Love Her or Lose Her: A Novel (Hot and Hammered, 2)

Dominic sat at the end of the dock and looked out over the water. Apart from the low hum of boat motors and the light breeze rustling the trees around him, it was quiet. So quiet. That lack of noise was what had appealed to him most the first time he’d come here. Where he lived with Rosie, there was noise from Port Jefferson’s busiest avenue, which was a mere half a block away. He could often hear horns honking while he showered.

Not here, though. How many times had he pictured Rosie at the end of this dock? Sitting there with her bare toes brushing the water, a mug of coffee in her hand, smiling over her shoulder at him as he approached. When he closed his eyes at night, he thought of her outlined by the sunset’s reflection off the water, fireflies dancing around her naked calves in the summertime.

Dominic turned and glanced at the house behind him where it sat on the slight incline. To someone who remodeled homes for a living, its stillness was almost accusatory. When are you going to make me look nice? it seemed to ask.

Summertime. Maybe he would tell Rosie about the house then.

He curled his hand around the set of keys so tightly, they abraded his palm. As always—lately—when he thought of showing Rosie the house he’d bought them over a year ago, that familiar panic crept in and burned his throat. Had he made the right decision? When he’d returned from overseas and started saving to buy this place, the kind of home they’d always talked about growing up, he was so confident that purchasing it would make Rosie happy.

His confidence in that was long gone. When Stephen handed him the keys a year ago, he’d come out of a fog and thought, Jesus, I have no idea if she wants this anymore.

I have no idea what she wants anymore.

He’d followed in his father’s footsteps, making the move that would give Rosie security, happiness. The way it had done for his family. But when Dominic had finally saved enough money and purchased the house overlooking the water, doubts had begun burrowing their way under his skin. Rosie had always dreamed of owning a restaurant. He’d known that, but he’d believed the house was more important. It would be their foundation. A place to expand their family. A place to grow old together. On some level, Dominic wondered if he’d elevated the importance of the house to satisfy his own needs.

He could have given her what she really pined for a year ago, but he hadn’t.

Now he couldn’t.

Forcing his breathing under control, Dominic paced along the dock, looking toward the two-story house where it sat elevated on a small hill, hugged on either side by pine trees. Twilight was his favorite time of day to come here and formulate renovation plans. Come up with ideas and discard them as not good enough. Rosie would want a back patio with a pergola. A fire pit. Some Latin touches, for sure, to honor both their heritages. He might have been born and raised in the Bronx, but with two Puerto Rican parents—one first generation, one second—the island’s influence had been sprinkled into most customs, meals, and holidays. When he was young, his mother would have her side of the family over for birthdays or simply because the weather was nice. The party started in the kitchen, expanding until, most nights, they ended up on the porch of their house. But he’d moved from the Bronx at a young age. His parents had entertained less with the distance between Long Island and the city, so he’d grown used to the relative quiet. The first time his parents came to the new house, though, he would love to see pride reflected in their eyes. An echo of the upbringing they’d given him, which included a place to gather. To be together.

His wife was sentimental about her mother, too. Come to think of it, she had a photo album stored in the closet with pictures of her mother’s childhood home in Buenos Aires. Maybe he could get some ideas for the renovation from there . . .

His thoughts trailed off and he gave in to the impulse to light a cigarette, taking a long drag and leaving it clamped between his lips.

“You have to tell her,” came Stephen’s voice from behind him, and Dominic turned to find his boss and friend joining him on the dock. “‘Hey, honey, I bought you a dream house.’ Problem solved. Separation over.”

Having heard the same song and dance from Stephen on numerous occasions, Dominic shook his head. “It wouldn’t solve the problem.” He sighed. “At this point, it might even make the problem worse. I waited too long.”

His friend was the only living soul who knew about the new house, out of necessity. Five years ago, Dominic’s initial plan had been to surprise Rosie with a house. To that end, he’d begun giving Stephen a small percentage of his paycheck each week to set aside, until he’d hit his goal. He didn’t want Rosie to miss the money or worry about all the overtime he worked to make up for the missing funds. He’d just wanted to give her something she could see. Something that would serve as proof that he would never let her down. Or forget about their mutual goals.

In playing the silent hero, though, had he ruined Rosie’s chance of reaching her own?

“Why are you waiting to tell her?” Stephen leaned against the post opposite Dominic. “I mean, I know you want it to be perfect when you bring her here. But you can’t decide on anything. I’ve drawn up nine sets of plans.”

