Leftovers

By Randy Jeanne

What do you get when you put off marriage and babies too long? LEFTOVERS.

Call her an anti-feminist, but Rose Thornton doesn't care about 'having it all.' She just wants a husband and kids of her own to make up for inheriting the step-family from hell at the age of ten. Impending marriage to her boss John Worthington (the third, and a doctor no less!) bodes well for the dream...until she catches him with a hussy who turns out to be pregnant with his child.

Out of a job, temporarily bunking with a girlfriend, but still fiercely attached to her goal, Rose goes the Murphy Brown route, with only two minor glitches to solve: no money...no sperm. She gets the finances handled, then proceeds with daddy donor options: there's the "baby back-up" (her ex-beau who promised to do the deed if they managed to hit forty still childless); the Internet sperm bank (who knew swimmers were only a click away?); and...well...there's dating.

Meanwhile, there's also Sam Sheridan--father of two daughters and married to Rose's sister, Angie. Only Angie's currently on hiatus in Borneo "finding herself" and Sam's bi-coastal job's got him needing someone to watch the girls. Who better than a family member like jobless, homeless, Rose?

Treading in her sister's stilettos is pathetic enough...but when Rose finds herself falling for Sam, it's her worst nightmare come true. Talk about leftovers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy Jeanne
• Release date: Aug 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466050228

Randy Jeanne

Randy Jeanne prefers traveling to far off lands over toiling at the dreaded day job; alas, pesky bills constantly get in the way. So instead, she daydreams-−creating people to meet, places to go, and things to do. As a lifelong serial dater, she loves to share misadventures-−er, successful tips-−with readers who, like Randy, are looking for love and laughter.

Book preview

LEFTOVERS

Randy Jeanne

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Randy Jeanne

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories.

Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.

─Thomas Fulghum

Chapter One

Anal-retentive men do have redeeming qualities.

Take my boyfriend, John. Okay, so he numbers his white sox with a heavy black marker. Quirky, I know. God forbid he should accidentally pair a sock from 2008 with one from 2009. On the other hand, he’s seldom late and never leaves the toilet seat up.

Well, almost never.

Anyway, when I found myself standing in front of his dresser with a three in my left and a nine in my right, I instantly knew trouble in River City. I’d screwed something up. So I pawed through the drawer on the off chance I’d dropped the matching set…which is how I discovered a box of condoms wedged in the back.

Not so tragic, except we stopped using the suckers two years ago when I moved in and went on The Pill.

My hands shook as I sank onto the bed to inspect the package. The cellophane wrapper, all nicely sealed, offered a ray of hope…except for one thing: in the course of a zillion previous forays into John’s sock drawer, what were the odds I’d overlooked this beacon of doom?

It could happen, I suppose.

Or not.

I stared at the box of condoms again, mentally walking myself through the top ten signs your man is cheating. (As the poster child for Green Monsters Anonymous, trust me, I know them by heart.) The only red flag, as I saw it, was a marked decrease in bedroom activity, which I’d chalked up to fatigue. I mean, the poor guy has added so many patients lately, I have to give him a break in the lovemaking department, don’t I? Plus, I run his front office, meaning we practically spend twenty-four-seven together. In short, not a lot of time for extra-curricular activities.

Confronting him would only lead to the same old argument: Relationships are built on trust, Rose. When are you going to start─

Honey, where’s today’s mail?

Speak of the devil. I jumped and stuffed the box back in the drawer. Right here, I said. Grabbing the stack of envelopes from the dresser, I waded into scruffy blue bedroom slippers and shuffled into the den where John was already feet-up, medical journal in his lap, sipping a martini while catching the latest political squabble on TV. Make room, please. I plopped down next to him, examining fancy lettering on an oversized envelope. Dread oozed through my veins.

What is it?

I'm not sure I wanna know. Something from my dad and Silver. I slit the flap open, removed a piece of parchment paper, and read the swirling script.

The honour of your presence

is requested

at the reaffirmation of

the wedding vows of

Mr. and Mrs. Norman Thornton

Saturday, the twenty-eighth of July

at half-past six o'clock

Les Jardins Pacifique

Briarton Country Club

Los Angeles, California

Holy crap. Reaffirmation? The original ceremony hadn't been icky enough?

What is it? John asked again.

I could barely eke out the words, they tasted so bitter. It’s a formal opportunity to witness Dad and the step-hag make goo-goo eyes in public. Jesus, they were disgusting when I was ten, but they’re positively revolting now that I’m thirty-five. I re-checked the location. Ever been to the Briarton Country Club?

