday. Man, I could spend that money in a heartbeat."

Rosie swung her legs over the side of the bed. "It's always about money with you, isn't it, Kent?" she observed quietly. "Between the two of us we make almost half a million dollars a year." There was no need to remind him that four hundred and fifty thousand of the half million dollars was money she earned. Kent just played at selling real estate and looking nice for the customers he drove around all day long in his Porsche.

Rosie stood up, moved closer to her husband. He deliberately inched away. He still wasn't looking at her. Today of all days. She bit down on her bottom lip again to prevent herself from mentioning their anniversary. She sniffed his aftershave. She loved the way he smelled so early in the morning. Rather like a woody glen on a clear summer day.

She was a fool.

She hated the anxiousness in her voice when she said, "Will you be home for dinner, Kent?"

"Probably not. I have appointments right through seven o'clock."

She was angry now. She couldn't remember the last time they'd had dinner together. She couldn't remember the last time they'd done anything together. Sex was something other people had. She felt her insides start to shrivel at the coldness in his voice.

"I think, Kent, it would be a good idea for you to come home to dinner this evening. This is June." Maybe mentioning the month would trigger his memory. "You haven't sold a house or a piece of property in three months. You haven't contributed a cent to this household since we got married. Since I am the breadwinner, I want you home for dinner." She was surprised at the ring of steel in her voice.

Kent jerked at his tie before he turned around. He stared at her, a look of revulsion on his face. Stunned, Rosie backed up two steps. "And if I don't come home for dinner, what are you going to do, Rosalie? Are you going to cut off my allowance?"

Damn, when am I going to learn? When did I turn into such a gutless wonder? Her spine stiffened imperceptibly. She summoned up the steely tone again. "Worse. I'll sell your car. The one I'm still paying for. The one you trade in every year. On your salary, you should be able to lease a Volkswagen. After I do that, I'll drive over to the country club and cancel our membership, and your membership to that prestigious gym where you pretend to work out. Effective immediately. Depending on my mood at that point, I might or might not sink that damn speedboat. Dinner will be at seven. My advice would be to show up on time."

Rosie slammed, then locked the bathroom door. She sat down on the edge of the Jacuzzi and cried.

She was a fool.

A stupid fool who still had feelings for her handsome husband. A husband who made no pretense of even liking her, much less loving her. A husband who'd never said a kind word to her. However, he had said bushels of unkind words. He hated her weight, hated her freckles, hated her pug nose, hated her curly brown hair, hated her clothes. Loved her money. Loved her prestigious address. And, of course, he loved himself. And yet she stayed with him. I'm not just a fool, but a stupid, ignorant fool.

She should have had the guts to kick him out of the house two years and fifty-one weeks ago. But, because she was a fool in love, she'd thought their marriage would get better. Just like every other dumb woman who fell for a bad apple. Even when she knew it was getting worse, she'd hung in there, hating to admit she'd made a mistake, so she turned pretense into an art form. Her housekeeper, Luna Mae, said she was in denial.

Luna Mae was right.

Well, it's time to do something about it. Tonight I'm going to lay down a whole new set of rules, and if Kent doesn't like those rules, then Kent can leave.

Bitter bile rose in her throat. If he left her, everyone in town would talk and gossip. Luna Mae Luna would look at her with pity. Thank God Vickie wasn't around to say, I told you so. She'd have to turn into more of a recluse than she was already. If she did that, she'd go from a size sixteen to a size eighteen. Fat women's clothes. She'd been a size fourteen when she married Kent. Now she was a size sixteen as long as the garment came with elastic. Her favorite word these days, elastic.

Not only was she a stupid, ignorant fool; she was a mess, too. Physically as well as mentally.

A bold knock sounded on the bathroom door. Kent apologizing? Not in this lifetime. "What?" she barked tearfully.

"Open the door, Rosie."

Luna Mae.

Rosie hitched up the bottom of her pajamas and opened the door. She fell into her housekeeper's arms, hoping for kind words and solace. It wasn't to be.

Luna Mae Luna, aka Charlotte Bertha Hennessy, fixed her steely gaze on her employer before offering up a solid whack on Rosie's behind. "I heard everything, and yes, I was eavesdropping outside the door. Are you ever going to learn? When are you going to stop taking his crap? That weasel has made you a laughingstock in this town. I hear everything when I go to the market. I even overhear things I'm not supposed to hear. Things your husband says about you at the club. You're a standing joke, Rosie. We've had this discussion a hundred times, and you don't do anything."

Luna Mae Luna had been a homeless person when Rosie, who'd been eighteen then, had found her and brought her home to Rosie's mother, who had cleaned her up, then hired her on the spot. Luna Mae was a female Mr. Clean, opinionated, a hell of a cook, and read the Bible every day. She'd gone to seed, as she put it, after her boyfriend, a man named Skipper who had sixty-seven tattoos and a cat, crashed and burned on a racetrack. She'd cremated him, what was left of him, with her last cent, taken his mangy cat, and lived on the streets begging for handouts. Skipper, his ashes in an urn, sat on the mantel in her bedroom. She talked to him every day. She'd cremated Buster the cat, too, when he'd used up all his nine lives. Sometimes she talked to Buster when she got really lonely.

If there was anything or anyone Luna Mae truly loved, it was Rosie because Rosie had been her savior.

"You need to grow some balls, honey, and kick that man's ass all the way to the Mason-Dixon line. He doesn't love you. He loves your money, child. When are you going to see that? When it's too late, that's when. You're letting the business slide. I'm one person. I can't keep doing it all. I'm thinking it's time for you to do some major sucking up and call Vickie. You need her, Rosie. You really do."

"No, Luna Mae, I can't do that. I was so ugly to her the last time we talked. I don't even know where she is. I thought she would keep in touch, but she didn't. Let's be honest here. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn't call her either. Besides, how can I admit how wrong I was and how right she was?"

"You just say it, honey. Friends understand things like that. She can't be that hard to find. I can ask around. I'm sure someone in town has her address. Like the post office," she added slyly. "Look, you two girls loved each other. She only wanted what was best for you, just the way I did. Vickie didn't say anything to you that I didn't say. You took it from me but not from Vickie."

Rosie rubbed at her temples. "I thought she was jealous. Pride is a terrible thin...