Dearest Rose

by Rowan Coleman

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,’ Rose said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice, which was still there, which would probably always be there when she thought of the life that her mother had wasted, through no fault of her own, on grief. Rose had only known the woman that John described for a few short years, and even then she was already beginning to fray at the edges, battling daily to make the man she’d given up so much for continue to show an interest in her. How hard she must have tried to be fascinating, beautiful enough for him. How painful it must have been when she realised that even if she was always all of those things, it would still never be enough to stop him from looking elsewhere.

  ‘I did that to her,’ John admitted. ‘I ruined her, and I regret that, deeply. I wish I could have cared when it counted. I wish so many things.’

  ‘But you left with Tilda instead?’ Rose stated.

  ‘I stopped feeling anything real long before Tilda, and long after,’ John admitted. ‘Tilda was not the first, not the last of the women I used. The only thing that set her apart was that she somehow pierced the fog of the alcohol to make me take notice of her for a little while. Tilda is a strong, ferocious woman. I think she thought she could change me.’

  Rose turned away from him, finding it difficult to be able to control the ferocious feelings that surged through her: anger, hurt, and somehow relief that he was finally saying what she’d always believed to be true, that he was to blame. And yet Rose almost didn’t want to know. She liked this quiet-mannered man who had a way with Maddie and a sort of strength that she felt secure around. More revelations would sweep that man away for good, and she would be left to face whatever harsh truth was left. But she couldn’t make the mistake of letting herself pretend that John was not the kind of man he was; she’d done that for too long with Richard.

  ‘The day before she died … it was the happiest day of my life,’ Rose said. ‘She was so happy, so light and loving. That’s why none of it made sense.’

  ‘When I heard how she … passed,’ John said, uncharacteristically squeamish about the facts, ‘I was drunk. I thought perhaps it might have been a dream. I think for a long time I preferred to think that it was a dream.’

  The two of them searched each other’s faces for a moment, each one full of sadness.

  ‘And you didn’t come for me,’ Rose said softly.

  ‘No,’ John said. ‘I didn’t come. I didn’t care, Rose. I didn’t feel anything. I’m so sorry, but I didn’t.’

  Rose nodded, finding it difficult to hold back the threat of tears that constricted her throat.

  ‘After Mum died,’ she said, in a tone so low it was almost a whisper, knowing that she had to tell John everything she could, unburden herself of all her secrets, if they were to have any chance of moving on together, and now was the first and perhaps the last moment to do it, ‘soon after, that’s when I met my husband. When I met Richard. I think he saw me, and he saw exactly what he wanted. Someone young, inexperienced, someone completely on her own, without anyone to tell her what to do or advise her. Without anyone to protect her. He wanted a wife who would love him unreservedly, a wife he could own. That’s what he saw in me. It must have been written all over my face: abandoned girl seeks refuge. I don’t suppose he meant for things to end the way they did when we got married; I don’t suppose for one minute he foresaw how he would become.’ Rose made herself look John in the eye so that he would see everything she saw, feel everything she felt. ‘Controlling, restricting every aspect of my life, slowly, slowly over years and years, until I was afraid to breathe if he was in the room, or to chew too loudly, or accidentally wear the wrong expression. I don’t suppose it was his plan to take a girl, already weak and vulnerable, and wear her down, inch by inch, until she had just the tiniest scrap left of her own identity. I don’t suppose he planned any of that, but that is what happened to me, after Mum died. And if you’d have been there, or just been in my life, another person to turn to, perhaps it would have helped me see things clearly and perhaps … I wouldn’t be hiding from Richard now.’

  John nodded, swallowing with difficulty. ‘This is hard for me to bear too,’ he said. ‘I let you down, and I can never make up for that.’

  ‘No,’ Rose said. ‘And whether you believe it or not, I really wish you could.’

  ‘You still had that tiny scrap, though,’ John said, looking her square in the eyes, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘That small part of you that you hung on to, that was from your mother. It was her strength that stopped you from disappearing completely, and made you start to fight back. Your mother saved you.’