He shook his head, not taking his eyes off that burger commercial where the horny-looking tart flaunts more than beef.

Me either, but I’m sure it’s la-de-da if Silver had a choice in the matter. Come to think of it, when had Norman Thornton had a choice about anything since he’d married the former actress? I shuddered but kept my mouth shut. John can only take so much of my bitching about Dad and the step-Nazi. Do you suppose we have to go?

They’re family, Rose. It’s not gonna kill you to spend time with your folks.

No, what killed me was that he still doesn’t get this part of me.

I went to put last night’s stew on the stove to simmer and did a low boil myself.

It’s not as though I haven’t opened up my heart to John. He knows how my dad foisted Silver and her two daughters on me for my tenth birthday. How I had to give up my cozy little home and everything I’d ever known to move into their house.

You’re not losing a father, you’re gaining a mother, my father said in our only private conversation that day. And two sisters.

I already have a mother, I told him with watery eyes. She’s in heaven.

As Silver’s theatrical shriek rang out from somewhere downstairs, my father disappeared to solve the crisis. Later I drew comfort knowing Zinky, pet hamster and escape artist extraordinaire, had been the source of Silver’s terror, but it didn’t ease the sting from Dad’s desertion which, sadly, was the beginning of a pattern. (Zinky, may he rest in peace, disappeared on day two of the descent into hell, and I don’t have to tell you who I blamed for that.)

The glug-glug-glug of beef and assorted vegetables making a break from their pot prison, yanked me back to the present. With a furtive glance toward the den, I made sure John wasn’t looking and scooped a couple of felonious potatoes back to where they belonged. Of course, I needn’t have worried. Very little disturbed John once he settled in for his nightly dose of neo-conservative politics on the tube. Least of all something so domestic as dinner preparations.

Okay, confession time. I’m the kind of feminist who whines while masquerading as Carol Brady. So sue me. Now that I have a home of my own (well, technically, it belongs to John), I’m enjoying domesticity and I don’t care who knows it. The only thing missing from this picture is Marcia, Greg, Peter, Cindy...

But, I digress. The point is, I love caring for John Worthington. I love John period. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

And the coolest part? He’s a catch. I mean an honest-to-goodness mothers-haul-out-your-daughters catch. From the solid family background to the great career (in plastic surgery, no less)...from the wry sense of humor to the amazing good looks. I mean, tell me. Who could ask for more?

Yeah, I’m still pinching myself.

Knowing he’ll be at my side for the upcoming family farce—er, gala event—makes the whole idea less daunting. Hell, who’s kidding whom? Introducing the wicked stepsisters to my own Prince Charming is something to look forward to. (Thank God neither one’s in the market for glass slippers since they both tied the knot years ago.)

John piped up from the den. Dinner almost ready? I’m starving.

Just tossing the salad. I paused to let myself fully appreciate the sight of him rising from the sofa. Why don’t you open some wine?

See? The woman cooks; the man opens the wine. To my mind, a fine division of labor.

As he retrieved a bottle from the pantry, I lit tapers and stepped back to admire the final touch. Tory, my best friend and a self-confessed slob, doesn’t understand why John and I don’t eat in front of the TV like the rest of the civilized world, but I’ve stopped trying to convince her this is how families should dine. How my family had dined p.s. (pre-Silver).

I let John enjoy his hearts of palm before easing into my favorite topic of conversation—namely, marriage. Specifically, ours. See, I’ve got this plan. Sort of like a smoking cessation course, if you will. Only instead of weaning John from the M word, I’m gradually training him to accept it. At first I only brought up the subject monthly, then weekly, and now...well, you get the picture.

For six months I’ve been planting seeds—hell, I’ve tossed enough for a full-scale pasture─and the good news is I’m making headway. Need proof? Okay, consider this:

One: yesterday he picked me up a box of tampons, and I hardly had to beg at all;

Two: last week, he not only let me have the remote, we watched a chick flick together; and

Three: WE’VE BEEN LIVING IN SIN FOR TWO YEARS AND MY EGGS AREN’T GETTING ANY YOUNGER!

Tonight I began by uttering a wistful sigh. Imagine my parents having a second wedding before I even have my first. Did I detect the slightest hesitation in the way he chewed? Nah, must be my imagination. I proceeded. Have you given any more thought to Spring? (As in a date, which he’s fully aware of.)

He swallowed, but I’m sure it was a physical necessity, not something I should get antsy about. Can we talk about something else for a change?

