‘Do you remember those roses you gave me, just after we’d met?’ she asked.
‘They were pale pink. I’m not sure how I found them. They were lovely.’
‘They had the most beautiful smell.’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘If I’m in a nursing home it’s because I won’t remember anything anymore. But if you bring me pale pink roses, I’ll remember the feeling they evoked. I’ll know that you love me.’
‘Oh Goldie,’ he groaned, burying his face in her hair. He couldn’t speak anymore. He didn’t know what to say. There weren’t words big enough for his love.
And Marigold said nothing either. She was becoming adroit at living in the moment, and she wanted to live in the very centre of this moment for as long as she could.
Mary Hanson stood outside Dolly Nesbit’s house with a small box. She was nervous. So nervous, in fact, that her bones were trembling. She hoped she’d find Dolly on her own. Not with Cedric. Dolly was always less friendly when Cedric was around. She figured Cedric gave her courage, and inspired her to be mean. Not that Mary didn’t deserve it. She knew she did. She was aware that her dog had done something unforgivable. But with all the will in the world she couldn’t bring Precious back. What she would give to be able to rewind the clock. But no one could do that. She’d have to live with the regret, while Bernie her dog lived in the moment. There was no regret there.
Her finger hesitated over the bell. Was this unwise, turning up unannounced on Dolly’s doorstep with a gift? Was she foolish? Would Dolly just slam the door in her face? Mary knew that, if she did, she might very well have to move to another village. Brian wouldn’t like that, of course, but she’d have to persuade him. She couldn’t go on living in a place where there was such hatred. Wasn’t Jesus’s greatest lesson about forgiveness? Didn’t Dolly go to church every Sunday? Surely, she could find it in her heart to forgive.
She pressed the bell and waited. Her heart thumped against her bones. Her already trembling bones. She tried to remember to breathe, but every time she got distracted, she held her breath. It wasn’t good to hold your breath. They’d done it as children at school and the teacher had caught them and told them that they could die that way. No, she must remember to breathe.
At length, and it did seem like a very long time, the door opened and Dolly’s face appeared in the crack. When she saw Mary, her eyes widened and she looked panicked, like a startled rabbit. ‘Please don’t shut the door,’ said Mary bravely. ‘I have a present for you.’
‘I don’t want a present,’ said Dolly sharply.
‘I know you don’t. I can’t bring Precious back but I can give you someone else to love, and this little kitten really needs a home.’
The door opened a little wider and more of Dolly’s face could be seen through the crack. Her eyes narrowed. ‘A kitten, you say?’
‘Yes. She’s very small.’ Mary held up the box.
‘But I don’t want another cat. Nothing can replace Precious.’
‘Of course not. There was only one. But here is another one, a different one. You never know, you may grow to love her almost as much as you loved Precious.’
Dolly was about to close the door when a thin meow floated out of the box. The door stopped midway. Dolly remained behind the crack, as still as a stone. Mary seized her chance and opened the box. She delved inside and lifted out a tiny white kitten. Dolly’s mouth opened and with it, the door. Her eyes settled on the helpless creature and her heart flooded with love.
‘She’s beautiful!’ she gushed. ‘Where did you find her?’
‘I looked everywhere. I didn’t want to get you the same breed as Precious, because Precious is irreplaceable, but I wanted to find something special.’
‘Oh, she is special. May I?’ Dolly put out her hands.
Mary passed the kitten into them, her own heart flooding with relief. ‘She’s very young.’
‘She needs a mother.’
‘I thought you’d be perfect.’
‘Yes, I think I would.’ Dolly pressed her face into the kitten’s fur. Then she looked at Mary and her eyes were no longer hard and hostile. ‘Would you like to come in?’
‘Really? I’d love to,’ said Mary.
‘I’ve just boiled the kettle.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Does she have a name?’
Mary followed her into the kitchen. ‘No, I thought you might like to name her.’
‘Then she shall be called Jewel. I always thought, if I ever had another cat, that I’d call her Jewel. What do you think?’
