A White Rose

by Bekah Ferguson

  It was going to be a long, lonely night.

  ***

  Through the front door window, Jason had watched Dakota drive away until her headlights vanished within the darkness of the trees encasing his driveway. Incandescent light from the outdoor lantern spilled out over the salted porch and partway down the steps. Beyond that, the snowy lawn was gray in the twilight.

  He watched her drive off to be with a lover.

  Ironically, he mused that if only he'd obliged her kiss, he would be her lover tonight. But it just wasn't what he wanted. Oh, sure, he desired it; but not in this fashion or under these circumstances.

  Jason shut off the porch light with a violent flick of the switch and went to the kitchen, hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped. He shouldn't have invited her over. In fact, he shouldn't have invited her for dinner that very first time and then all the times afterward.

  Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned? Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched?

  He scooped ground coffee into the coffee maker, added water and pressed start. Bear went to the door and barked, so he let him outside and stood watching with his hands on his hips.

  Rose Reilly—Dakota Reilly—was a woman of the world. He knew she'd been with many men—probably dozens. And he, a virgin. Yet he wasn't without intimate knowledge and understanding. There'd been many times with Lyndsay he'd come close to forsaking his vows. He knew the force and pull of his own carnal desires, but taking it one day at a time, he'd resisted the temptation time and time again. He'd come this far—surely he could go further yet.

  But that's not how it worked and he knew it.

  He was playing with fire and Dakota's kiss had greatly weakened him. If she ever tried it again, he doubted he'd be able to resist.

  Jason leaned against the door frame and waited for Bear to finish up. The scent of coffee filled the room like a soothing balm.

  Each time he caught himself wondering if true love was really worth waiting for, he remembered the heartbroken testimonies of close friends who'd given into the lie—all that hot air from Hollywood that never ceased to blow despite the countless broken and messy relationships saturating the tabloids. How many men in history had destroyed themselves by following their carnal desires instead of common sense? King David had committed adultery and murder; King Solomon had rejected his ethereal wisdom for foreign wives and heathen gods.

  Bear came to the door and Jason let him in. He then went upstairs to change into paint clothing and returned to fill a mug with coffee.

  After all these years of saving himself for his future wife, he was falling for a—!

  A harsh word came to mind but he cast it aside almost fiercely, uncapping his paints and preparing a palate. Why had he spent so much time alone with her?

  He dabbed some paint on the canvas with a fine-tipped brush and began to relax. Truth was, he enjoyed Dakota's company; her intelligence and wit; her fun-loving nature. She'd become a good friend.

  But it couldn't stay that way.

  He refused to turn away from God to pursue a foreign wife.

  ***

  After an endless night of tossing and turning, Dakota fell into a deep sleep come dawn and woke mid-morning with a headache.

  She arose from bed stiffly, dressed in comfy jeans and a wool sweater, and pulled her hair up into a bejeweled claw-clip. Her amber roots were on the verge of visibility again but now that she'd dropped her current lover and had no hope of another as long as she remained in love with Jason, there seemed no point in fussing over her appearance just yet. Besides, Clarice was expecting her for lunch and there was no time to do it now anyway. If necessary, she could wear a hat all week until she had the time—and motive—to dye her hair again. Jaelynn likely wouldn't notice; then again, the girl was shrewd and might delight in telling Jason that “Rose” wasn't a natural blond.

  With a huff she put on makeup and went downstairs to grab an apple before heading out into another brisk winter day. She was going to help Clarice set up and decorate her Christmas tree this afternoon. It was something she did every year for the frail old woman and it had become a tradition. Though she'd never audibly admitted it, Christmas seasons spent with Clarice were among her most cherished memories of all.

  After an uneventful, quiet drive to Shanty Bay, she shoveled Clarice's driveway of the two inches of snow that had fallen overnight, and thought only of the task at hand. The day was overcast; mists of snow billowing forth whenever gusts of wind swept it across lawns and roadways. When she was finished the task, she went indoors and tried to summon a believable smile as Clarice welcomed her into the warm kitchen.

  It was like her heart had deflated overnight—as though the blood coursing through her veins was lead.

  So very heavy.

  Tea things were set out on the red-checkered tablecloth and Dakota dropped down into a chair, filling a teacup gratefully and reaching for a shortbread cookie.

  Clarice studied her a moment, brushing her floured hands on a holly-decked apron. “You look positively beat,” she said, aged tone full of concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “A little hungover,” she lied, feigning a guilty look for measure.

  “Well,”—Clarice went back to the counter where a half-made pie was waiting to be finished—“I've seen you hungover many times and this isn't one of 'em.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “You look just like my granddaughter last week when her hamster died.”

  Dakota let out a ripple of laughter. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Clarice—I'm fine!” She gulped down the rest of her tea and joined the elderly woman at the counter to help with the pie and lunch sandwiches; talking about random things instead.

  Anything to avoid talking about herself.

  It wasn't until lunch was finished and dishes washed that she decided to get it out with. “I'm… in love with someone, Clarice,” she said quietly.

  The kettle had boiled a moment prior and Clarice was preparing a fresh pot of tea, her back to Dakota. She made no response. When the tea was ready, she handed the tray to Dakota with a smile and said she was going to the living room.