An unsettled feeling weighed heavily in Dominic’s stomach. One he’d learned to live with. It had moved in during his time overseas and never left. He’d met so many soldiers during his service who had bigger, more elaborate plans for the years ahead. The money to make them all a reality. They’d put rocks—instead of small, simple diamonds—on their fiancées’ fingers before being deployed. They’d gone on weekend getaways with their in-laws and already had plans for tech startups or to take over the family business. While Dominic had . . . nothing to give. Just himself.

His father’s work ethic had once been more than enough, but the harder Dominic worked, the more the results seemed unworthy of his wife. The house included.

Especially now, when it was becoming obvious a restaurant could have made her happier.

Dominic took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke upward, making it look like it had come from the chimney. When this house had shown up on the market, priced to sell fast, Dominic had taken a leap and asked Stephen for the money he’d been setting aside. He could still remember writing the check and sliding it toward the realtor, thinking, I won’t let our engine stop roaring.

But he had. He fucking had.

Acutely aware of Stephen’s scrutiny, Dominic looked back out at the water—and he let disappointment wash over him. Those men he’d served with in the marines who didn’t make it home . . . what would they have done with this time? These last five years? They probably wouldn’t have bought a house and hidden it from their wife out of fear it wouldn’t be the right one. The one that would make her happy.

That memory of Rosie at the bottom of the airport escalator snuck in and made him swallow hard. He could feel the weight of those extinguished futures on his shoulders the closer he got to her, could feel how unprepared he was to make them count. Nothing had changed since then, either, had it? Now it was extremely possible he’d waited too long to make every day of this life with Rosie count.

“You ready to pick a set of plans? Things are quieting down for the winter. We could get a lot of interior work done . . .”

It was on the tip of Dominic’s tongue to say, Yes, the fourth plan you drew up, with the Spanish tile floors and wide, arched doorways. That’s my wife. My wife would love that.

Instead, Dominic ground out the cigarette under the toe of his boot, gave one last look at the house, and strode toward his truck. “Not yet.”

Rosie pressed a finger to the center of her crumbly biscuits and deemed them cooled enough. She peeled the plastic wrap off two bowls containing a homemade blackberry jam, another brimming with fresh dulce de leche. She’d added a touch of lemon zest to her alfajores, trying to put her own twist on her mother’s recipe. If the sighs of pleasure coming from the living room were any indication, they were going over amazingly well. She couldn’t get them out of the oven, cooled, and sandwiched with homemade topping fast enough.

“Let’s begin, ladies!” Bethany said, clapping her hands in the center of the crowd of women. Their Just Us League meetings continued to expand every time they got together. Some of the newbies weren’t even residents of Port Jefferson, having driven from neighboring towns to be there. Since Rosie happily did most of the cooking—and now baking—for the meetings, Georgie had been thoughtful enough to start a weekly collection to fund her food supplies.

Rosie was loving every second of it. Being selective over the freshest meats for her empanadas, adding her own twist to classic chimichurri dipping sauce, testing out new recipes in Bethany’s kitchen. It was a built-in weekly focus group for her skills, and tonight . . . yes, tonight she felt a little bit closer to setting foot inside the empty restaurant off Main Street. Originally, her idea had been small. An indoor empanada stand. A counter where people could order and take meat-filled pastries to go, but the more Argentinian dishes she tested and perfected, the more her dream expanded and took on new life.

“Who had something good happen to them this week?” Bethany asked her rapt, wine-sipping audience, a smile stretching across her pretty face. She held her dry-erase marker in front of the whiteboard she’d erected—or the Positivity Board, as they’d collectively begun referring to it. “Anyone?”

“I got a good deal on having the brakes replaced on my Chevy,” said one of the women. “The mechanic tried to highball me. I turned him down and he started singing a different tune.”

Bethany wrote “brakes” in loopy script on the Positivity Board.

“Er—um, a new position at my job,” piped in another member who rarely spoke up. As soon as everyone turned to look at her, she tried to sink into Bethany’s plush white couch. “I was promoted. You’re looking at the new head loan officer at Town and Center Bank.”

“Oh shit! That’s amazing.” Bethany did a little dance as everyone applauded. “Congratulations. Did you ask for the promotion or was it a surprise?”