  ‘Did she?’ Rose asked him. ‘I’d like to believe that, but Mum was the one that gave in. That gave up. You beat your addiction – doesn’t that make you the strong one?’

  John shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It makes me the coward, too afraid to die, even though … even though I get closer to it day by day. But not your mother, she was not afraid.’

  ‘Hello?’ Frasier’s voice sounded outside, as Rose and John kept looking at each other, trying to search out some answers in those last few seconds they had before Frasier came into the barn.

  ‘I think it’s the courageous who want to stay alive,’ Rose said finally. ‘And I think that it’s a little bit of that, of you, that has to be in me. Mum’s there too, of course, but you are my father, you are part of me too.’ She wrinkled her brow as a thought occurred to her. ‘It never crossed my mind before to be grateful for that.’

  Before John could respond Frasier walked into the barn, with a curious Maddie at his side. He was wearing a sea-green shirt that matched the colour of his eyes, open slightly at the neck, his blond hair looking ruffled as if he’d been driving with the window down.

  ‘Hello, all!’ he said cheerfully, stopping and smiling at Rose in her white cotton dress. ‘You look so refreshing,’ he said. ‘Delightful. And Maddie, I see you are quite the protégée. Your work is coming on apace!’

  Maddie stared at her drawing as if she very much doubted him. It was clear that she did not like this planning stage nearly as much as she liked throwing paint about or sketching, but she had persevered, which was unusual for her.

  ‘John, Greg tells me I have to wait three more days for the third work,’ Frasier said, trying his best to look stern.

  ‘This is an artist’s studio,’ John said, ‘not a McDonald’s drive-through.’

  Frasier laughed. ‘Nothing you can say will put me in a bad mood today,’ he said happily. ‘I’ve sold almost all of the awful woman’s work, Cecily is out of town for the weekend – which doesn’t mean I don’t love and adore her, but does mean I get to eat real food for a change, instead of tofu and plants – and tonight I am taking your daughter out to dinner!’

  Neither Rose nor Frasier were prepared for John’s disapproving expression.

  ‘Make sure you take care of her,’ he said gruffly, obviously a little embarrassed himself by his belated paternal concern.

  ‘This is Rose,’ Frasier said gently. ‘Of course I will take care of Rose.’

  Sharrow Bay House Hotel turned out to be set right on the shores of Ullswater, an elegant white-painted Victorian house that Rose felt altogether underdressed for after all, although she was not at all sure that any of Haleigh’s going-out clothes would have served her any better. The warmth of the sun was thankfully still strong, and Rose was enchanted when they were seated at a table on the terrace, overlooking the lake, the mountains glowing golden in the evening light.

  ‘Wow,’ Rose breathed as she looked out across the view.

  ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ Frasier said. ‘It’s at times like this I wish I had the skill to create art, rather than just appreciate it, and sell it, and make quite a lot of money from it.’

  ‘But it’s not all about the money for you, is it?’ Rose asked him, curiously. ‘If it was you wouldn’t have come to my house in Broadstairs, would you? You wouldn’t have tracked my father down, you
wouldn’t have put so much effort, time and probably money into getting him sober. You basically saved his life.’ And mine, she thought quietly as she dared to look at him, his strong nose, sensitive mouth and jaw that made her want to reach out and touch his face. It seemed dreamlike that she was here with him, in this beautiful setting. All the darkness and dread that Richard brought with him seemed like another life time, another universe away. Rose realised that she was going to have to work very hard to keep her feet on the ground, to remember that Frasier saw her as a friend, the daughter of a valuable client, not his long-lost soul mate.

  ‘I tracked your father down because of his work. His true work is remarkable. I wanted to be the one to discover him; I wanted the credit, if I’m honest,’ Frasier said, smiling. ‘But when I found him, he was a wreck. He had no one, he didn’t care what happened next. I only had to look at him to see he didn’t have much time left if he carried on the way he was. I took a risk, a gamble. I paid for him to get medical help and the support he needed to become clean, hoping that if he survived I’d get my chance at discovering him after all. So I’m not quite as noble as you might imagine.’