My heart thumped its way out of rhythm, then back again. This is a new response. This can’t be good. Oh, God. You’re not over what happened last month?

He pointed a fully-loaded fork at me. Are you?

What happened last month─truth be told─I threw a long distance hissy fit while he was away at a convention. I’m still mortified and, apparently, he’s still pissed. I know you think I’m possessive—

And you don’t?

Gravy congealed in my stomach. I’ve explained. And thank God, I didn’t bring up that stupid box of condoms.

Piercing blue eyes pinpointed me with razor-sharp aim. You have a problem with sharing. I know.

I’ll share the rest of my stew with you, I wheedled. And the mud pie I bought for dessert. (I’m shameless.)

His softened jaw line felt like a reward. Sorry, sweetie. I’m a little distracted tonight, that’s all. Not your fault.

This news failed to cheer me because, speaking of sharing, we tell each other everything. What was he keeping from me? I’m listening, I said in my best supportive girlfriend voice.

John shook his head and pushed back his plate. Probably just this damn heat wave. Where’s the mud pie?

The a/c was blasting sub-zero temperatures and John’s a heat freak, so I didn’t take his explanation at face value. Still, opting to show off my new attitude (i.e. the anti-possessive-bitch one) I kept quiet and served up the pie.

Maybe I’d have to tweak the marriage schedule a bit.

* * *

Four weeks later, the plan was to gussy up at home, attend the execution, er, wedding extravaganza, then check into a hotel for the night rather than make the drive from L.A. back to Ventura. As we tossed stuff in suitcases, a boa constrictor clutched my insides. I think I’m dying, I said to John as he fussed with his tie in front of the mirror.

We’re all dying, Rose. From the moment we draw our first breath.

God, I hate when he goes all Grey’s Anatomy on me. I mean, sure he’s a doctor, but it’s not like plastic surgeons face death every day, right? More like terminally vain women searching for the fountain of youth, so spare me the philosophy. And while you’re at it, have a little sympathy for the love of your life (me).

But, no. I could be heaving my guts out, and he’d trump me with the meticulous description of something hideous he’d seen on a patient that day. Seriously. I think I’m gonna throw up.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating and he knows it. It’s nerves, he said. You’ll be fine.

I sighed and surveyed three dresses strewn across the bed. Suddenly, none of them seemed appropriate.

At this point, you’re probably wondering why I care. What’s the big deal, right? I’ve done nothing but complain about this shindig. Well, if you’re reading this, you’re a woman, so you know how it is with families. What you don’t know is how it is with mine.

Let me paint a picture.

Those big sisters I inherited on my tenth birthday? Drop-dead gorgeous. Both of them. Me? Not so much.

Worse, no one bothered to keep it a secret. Besides the whispered conversations just loud enough to hear, Angie and Rachel constantly reminded me that I was the ugly duckling—the outcast—the one who didn’t belong. I swear, I think sometimes they starved themselves on purpose just for the giggle they got watching me cram my size twelve body into their size six hand-me-downs. (See, there was this trickle-down effect in our family—meaning, as the youngest, good old Rose got the second-hand clothes, second-hand books, well, second-hand everything.)

Oops. Sorry about the pity party. The truth is, I’ve got a virtual wind-beneath-my-wings guy on deck, so why sweat the stepsisters?

I glanced over at John and lifted the first dress off the bed. Whaddya think?

Too slutty, he warned with a thoughtful frown.

I tried the second and his nose wrinkled. Too immature.

Exasperated, I yanked the third from the bed and thrust it in his face.

He groaned. Not tonight, Rose. Please.

You were thinking I’m Goldilocks or something? That the third dress would be just right? My life is so not a fairy tale. "What do you suggest I wear?"

Calmly, he disappeared into the walk-in closet, then re-emerged a moment later with a sleeveless silk sheath. Sexy, yet tasteful.

And yes, just right. See, that’s the problem. John makes my life a fairy tale.

I shot him a beaming smile and shimmied into the dress while he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. When he scowled, I suppressed a chuckle because John is never satisfied with presentable. He demands fabulous. Don’t worry. You’ll outshine everyone.

To bolster his confidence (like he needed it) I sidled up behind him, making sure my body brushed his in all the right places. In the mirror, his jaw twitched—the reaction I was looking for. I used my thumbs to blaze a trail upward through the valley of his shoulder blades, then rolled out to massage his biceps. We could forget the whole evening, I purred, only half-kidding. We could make popcorn, get naked, and watch a movie instead.