“I asked for it.” The loan officer sat up a little straighter, visibly bolstered by everyone patting her on the shoulders. “I don’t mean to be sappy, but I don’t think I would have if it wasn’t for this club.”

Rosie smiled to herself as she moved the alfajores onto a serving plate and carried them into the living room. She set them down on the coffee table, laughing as Georgie pulled her backward into an empty seat on the couch. Their resident clown was slightly tipsy tonight, but she was charming. Earlier, she’d greeted newcomers with a juggling act on the porch until Bethany dragged her in from the cold.

“You smell nice.” Georgie sighed, laying her head on Rosie’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“You say that to all the girls.”

“But I mean it with you, baby.”

Rosie pressed her lips together to subdue her smile. “Are you celebrating something with your six margaritas?”

“Nope. Yes.” Georgie hiccupped. “Eh. Just needed a little liquid courage.”

“Care to share your conversation with the class, ladies?” Bethany called with a mock-stern expression, everyone laughing at her halfhearted reprimand.

“It’s now or never, I guess. I have something.” Georgie put her hand up, then seemed to realize that hand was holding a sloshing margarita on the rocks and lowered it. “Me and Travis picked a wedding venue.”

“What?” Bethany dropped her dry-erase marker and didn’t bother to pick it up. “Excuse me, Georgette Castle, why was I not brought along as a consultant?”

“I didn’t want to play referee. You would have disagreed with all of Travis’s choices just to exasperate him.”

Bethany waved that off. “Ah, come on. I’ve stopped needling him so much.” She slumped. “Hard to hate the guy who proposed to you live on the air.”

“With several adoring high school kids in tow,” Rosie added, patting Georgie on the shoulder. “The man has flair.”

“Damn right, Ro. And I’m sorry we ruined your fun, Bethany,” Georgie said, taking a long sip of her drink. “But we decided on Oheka Castle—”

Gasps all around the room.

“—and we’re going with kind of an unusual theme. It’s called ‘famous baseball player turned famous announcer marries local clown and everyone thinks he’s crazy.’ Or has that theme been overdone?”

Sensing a deeper layer to Georgie’s flippancy, Rosie sent Bethany a look and noticed she was concerned, too. Actually, the silence in the room said everyone was concerned. They’d witnessed Georgie and Travis fall in love and watched his proposal during a Just Us League meeting. Everyone had skin in the game.

“I’m kind of freaking out,” Georgie said, sweeping the room with wide eyes. “When we were looking at churches, I just kept thinking about how everyone is going to be staring a-and comparing me to who he dated before. And how I never dated anyone before because I was like, this total scrub.”

Rosie put an arm around Georgie’s shoulders. “It’s okay to be nervous. Everyone gets nervous when they’re about to take a huge step,” Rosie said, squeezing her. “Except Travis. Travis would have already married you six times, because the man is crazy in love with you.”

Georgie started to respond, but the front door of Bethany’s house blew open and the object of their conversation stood outlined in the frame, all six foot three inches of the rangy ex–baseball player.

Someone yelled, “Intruder!”

Travis ignored them. “Where’s my girl?”

Everyone pointed at Georgie, who turned on the couch to face her fiancé. “Oh, hi, Travis. What are you doing here?”

Eyes narrowing, he took his cell phone out of his back pocket and held it up. “You’re being weird in your text messages.”

“No, I’m not,” Georgie sputtered. “Weird how?”

“I asked what flavor of ice cream I should pick up at the store. Your answer was . . .” He looked down at his phone and read from the screen. “‘What if we pick a flavor now and want something totally different down the road? It’s too risky picking just one. Sometimes vanilla is great, but what if people expected to see you with rocky road? They’ll wonder if you regretted it and it’ll be too late to dress up vanilla. Toppings don’t count.’” He lowered his phone and raised an eyebrow at Georgie. “And then you sent a GIF of a cat licking ice cream and getting brain freeze.”

Georgie pursed her lips. “Still waiting for the weird part.”

“All right, listen up.” Travis advanced on the couch, and women scattered out of his way. Rosie scooted sideways, thinking Travis would want to sit beside her, but he knelt at Georgie’s feet instead, taking her hands in his. “Today was the best day of my life. Seeing the place where I’m going to marry you. Talking about it made it real, you know?” He brought her hands to his mouth. “Do not freak out on me, baby girl. Please. I was scared enough you made a huge mistake picking me, but you made me believe I deserve you. Now I’m demanding you stand by that decision.” An exhale rushed out of him. “I just really, really need you to keep believing I’m not a mistake.”