  ‘He respects you, though,’ Rose said. ‘I can see that, despite how he grumbles and moans around you. What you say and think mean a lot to him, although he’d never admit it.’

  ‘And I respect him too,’ Frasier answered. ‘I do finally think, under all the bluster, that we are friends now, after all these years. I care about the man. If it was up to me I wouldn’t have him painting like there’s no tomorrow for big business and greetings card companies. As much as he likes to imply that it’s me who makes him do it, I never have. The truth is it’s easier for him to pretend I’m the heartless commercial dealer cracking the whip. In reality he insists on doing the big money work, and refuses to let me see his “real” work.’

  ‘But why?’ Rose asked him, intrigued. ‘That doesn’t sound like the man I knew at all. Although to be fair I barely know him at all now.’

  Although he was a good deal better today than in a long time, Rose supposed, thinking of the way that John had quietly squeezed her shoulder as she had left with Frasier, a sign of what they both hoped would become a new bond between them, a connection that, despite everything, they could both now admit that they wanted.

  ‘I …’ Frasier hesitated as he considered Rose’s question, and whatever it was he was thinking remained unsaid. ‘He has his reasons. Perhaps he’s lost confidence in his private work; perhaps it’s just too painful to show. I do hope that one day he will change his mind, because he really is an amazing man, not just an artist. Which I know must sound a little trite, considering what you’ve been through largely because of him.’

  ‘Not trite,’ Rose said. ‘I suppose it’s not impossible to be amazing in some parts of your life, and terrible in others. I hope he is an amazing man, I hope he is redeemable, because if he is then I will be able to forgive him.’ Rose looked out across the lake, her brow knitted briefly in concern. ‘I told him that I would never be able to forgive him – to hurt him, I think – and yet he accepted it as if that was the way it should be. And yet now I find I would like nothing more. Nothing more than to be free of all those years of hate.’

  A waitress arrived with their starters, and refreshed their wine, as the sun began to sink slowly behind the crest of the mountain, setting fire to ripples in the near-still lake.

  ‘So tell me about you, your life, your husband, Maddie, everything,’ Frasier said warmly, leaning forward a little, eager to hear all about her.

  Rose sat back a little in her chair, unprepared for that question, and reluctant to answer it, to bring even the mention of Richard into this idyllic setting. And yet she couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist.

  ‘Well … I’ve actually recently separated from my husband,’ Rose said a little awkwardly. ‘I’ve left him, I mean. For good.’

  It occurred to her that Frasier might well think that taking a married woman out to dinner was one thing, but to take out a recently separated, newly single woman was quite another. And besides, Rose was very afraid that at some point he would guess the real reason she came to Millthwaite was to find him. That was something he could never know.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Frasier looked genuinely sorry. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Actually,’ Rose said, lifting her chin in unconscious defiance, ‘it’s a good thing.’ She struggled to sum up her marriage in a way that wouldn’t frighten or shock Frasier. ‘We weren’t … compatible any more. He didn’t cheat or anything, and neither did I. Just … he wasn’t a person I could be with any more.’

  ‘It must be hard, though, to start again after all those years, just you and Maddie?’

  Rose said nothing for a while, toying with the stem of her wine glass. ‘Hard’ wasn’t the word. She hoped, believed, that the hardest times were behind her even though she knew there would be much worse to come before she could truly be free of her past.

  ‘I think there will be rocky times ahead,’ she said eventually.

  ‘It’s not amicable then?’ Frasier asked her, seeing the concern in her furrowed brow.

  ‘Far from it,’ Rose admitted, raising her gaze to meet his. ‘He hates me very much. And I … I have no idea what I feel about him. Nothing at the moment. The very thought of him makes me feel numb.’