I interpreted his pained smile as regret.

And when his pager buzzed, I saw the matching expression on my face in the mirror.

He disentangled from me and headed for the phone on the nightstand next to our bed. It’s the hospital.

Don’t tell me. A boob emergency.

He made a face and punched numbers. Good evening, this is Dr. Worthington.

Ah, that title! I still have to fan myself when I hear it.

His eyes darted to mine, then he turned and faced the bedroom wall, which I faux-painted myself. Even suited up, I could tell by the way his back stiffened, he didn’t like the news much, but since his side of the conversation ran mostly to noncommittal murmurs, I didn’t get the gist.

Only one sentence stood out before he hung up. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Dread flooded through me like a tsunami. Don’t even say it. My voice sounded pathetic and desperate.

Sorry, babe. Can’t be helped.

Can’t be happening, was what I was thinking. I mustered up a game face and went for a joke (which is what I call holding up my end of the relationship bargain). Someone pop an implant?

Huh? Oh...no, Mrs. Greenblatt’s having post-surgical complications.

I hated myself for being selfish, but the words burst forth before I could stop them. It’s a hospital, for God’s sake. Hospitals have doctors. Can’t one of them take care of it?

His lips formed a thin line, and I knew I’d pushed the wrong button. Not that there’s a right one. Hell, what do women know about buttons when men control the remotes?

He gave my rear end a pat. I’ll make it up to you, honey, I promise. In the meantime, go and enjoy the suite we reserved. You can even take my car. A crooked smile—the one I fell in love with—crossed his face and he wagged a finger at me. Just don’t enjoy the Jacuzzi tub too much without me.

How can he say that, I thought, as I stared at the empty bedroom doorframe which only seconds ago contained his living, breathing form.

Now, instead of showing up as half of a glorious couple, I’d arrive as myself─Rose Thornton, a footnote buried in the term paper of her family’s life.

Freeze leftover coffee as ice cubes and add them to your iced coffee

─from Rose’s Recipe Box

Chapter Two

When it comes to getting anywhere on time in Southern California, your best bet is to leave a day ahead.

No, really.

After careful calculations involving both algebra and geometry, I’d settled on allowing three hours to reach the Briarton Country Club. What I hadn’t figured into the equation was the jackknifed big-rig and its spilled load of lettuce, so although I had already pointed John’s gleaming BMW down the 101, I detoured through Malibu Canyon and picked up the coast. One more major disaster and I’d miss the big event altogether.

The thought made me brighten.

Hey, it happens and it’s quite socially acceptable. So sorry I missed the wedding/birthday/funeral but there was this high-speed chase/twenty-car pileup/really slow car...

On the other hand, making a tardy solo entrance filled me with panic. As I pictured a kajillion heads swiveling to check out the late arrival, I stepped on the gas, noting the irony. Sorta like pulling out all the stops to make a root canal on time.

When at last I drove onto the property, I screeched to a halt behind a lineup of cars.

Shit. Valet.

For the life of me, I don’t get how Californians spend half their life in the gym but can’t park their own cars and walk a few feet. Unless it’s something to do with not wanting to waste that special valet key.

Anyway, I crossed my fingers, swung around a black Lexus, and took my chances in the oncoming lane. After avoiding a head-on collision, I got myself parked, then grabbed my purse and made a beeline for the front entrance.

Les Jardins Pacifique, the invitation had said. Not the Pacific Gardens, for God’s sake, Les Jardins Pacifique. As though the French gave it automatic caché. I asked a passing bellboy for directions and when he launched into the Tolstoy version, my heart sank. Behind his head, a clock on the wall read 6:35. The thing wouldn’t actually start on time, would it?

Yes, it would.

I found this out when I reached a pair of glass double doors through which I saw a stately ceremony unfolding in the garden outside. Perhaps two hundred people, split down the center by an aisle covered in mauve carpet, sat with their heads pointed at the happy couple front and center.

Silver was wearing (I kid you not) a white wedding gown—a Vera Wangish-type creation seen mostly on young starlets and Goldie Hawn. Even at sixty-two, she possessed the curves to carry it off, but I suspect Beverly Hills’s finest deserved most of the credit. Her bottle-blond hair, garnished with a gardenia over the right ear, hung long and straight down her back.

A lump formed in my throat when I shifted my attention to Dad. Standing tall in his dashing tux, he came up an inch or two short next to his statuesque wife. More grey than blond these days, he made