‘I think Jewel really suits her. She’s like a diamond. Like a lovely white diamond.’
Dolly smiled. ‘I like Diamond as well. If I ever have another cat, I’ll call that one Diamond.’
When Daisy got home at the end of the day she found an email from Taran. It was an electronic ticket to Toronto. She realized that ‘maybe’ had indeed meant yes.
Chapter 26
October in Toronto was unseasonally warm. Daisy stood for a long time at Immigration, fanning her face with a magazine, watching the queue lessen at an agonizingly slow pace. She couldn’t wait to see Taran who had promised to come and pick her up. She pictured his face and smiled to herself. His longish hair, swept off his forehead but always falling over it, the short beard her grandmother disapproved of and those penetrating green eyes which were often lit up by a humorous twinkle, or occasionally dimmed with sorrow when he remembered his father. That she could have thought him heartless and unfeeling was unbelievable now.
She collected her suitcase at Baggage Claim, then pushed her trolley hastily through Customs, impatient to see him. When she emerged into the Arrivals Hall she spotted him immediately. He was a head taller than everyone else. She smiled broadly and quickened her pace. Taran threaded swiftly through the crowd and gathered her into his arms.
He kissed her ardently. ‘God, I missed you!’ he murmured.
‘I missed you too,’ she replied, inhaling the familiar scent of him with delight.
He put an arm around her shoulders and pushed the trolley with his free hand. ‘Let’s hurry back so I can show you just how much I’ve missed you!’ He pulled her against him and kissed her on the head. ‘Mmm,’ he sighed, drawing in the scent of her hair. ‘You smell of home.’
Daisy had not expected Taran’s condo to be so luxurious. It was a modern loft conversion in an old factory in Trinity Bellwoods, which was downtown Toronto and, according to Taran, the hippest neighbourhood in the city. It was within walking distance of the park, he assured her, so she’d get her fix of green. Outside, the sky was dark. Toronto glittered with thousands of lights against the rumble of traffic and the wailing of sirens. The air was cool now and vibrated with the restlessness of a city forever in the grip of insomnia.
As soon as they arrived, Taran kissed her passionately. Daisy felt the vigour of his body as he pressed it against her and the strength in his hands as he touched her. The thrill of being in Toronto with this dynamic man was revitalizing and she felt as if a great weight was being lifted from her shoulders. The weight of responsibility, of a potentially traumatic future. The constant weight of dread. As Taran took her to his bed she felt liberated.
They went out for dinner in a French restaurant on the Ossington Strip nearby. The lights were dim, the atmosphere Parisian, the Mojito strong. ‘I want to show you how I live,’ he told her, taking her hand across the table and looking at her steadily.
‘I already like the way you live,’ she replied, sighing with pleasure.
‘You’ve seen nothing yet. We have a whole week.’
‘Don’t you have to work?’
He grinned. ‘Sure, but I’m the boss. I can pretty much choose when I work.’
Daisy frowned. For some reason she hadn’t expected him to own his own business. ‘Really?’
‘It’s a small company, but we’re quite successful,’ he added. ‘I might surprise you.’
‘You’ve n
ever told me about it.’
‘You’ve never asked.’ He grinned. ‘You’re much more concerned with trees and flowers to care much for buildings.’
‘Oh, I can see the beauty in buildings. You don’t get more magnificent buildings than in Italy.’
‘Most people only see beauty in old architecture, but I’m going to show you that modern architecture can be beautiful too.’
‘I’d love to see what you’ve designed.’
He nodded, withdrawing his hand as the waiter brought their food. ‘You shall. I’ll take you to my office tomorrow. I’ll show you what I do. It’s not so very different to what you do.’
The following morning they breakfasted at a café round the corner from Taran’s apartment. Taran introduced Daisy to the old man who owned it. He had a full head of curly grey hair, vivacious blue eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, which belied his bristly face that seemed to be set in a permanent scowl. ‘This is Mr Schulz,’ said Taran.
