After what felt like forever, he did as she’d hoped and called out, ‘I’m impressed.’
Back in the hallway he adjusted the black cummerbund around the top of black trousers and pulled on the jacket he’d hooked over the bannisters.
‘The boutonnieres are at Magnolia House,’ said Rosie.
‘The bou-ton-whats?’
‘The boutonnieres: flowers for the lapel on your jacket.’ She laughed and picked up her bag. ‘I’ll see you on the lawn around two o’clock.’
*
Owen sat on the bottom stair when Rosie left the house. She’d been a vision in her smart clothes – the shiny heels, the black skirt and the white shirt that revealed the faint outline of a lace bra. He only snapped out of his daydream when he saw Carrie’s sleek black Mercedes take the Hubba’s place on the driveway. He opened the door and gave her a wave, then dashed upstairs to grab the finishing touch for his tuxedo.
From the top drawer in his bedside cabinet he took out one of the black velvet boxes. He removed the mother of pearl cufflinks and fixed them through his shirt sleeves with far more prowess than he’d had with the bow tie. He took out the second velvet box containing the gift he’d chosen for Rosie. He’d wanted to give it to her moments ago as she’d tied his bow tie and he’d gazed down at the bare skin of her neck. He’d watched her all the while, her fingers looping the black silk, threading bits through here and there until it looked perfect.
When a toot from the Mercedes snapped him to attention he pocketed the box in his tux and headed downstairs.
*
Rosie hadn’t factored in the lawn when she’d chosen her footwear for waitressing at today’s wedding. She felt as though she was drunk as her heels sunk into the ground and she tried to keep the tray of drinks level.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been on the Pimm’s yourself?’ It was Owen.
‘Inappropriate shoes,’ she explained, moving to the gravel driveway instead. ‘That and inexperience with waitressing.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Nice boutonniere by the way.’ The silky petals of the deep red rose were a rich contrast to the black of his tux, and he looked even more striking now he was wearing the entire ensemble complete with jacket.
‘Boutonniere is a poncy word for a flower, in my opinion. But I have to admit, it’s a nice choice. Mum would approve anyway.’
Rosie smiled at three guests who snapped up the remaining glasses of Pimm’s from her tray.
‘So how’s it going, meeting the family?’ she whispered to Owen when the guests moved on.
‘I’ve dodged most of them, although I did meet Carrie’s parents.’
Rosie leaned past him to where Carrie stood chatting with the mother of the bride. ‘Carrie makes a beautiful bridesmaid.’
‘She does.’ He didn’t follow the direction of Rosie’s gaze to where Carrie stood looking stunning in her midnight-blue halter-neck dress. His gaze lingered on Rosie instead.
‘I’d better go back inside for another tray of these,’ she told him. ‘Enjoy the ceremony.’
‘I’ll try.’
*
‘Is there a problem?’ Owen asked. Carrie’s mother looked fraught. So far she’d been pleasant and calm, and there had been no quips of ‘Carrie, it’ll be your turn next’ with nods and winks in Owen’s direction. He was grateful for that.
‘There aren’t enough,’ said Bea, the maid of honour.
‘Mum, there’s nothing we can do about it now.’ Carrie tried to calm the situation. ‘There aren’t enough boutonnieres,’ she explained to Owen. ‘The florist must’ve got the numbers wrong.’ Turning back to her mother, she said, ‘Kristy won’t even notice. She’s too nervous about her walk down the aisle.’
Owen stepped in. ‘May I make a suggestion?’
All eyes were on this newest recruit to their family. Perhaps he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
‘We have roses like these in our garden,’ he said. ‘Loads of them. They won’t be exactly the same size and the foliage won’t be perfectly arranged, but I think they’ll work. How many do you need?’
Carrie’s relatively normal family meant Owen had only had one drink so far, so he took Carrie’s car back to Lakeside Lane to cut nine more velvet red roses for the male wedding guests. He grabbed the secateurs from the shed and a box to lay the roses in, and with plenty to spare he cut fifteen just in case.