  Dakota followed her there and placed the tray on the coffee table next to a dish filled with Hersey's Kisses. She unwrapped a tear drop of foil and popped a chocolate in her mouth.

  Should she should repeat her confession or let it pass?

  Clarice bent over the stereo table, where she opened a CD case with a tremulous hand and placed a disc in the player. Adjusting the volume dial to a comfortable level as classical Christmas tunes filled the room, she turned to Dakota with a satisfied smile and sat down on the sofa.

  “There,” she said, sitting back carefully, brimming teacup in hand.

  Dakota took a seat in an armchair and smoothed the doilies on the armrests. Should she go down to the basement now and gather the boxes of Christmas decorations or should she sit awhile? The chocolate candy was melting on her tongue but she hardly noticed the taste.

  “So, you're in love,” Clarice said pointedly.

  Dakota glanced up, eyes wide. “Ye—es.” Tears filled her eyes and her lips parted—aghast. She clamped her mouth shut and blinked twice, looking away. What on earth was this? Why so emotional and out of control?

  Clarice said nothing.

  “He doesn't love me back,” she explained, resuming eye contact. “And he never will.”

  “Why not?” Clarice sipped her tea.

  “Because he's a Christian.”

  “A Christian!”

  “It's not what you think. He's only a friend. I mean, he refuses to be more than a friend. At first I just tried to, you know”—a telling look—“… but he didn't bite. I really thought I could win him over.” She lowered her gaze, heart aching. “Now I love him and the future looks long and bleak and miserable.”

  “Why?”

  She smoothed a doily again. A tear slipped out and she bent her head to the side, hoping Clarice hadn't seen it.
“Because I don't know how to stop this—how to stop being in love with him so that I can go back to—” She wanted to say “my old ways” but weren't her old ways just like her mother's? In the end, she would only be a wealthier, more fashionable version of Mona Reilly.

  “Who is this young man?”

  “His name is Jason Sinclair. He lives right here in Shanty Bay, actually. I believe you saw him briefly at the funeral home—his sister was on a crutch.”

  A nod. “Mmhm. Sinclair—” She paused. “Sinclair the painter?”

  “Yes! How do you know that?”

  “I recognize the name.” A sip of tea. “I've seen some of his work displayed in the gift shop down on Ridge Road. There's three paintings in the window right now. He's Ron Sinclair's boy. I knew Ron years ago. And Jason… yes, I remember now. He was just a little boy then. With scruffy hair in need of a trim.” A chuckle. “Always running through the woods and things like that. Usually with a yippy dog at his heels.”

  “You knew his family?”

  “Mm. Lovely people. So lovely… There was a little girl too—was she the one with the crutch?”

  A nod.

  “Poor child. So tragic what happened.” She frowned. “But now how did you ever get involved with Jason Sinclair? Surely he doesn't run in your circles.”

  “My circles? Should I be offended?” She laughed.

  Clarice waved a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean.”

  “What happened was I hired him to paint a mural in my living room over the summer,” she said. “And that's how we met. We became friends.”

  “I see!… So—” Clarice lowered her tea cup and scrunched up her eyebrows. “Does he know how you feel?”

  “Oh, he doesn't know—that I—love him.” It was so hard to say those words out loud; so foreign on her tongue. “But he does know that I, well, want him. He's tried to convert me to Christianity a few times, but I'm not going to fake religion to be with him. Though I doubt it would make a difference anyway. I think he preaches to everyone, not just me.”

  A languid smile. “Well, I think it's good for you, anyway. To love someone. You always swore you never would.” Clarice took another sip of tea, looking thoughtful. “Maybe you should reconsider Christianity—if you really think he's worth it. I never could convince you, but then I'm not a tall handsome man with dimples.” She laughed. “Come now, Rose—let's get the Christmas boxes gathered and we'll talk some more as we decorate. I can smell the pie already!”

  Chapter 32

  After what had been a pleasant afternoon of decorating, caroling and epicurean peach pie, Dakota prepared some soup and crackers for Clarice and then took her leave once the elderly woman was ready to retire for the evening.

  The afternoon had been festive and relaxing, but now she must return to an empty house. The thought of mounting and decorating her own artificial tree seemed strangely unappealing and even burdensome. She hadn't had a house party in several months now and she wasn't even sure if she'd throw her annual Christmas party this year. Tiffany hadn't called much lately, nor had Dakota bothered to return the calls of random friends who phoned from time to time. Someone else could throw the Christmas party this year instead—she didn't care.

  It all seemed so boring now.

  Clarice had invited her to attend Christmas Eve candlelight service at the community church down the street—the village church Clarice had been attending faithfully some fifty years now—but instead of the usual “No thanks, I'd rather not,” of every year past, Dakota had surprised herself by considering the invite and committing to a “maybe.” It might actually be interesting.