‘Nothing to do with Snoopy,’ said Mr Schulz in a weary tone. Until he mentioned it Daisy hadn’t made the connection.
‘He makes the best coffee in Toronto,’ Taran continued. ‘It’ll put your Italian coffee in the shade.’
‘And your coffee, I presume,’ Daisy teased.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Taran agreed. ‘Mr Schulz is in a class of his own.’
Mr Schulz nodded. ‘I’ve made coffee in this town for fifty years. I haven’t changed my methods, in spite of all those fancy machines they keep bringing out. If you want to make good coffee, it’s got to be real coffee, the old-fashioned way.’
‘We’ll have a couple of espressos, the old-fashioned way,’ said Taran.
‘Coming up,’ said Mr Schulz, and Daisy thought he was probably happiest making his coffee for he turned with a little bounce before disappearing behind the counter.
Taran led Daisy outside and took a table on the pavement in the shade. Sitting at one of the other tables was an elderly woman in a bright pink-and-yellow sweater with a pair of large dogs sleeping beside her chair. A couple of young men in jackets and ties sat at another table, reading newspapers. Taran greeted them all and asked the woman about her dog, who was recovering from a minor operation. He ordered coffee and smoked salmon bagels, insisting Daisy eat a proper Toronto breakfast. People came and went and Taran seemed to know most of them. ‘It’s a real neighbourhood,’ he told her. Then he ducked his head and grimaced. ‘Here comes pushy Milly Hesketh. Don’t catch her eye or you’ll turn to stone. She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter for months and she won’t be at all happy to see me with you!’
Daisy reached across the table and took his hand. She laughed. ‘Just putting a stop to her plans once and for all, darling.’
Taran’s office was in the historic core of Toronto, near the St Lawrence Market where red brick Victorian houses rubbed shoulders uneasily with modern glass and steel structures, like disapproving grandparents unsure of the new, faster generations growing up around them. Situated on the fourth floor of a converted brewery Taran’s studio was one giant open-plan room with white walls, big glass windows and shiny oak floorboards. Daisy wandered around while Taran talked to one of his colleagues, gazing at the large framed photographs of the buildings he had designed which hung on the walls. There were apartment refurbishments in Toronto, wooden beach houses by the sea and modern, geometric-shaped homes in the hills. They were impressive. Beautiful, just as Taran had said, and Daisy realized that he was right: there wasn’t a great deal of difference between what she did and what he did. They were both artists.
She also realized, with a pang of anxiety, that he couldn’t leave all this to go and live in the middle of the English countryside. She had been a dreamer to think that he could.
‘You’re so gifted,’ she told him when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
‘Thank you.’
‘There are some really stunning properties here.’
‘I love what I do,’ he said.
‘Did you ever show your father?’
He nuzzled her neck. ‘He wasn’t very interested in what I did.’
‘Why? Why wouldn’t he be interested in this?’
‘Because to him architecture had to be over a hundred years old to be beautiful. To him these were unforgivable assaults on the landscape.’
She gazed at a photograph of a glass-fronted, flat-roofed poolside house. It was clean, harmonious and light. ‘He can’t have thought that. Not if he’d seen them.’
‘Darling Daisy, you see the best in everyone. My father was a good man. Everyone said so. But he was also a narrowminded one. He thought proper writers were people who sat in leaking attics, scratching on parchment with quills. He hated computers, the internet, mobile phones. He should have been born in Victorian times. He was not made for the modern world. He only bought a combine because he had to. If he’d had his way he’d have hired workers to stook the sheaves by hand.’
‘I don’t even know what that means.’
‘Because you’re a modern girl.’ He turned her round. ‘You shouldn’t be living in a quiet village full of old people, Daisy. Not yet anyway. You should be drawing here in Toronto with me.’
She looked into his eyes and knew he really meant it. ‘You promised you wouldn’t ask me. That was the deal.’
‘I never intended to keep my promise.’
‘Taran!’
‘I want you to come and live with me. What can I say? I lied!’
‘Look, I have nothing against a city. You know that. I lived in Milan for six years and I loved it, at the time. It’s Mum. I can’t desert her now when she needs me.’