  ‘Well, you have me fighting in your corner, if you need me.’ Frasier made the offer without hesitation, and Rose knew he meant it. ‘And I know an excellent lawyer this side of the border who I’m sure could help out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rose said. ‘But for now I’m just concentrating on being here. I’ll cross all of those bridges when I get to them. Being here, it feels strangely wonderful. And I suppose it is. After all, I’ve walked into the picture postcard that I’ve carried with me every single day for seven years.’

  ‘Carried with you every day?’ Frasier asked her, picking up on the remark before Rose realised that she’d made it.

  ‘Yes, well, it was my only link to John,’ she said, unable to look him in the eye, feeling the heat creep up her neck. ‘Silly, really.’

  Frasier watched her for a moment and then reached into his jacket, pulling out his wallet. ‘Do you want to see what I carry with me every single day?’ he asked her.

  Rose nodded, looking up, although really she had no desire at all to see a photograph of Cecily.

  But it wasn’t a photo that Frasier slid out of his wallet. It was a folded piece of paper, and on it a reproduction of the sketch of her father’s painting of her, the one entitled Dearest Rose.

  ‘Oh!’ Rose gasped, then looked up from it to find Frasier returning her gaze with an intensity that was difficult to interpret. ‘But why?’

  ‘It reminds me of where I started, and what I wanted to achieve when I started,’ he said. ‘So you see, Rose, I’ve been carrying you next to my heart for the last seven years.’

  ‘Shall we take a walk by the shore?’ Frasier asked her, after discreetly settling the bill.

  ‘I feel like I should at least pay for the coffee,’ Rose said. ‘Or the mints. I am admittedly a bit skint right now.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Frasier said. ‘My father was an army man. He never got over the fact that I didn’t follow him into the profession; the very least I can do is to adhere to his standard to take care of a lady at all times.’

  ‘You are a dying breed,’ Rose said as she took the hand that Frasier offered and let him escort her down to the shore. ‘I think I’m supposed to think that is a good thing, I can’t remember.’

  They stood for a moment listening to the soft lap of the waters, Rose tracing where the crest of the mountains blacked out the starry sky, her hand still casually entwined with Frasier’s, each forgetting the other was there.

  ‘This place is beautiful,’ Rose whispered. ‘I don’t mean just this spot, although it is. I mean the whole area. When you live in a place like this, surrounded by a landscape like this, all your earthly problem
s should seem so insignificant.’

  Frasier smiled. ‘Does that mean you might settle here, then?’ he asked her, squeezing her fingers lightly. ‘I think I’d like that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rose said. ‘Part of me thinks that now is the time to travel, to see and go places. But tonight, I think it would be very hard to leave.’

  ‘And yet, leave here we must,’ Frasier said, letting go of her fingers as if he’d only just remembered he was in possession of them. ‘How about I take you for a drink in Millthwaite on the way back?’

  ‘How about I take you for a drink?’ Rose asked him. ‘I can stretch to that, at least.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Frasier said with a smile. They stood and looked at each other for a moment longer, and then with a shrug Frasier took her hand again as they walked back to the car.

  Rose hadn’t really given much thought to the likelihood of Ted being behind the bar when she walked into the pub with Frasier, and not even when his dark eyes met hers did she think for a moment that it particularly mattered. Leaving Frasier to take a seat by the window she went to the bar, smiling at Ted as she approached.

  ‘What you doing here with him?’ was his conversation opener.

  Slightly taken aback, Rose looked over her shoulder at Frasier, who smiled at her from beside the window.

  ‘He took me for dinner, and now I’m buying him a drink?’ she said. ‘Red wine for me and a single malt Scotch for him, please.’

  ‘So you’ve been on a date then, with him?’ Ted questioned her.

  ‘It’s not a date,’ Rose said, although to be fair the warm looks and prolonged hand-holding had made it rather hard to tell the difference. Their journey back through the dark, twisted country roads had been conducted in silence, allowing Rose to make a call to John, who assured her that although Maddie showed no signs of wanting to sleep, she was perfectly happy, and for Rose to ponder on what hand-holding meant when you weren’t on a date and one of you had a girlfriend.