“H-how could you think that’s why I’m freaking out?” She shook her head slowly. “I’m just . . . the place we picked . . . it’s so big. It’s too big,” she blurted. “You’re famous and everyone knows you and the venue should reflect that, right? But it feels too grand and foofy compared to me, and I wondered if maybe that’s what you want—”

“Jesus. Okay.” He let go of her hands and dropped his head straight into her lap. “First of all, Georgie, I would marry you in a fucking shed. I can give you a big, foofy wedding, so I thought I should. If you don’t want that, we’ll get married in your parents’ backyard or—”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He lifted his head and searched her face. “Did I fix this? Please tell me it was that easy. I just want to marry you any way possible.”

“Oh God,” Bethany groaned dramatically across the room. “You’ve gone from tolerable to lovable. Every belief I hold dear has to be reevaluated now.”

“You fixed it,” Georgie said on a watery laugh. “I’m sorry about brain-freeze cat. I’ve had like fifty margaritas. I love you so much.”

He slid a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. It started as an innocent peck. It did. But Rosie coughed into her fist and had to look away when Travis slipped Georgie the tongue and she curled her hands in his collar, pulling him closer. It made her think of Dominic and how he used to reassure her with touches and words when she got overwhelmed. Or vice versa. And it opened a pit of yearning right in the center of her stomach. It might have been the tequila warming her blood, but she couldn’t help aching for the feel of her husband’s mouth against hers, taking, giving.

“Take your time. I’ll be outside in the car,” Travis murmured to Georgie, loud enough for the dead-silent room to hear, nuzzling their noses together. “Ah, baby girl. You just wait until I get you home tonight.”

No one said anything for a full minute after Travis left, but several women fanned themselves and at least half freshened their glasses of wine—filling them straight to the brim.

“Well,” Rosie said, clearing the rust from her throat. “We definitely have to talk about sex now.”

“Seconded.” Bethany sighed, finally picking up her dropped marker and placing it on the silver tray of the Positivity Board. “We’re all thinking about it.”

“Not all of us are allowed to have it, though.” The words were out of Rosie’s mouth before they’d fully formed in her head. Heat climbed her neck and cheeks as every head swiveled in her direction—and she had zero choice but to elaborate. “Dominic and I are in couples therapy and we’ve been given homework. And rules. One of them is no sex.”

“This is the best meeting yet,” someone whispered at the edge of the room.

“So let me get this straight,” one of the older members said, moseying forward. “You’re so active in the bedroom that you need a rule against sex . . . and you still need therapy?”

Rosie tucked a curl behind her ear. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll say.”

Georgie handed Rosie her margarita, and Rosie drank half before handing it back. “He wrote me a letter,” she said, smiling as Bethany picked up the marker and wrote “love letter” on the board with a flourish. “He told me this old memory. About us. And I . . . I don’t know, it made me remember myself somehow. I feel like me today, even if things aren’t perfect.”

“And what does Rosie want?” Bethany encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. “That’s what this club was founded on, right? Going after what we want?”

“I want to make an appointment with the realtor,” she breathed. “To tour that restaurant space on Cove Street.”

“The old diner?”

Rosie nodded.

A beat passed.

“Well, let’s make the call,” Georgie said, sitting forward, her face still flushed from Travis’s kiss. “There’s no better time to take the leap than when you’re surrounded by all this support. Someone grab Rosie’s phone. She keeps it charging by the coffeemaker.” Georgie bounced, bumping Rosie with her hip. “Restaurant! Restaurant!”

Everyone joined in the chant, but they quieted down when Rosie dialed the number she’d been keeping stored in her phone for a month. Her heart was going a million miles an hour . . . and somewhere around the third ring, she got the sinking feeling that something was missing. No, not something. Someone. She was in a room full of people she adored, but there was only one person whom she needed to hold her hand. And so, while she wanted to be ecstatic as she made the viewing appointment and everyone cheered, a sense of wrongness continued to eat at her.

Someone approached and laid a hand on her arm, jarring Rosie from her thoughts. “These cookies are amazing, Rosie!”

“They’re called alfajores—and thank you.” Desperate for a distraction from whatever foreboding gnawed at her gut, Rosie shot to her feet and escaped the living room. “I’ll just, um . . . whip up a fresh batch.”