Taran nodded slowly and she wondered whether he was thinking about his own mother and feeling guilty. ‘Toronto isn’t that far away, you know.’
‘I know. I just can’t leave Mum, or Dad for that matter. I just can’t.’ She moved away and went to the window. It looked out over a quiet, leafy street with a coffee shop, an Italian restaurant and a few boutiques in the line of low-rise buildings opposite.
Taran stood next to her. ‘You need to live for you too, Daisy,’ he said.
‘You mean selfishly?’
‘No, it doesn’t mean you’re selfish to live a little for yourself. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’re talented and you’re smart.’
She smiled sadly. ‘And those are qualities that don’t belong in a little provincial village full of old people?’
‘Oh, they belong, all right. They belong anywhere. The thing is, I want them to belong here, with me.’
She looked at him and sighed. ‘And I want them to belong with you, too.’
‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush. But I’m here, you’re in England and there’s a great big ocean between us. We can’t live like this for ever.’
The word ‘for ever’ hung between them and Daisy wondered whether he realized what he had said. In all the years she had been with Luca he had never uttered that word. Not in English or in Italian. Did Taran really see them in the for ever?
Taran seemed to read her mind. He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her against him, pressing his chin to her head. ‘At our age there’s no point playing games,’ he said softly. ‘I know what I want.’
In the days that followed, Taran took the time off to show her the sights of Toronto, which he must have seen a thousand times. They went jogging in the park, dined in the most fashionable restaurants and wandered around the city’s famous Royal Ontario Museum. They went to the top of the CN Tower and visited Ripley’s Aquarium, which boasted sixteen thousand aquatic animals. Taran insisted they buy tickets for a boat tour, which Daisy thought hilarious. That was one thing Taran had never done either and the two of them sat on the deck while tourists took photographs and a woman with a microphone pointed out all the sights in a twangy, nasal voice which Taran spent the rest of the day imitating.
Daisy imagined living there, in Taran’s apartment. There was cert
ainly enough space for her to draw, for the condo was big with high ceilings and lots of light, not unlike the Sherwoods’ barn back at home. She could picture her easel and see herself drawing there, pausing every now and then to look out over the Victorian building with the fire escape that stood on the opposite side of the street. Perhaps she’d try and draw people as well as animals, she mused, expand her range. She no longer doubted she could.
It was easy to envisage herself making a home in his. Her clothes in the cupboards, her toiletries in the bathroom. She could see herself pottering about the kitchen, chopping vegetables on the island, boiling pasta on the hob. She would add a feminine touch to the apartment: long-stemmed roses by the sink, scented candles in the bathroom, geraniums on the windowsill, perhaps some brightly coloured cushions on the sofa. It wasn’t hard to imagine herself in Taran’s condo. It wasn’t hard at all.
One morning, while Taran was busy on the telephone, sorting out a sudden problem that had arisen in the office, Daisy went out on her own to explore the neighbourhood. She wandered up the streets, browsing in shop windows, venturing into the deli, which was her favourite type of shop, and pausing to enjoy the flowers in the flower shop. Eventually, she sat on a bench and watched this foreign world saunter by. It was vibrant and colourful with everything one could possibly need, and it had charm, lots of charm. She had made a home for herself in a foreign city once already, she knew she could do it again. Besides, she realized that there was something envigorating about starting over in a new city. She thought of her parents who had lived in the same village all their lives and considered herself lucky to have the opportunity to experience different cultures, to gain a wider perspective of the world. She had learned Italian in Milan, at least here in Toronto she wouldn’t have to learn a new language.
Daisy was curious to meet Taran’s friends and cousins, and was pleasantly surprised at how welcome they made her feel when they met for dinner one night towards the end of her stay. But the moments she treasured most were the ones when it was just the two of them, in his sumptuous and airy apartment, lying entwined on the bed and talking about nothing, or making love long into the night, to the distant roar of the city that Taran called home. Being together was the most precious thing of all.
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