Colleen Collins - She's Got Mail!

He had to ponder that for a moment. “Toilet? Why? What happened—”

“And your castle also needs a new shower,” she said speedily, ignoring his question. “That blue-and-gold-speckled tile and grimy sliding-door look is passé.”

“To hell with passé. What happened to my toilet?”

“Well,” Meredith raised her eyebrows so high, they nearly blended in with her hairline. “After the moving men undid the bolts—”

“What were moving men doing in my bathroom?”

“How was I supposed to get a plumber at this hour?”

This logic was giving him a headache. He raised a warning finger when she started to speak. “Forget whoever was in my bathroom, just explain why they removed—” Forget asking. He made a beeline for his castle. The scrabbling of Max’s nails and the clicking of Meredith’s heels followed him down the hallway.

Right before he reached the bathroom, Meredith said, “I forgot to mention something. After that little explosion, we had to turn off the water….”

ROSIE, more than a little cranky from having to double-park her Neon in a spot barely large enough for a cow, shoved open her apartment door. After stepping inside, she closed the door, turned the lock and shoved the bolt. “Home Sweet Fortress,” she murmured. Back in Colby, they never locked doors. But in Chicago, she’d been counseled by her friend Pam to always lock her door. Any door. Car, apartment, whatever. “You get in and you lock it,” Pam had lectured with a dead-on And-I’m-not-kidding-around look.

Rosie tossed her keys into an upside down helmet on a coffee table. It had been her dad’s, from when he served in Vietnam. Years ago, he’d given her brothers mementos from that war—but nothing to her. She’d complained. Said even if she was a girl, she too wanted something that held meaning for him, something that got him through the war and back home. A few days later, he quietly walked into her bedroom and handed her his helmet. Obviously, he’d worn it, but she never knew he’d also used it as a food and water bowl for a German Shepherd war dog, an animal that had once saved his life.

Rosie now stared at the helmet, taking a moment to remember her dad’s stories. The husky timbre of his voice. The way he’d squint one eye when he wanted to drive home a point. The way he’d lightly tap her on the head, an unspoken I-love-you gesture. Typically, she tossed the keys into the helmet, which jangled and clattered as they hit bottom. If she didn’t toss the keys into the hat first thing upon getting home, she’d never find them again in the morning. But tonight, she gently placed them inside before settling onto the futon love seat and stretching out her five-three frame.

Silence.

This was always the toughest part of the day. These first few minutes of stony quiet after coming home. Because no matter how hard she listened, she wouldn’t hear her family’s voices, watch their comings and goings. At this point in the day, her heart always shrank a little as she yearned for how it used to be. She’d slam open the screen door, hear her mom’s voice, “Don’t slam…” Rosie, tossing a coat or book on a side table, would apologize for the slamming while waving hello to her dad. He’d be in his overalls, sitting in his favorite armchair, reading the paper while watching the news. Sometimes he’d catch a discrepancy in what he read and what he heard and loudly announce the difference, whether anyone was around to hear or not.

Scents of chicken or beef wafted from the kitchen, where her mother was making dinner. The meals were basic fare. Chicken and potatoes. Meat loaf and potatoes. Spam and potatoes. But every few weeks the dreaded meal appeared on the table. Everything Stew. A combination of chicken, meatloaf, Spam, potatoes and anything else that caught Mom’s eye. Once a piece of apple pie slid accidentally into the stew—which her mother proudly announced at the dinner table as though whoever bit into a piece of apple got a prize.

Rosie never dreamed she’d miss Everything Stew. But what she’d give right now to be sitting at the thick oak table, seeing the cast-iron pot appear, and suppressing her groan along with her father and her brothers. They’d exchange glances as they picked at the stew’s contents, watching as one or the other identified a fragment of a former meal.

Br-ring. Br-ring.

Jerked out of stew memories, Rosie listened for the source of the sound. Was it buried under that pile of magazines? Wedged under that pillow?

Br-ring. Br-ring.

“I’ve got to remember to put the phone in the same spot,” she muttered, tossing aside a pillow. Nothing. If the phone fit, she’d have kept it in the helmet along with her keys—then she’d never be in this predicament again! Shoving aside some magazines, her fingers hit something hard. The receiver! She yanked it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Rosie Posey?”

Recognizing her oldest brother’s voice, Rosie grinned. “Dillon!” She fell back onto the couch. “What’s up?”

“How’s our big-city girl?”

“Missing Mom’s Everything Stew.”

“Is food that awful in Chicago?”

“No.” Rosie giggled. “Just got a bad case of the lonelies.”

“Mom’s Everything Stew could give you a bad case of something else. Li’l sis, if you miss it that much, we’ll gladly send you a batch. The entire batch.”

Rosie laughed. “No thanks. It was a weak moment, not a special request. So what’s up? Usually you call on Saturday mornings.” Every Saturday morning, to be exact. Seven-thirty sharp. Rosie had an inkling it was her brother’s way to ensure she was safe. Not staying out too late—or worse, not coming home. Actually, it wasn’t just Dillon who called. All four of her brothers called, each taking a turn as though she wouldn’t catch on they were keeping tabs that way. But she didn’t mind. Such over-protectiveness meant they loved her. Wanted to watch over her. After all, she was the baby sister in a family of four boys.

“Thought you’d like a friendly reminder that this Sunday is Father’s Day,” Dillon said. “Pops checked the mailbox at lunch, then again before dinner.”

Dillon didn’t need to explain further. Her dad was looking for a card from Rosie. Her father was a big, rough-handed farmer with an even bigger, sensitive heart. More than once she’d caught her father brushing aside a tear while watching a sunset or listening to the church choir.

“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow. Promise.”

“That’s my Rosie Posey. How’s everythin’ going?”

She sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the workday. “Busy. Got a promotion. Temporary, but at least I get to write for a while.”

“Write? You’re one of them magazine writers now?” Dillon, unlike her other brothers, had never pursued an education beyond high school. He loved the farm, which everyone knew he’d take over when her father couldn’t manage the land or care for the stock any longer. As her other brothers had their own careers, no one minded that Dillon would take over the family farm.

“Yes, I’m one of the magazine writers.” A minor exaggeration. But it didn’t seem necessary to admit she was actually the columnist filling in for Mr. Real.

“Writing articles about big-city life?”

“Sort of.” Didn’t seem necessary, either, to admit she was writing man-to-man advice on how to fend off ex-wives and ex-fiancées and space-nabbing women. Remembering her own space-nabbing adventure this morning, she stared at the splotches of dried mud on her skirt. That litigating lummox.

“Life treating you good?”

“Except for a certain guy, yes.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “What guy?”

She brushed at a stubborn splotch of dirt. “A jerk.” She’d only worn this skirt once, but now she’d have to take it back to the dry cleaners. Forget that he heated her imagination with fantasies of naked writhing; that jerk was costing her money!