  As her headlights swept the end of the street, she turned on the radio and on impulse, took the highway to Mona's trailer park instead of heading back home to Barrie. The trailer hadn't sold yet, probably due to the winter season, but it would likely sell early spring. She parked on the roadway next to the snow-mounded driveway of Mona's rectangular plot and retrieved a flashlight from the glove-box. Following the dome of light cast by the flashlight, she trudged through the snow and unlocked the trailer door with gloved fingers. The door was frozen door and wouldn't open, so she yanked with all her might. It gave way a moment later and she dropped the flashlight, falling backward into the snow; arms and legs splayed.

  She retrieved the flashlight from where it lay sunken suffusing a circular area of snow, and brushed the clingy snow from her legs and seat of her coat. Climbing the trailer steps again, she entered what seemed a hollow cavern.

  As expected, the trailer was ridged and chilly inside, a sheen of frosted crystals glazing each window. She sat down on the stiff, built-in couch and hugged her arms about her waist, leaning forward with knees pressed together for warmth. Every now and then she glanced toward the dark doorway of the bathroom and shuddered. She could still smell death; or maybe it was her imagination.

  Some days the shock of her mother's death hit her afresh. Other days she didn't think of Mona at all. So, why torture herself this way? It was Christmas! No joy of the season warmed her heart.

  Had it ever?

  A couple years ago, she'd tried to spend a Christmas morning with Mona. But upon finding her mother badly hungover in the motel room she'd been renting, it was a miserable morning and Dakota had left as soon as she could tactfully get away.

  She could still picture the two-foot Christmas tree that had balanced on the TV, with its over-sized bulbs and that plastic angel on top which caught and dispersed the tacky tree lights like a prism. Mona had sat in a cushioned swivel chair, a garish orange scattered with brown flecks. The only other furniture in the room had been an unmade bed, a nightstand, an aluminum table next to the swivel chair, and the metal fold-up chair Dakota had sat on.

  Mona wore a black satin housecoat and pink rabbit slippers with floppy ears. A cigarette glowed between two fingers as she gulped down a fizzy glass of Berocca water with the same hand. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all had been the dollar-store Santa hat pulled down over her head; pompom dangling in front of her wan face.

  When she'd finished the drink, she set the glass down on table next to her with a thunk, popped the cigarette into her mouth, and crossed a bare white leg over the other. Several razor nicks marked her ankle bone and the tip of her knee. She peered at her daughter through squinty eyes and mumbled, “Merry Christmas, Rose. Sorry about this.” She removed the cigarette, exhaling. “Meant to be sober. I really did.”

  Dakota rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  “I didn't mean to get drunk last night… it just—happened.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you bring me anything?” she asked, seeming to brighten at the thought. She straightened in her chair and leaned forward, eyes alert.

  Dakota pulled a gift out of her shoulder bag and handed it to her mother. It was nothing exciting—some Harlequin novels and a box of chocolates.

  “I have something for you as well,” Mona said afterward, rising from her chair and rooting through the nightstand drawer. She shuffled over to Dakota and handed her a small candy-cane striped gift box. “Now before you open this, give me a chance to explain it.”

  She sat back down in the orange chair, which squeaked in protest, and pulled a dented metal cigarette case from a pocket of her housecoat. Removing a cigarette, she brought it to her lips, lit the end, and drew in deeply. She closed her unpainted eyes and tilted her head back.

  Dakota waited, bored, and wondered how much time had passed. It seemed at least an hour but was probably only twenty minutes. Mona opened her eyes then, chewing the inside of her cheek, and Dakota continued to wait, holding the small wrapped box in her lap with disinterest.

  “I've been going through my things,” she said, meeting her daughter's eyes, “and I decided I should probably give you this. I could've sold it years ago”—a poignant swear word—“I could use the money! But I guess what it comes down to, is I don't have the heart to profit from it.” She shrugged and sucked on the cigarette
. “I thought it might be”—she paused, letting out a tumble of smoke—“sentimental to you… ” She lifted her chin and blinked twice. “I know you always loved your daddy.”

  Now it was Dakota's turn to blink. She focused on the candy cane stripes of the box and looked over at her mother.

  “Go ahead,” Mona said, “open it.”

  Inside the gift box among folds of tissue paper, was her mother's engagement ring.

  “It belonged to your great Grandmother on your father's side. It's real platinum and that's a European-cut diamond. It's worth a lot. But I don't want you to sell it. You got that? Keep it in the family.”

  Dakota lifted the ring between her thumb and index, examining it carefully. She couldn't remember her mother ever having worn it, though she did recall noticing it in her parents' wedding album once.

  The large diamond was secured with claw-shaped prongs, and flanked with diamond-studded leaves.

  “Mom—why didn't you ever wear this?”

  She sniffed. “I was afraid it would get stolen. That and… it was a bit of a turn off to other men, if you catch my drift.”

  An image came to mind of shoddy clubs and dark alleys where drugs could be purchased cheaply. “I can't believe you didn't sell this,” she said, shaking her head and frowning.

  “Like I said, I couldn't bring myself to—your dad would've thrown me on the street. I always wore it when I was at home.”

  “But you left him. Why didn't you sell it then? It's not like you were well-off—” A snort.

  Mona snuffed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the table next to her and flicked the Santa hat pompom out of her eyes. It fell right back into place. “I told you already, I don't have the heart. I'm not a monster!”