As he chopped the final rose, one of his cufflinks slipped loose from his cuff and landed in the soil beneath. It looked as though he wasn’t any better at fastening those than a bow tie. He went to scoop it up from the dirt, but when he did so he saw a tiny sliver of silver shining beneath the rose bush, away from the roots. He scraped with his fingers and the silver strip became bigger until he realised something was buried there. With a bit of manoeuvring, despite the restrictions of a shirt with white sleeves he didn’t want to muddy, he managed to tug the box out.
Owen prised open the lid and rifled through its contents, expecting it to be something he or one of his brothers had buried in their childhood, during one of their imaginative games which usually involved digging and making a mess.
But it was nothing of the sort.
Here, beneath these beautiful roses in the garden that his mum worshipped, was the ugliest secret of all; the secret he’d been looking to unearth and the reasons behind why he’d never felt good enough for Jane Harrison.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Where’s your cufflink?’ Carrie pulled at Owen’s shirt sleeve as the dance floor opened up.
He hadn’t even thought about it after he’d found that box. It must still be there amongst the filth in the rose bed.
He’d delivered the boutonnieres in a daze, he’d barely touched the wedding breakfast, and now he was going through the motions until he could get the hell out of there, the hell out of Magnolia Creek.
Carrie’s body pressed lightly against his as they danced, although Owen felt more like a cardboard figurine than a man with a sexy woman in his arms.
‘Do you mind?’ Carrie asked as the song came to an end and her father appeared at her side for the next dance.
Glad of the escape, Owen turned to see a harmless but incredibly inebriated best man insisting on a dance with Rosie. He was over there quickly. ‘Sorry, mate, she’s taken,’ he said, and whisked her onto the dance floor before the man fell into her.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘He was a bit touchy-feely for my liking.’
Owen didn’t say anything. He held her close, knowing that after tonight he may not see her again. He had to leave, he had to get out of here, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d come back. He felt the weight of the small velvet box in his jacket pocket.
Shorter than Carrie, Rosie’s head rested comfortably against his chest and his hand covered the small of her back as he pulled her close to the sounds of an instrumental ‘When You Say Nothing At All’. He wanted to remember this girl who’d become a friend, he wanted to whisper his goodbyes into her ear now, tell her everything he’d found in the garden. But he couldn’t. He was so ashamed. He had no past. At least not anything that was true. His whole life was a lie. At the moment, he felt as though Rosie was the only solid thing in his life. But she wasn’t even his.
As the song came to an end she pulled away, but when he heard the speakers launch into the cello solo of ‘Your Song’, he pulled her in again. Now it was his turn to hold her up. As they moved to the velvety, wholesome sounds of the strings, he didn’t once look at her face. Every sensation came from the feel of her body, the relaxation of her against him.
‘You okay?’ He asked as the song came to an end.
She nodded.
‘Will you come outside with me? I need to give you something.’
‘I’m working, I’d better—’
‘Rosie, please, this can’t wait.’ He bit his lip hard, willed her to come with him.
*
Rosie leaned against the railing of the veran
da as darkness blanketed Magnolia Creek. Fairy lights hung intermittently through the trees and the frills of the veranda, and lanterns lined either side of the footpath leading up to where Rosie and Owen now stood.
Owen took something from his pocket. ‘I was going to give this to you for Christmas, but, well, I decided now was a better time.’
She didn’t ask why, and beneath the light of the moon peeping through the branches of a tree, she opened the box to see a silver cello bridge necklace resting on a maroon cushion.
‘I know it’s not the same,’ he said, ‘but maybe it’ll stop you touching your neck all the time and wondering what’s missing.’
She couldn’t help the tears that welled up. ‘Have you got a tissue?’ She sniffed. ‘My mascara will start running down my cheeks soon.’
He pulled the pocket square from his tux. ‘Sod the decorative purposes of these things, much better to make use of it.’
‘Thank you.’ Rosie dabbed beneath her eyes.
‘Would you like me to put it on for you?’ he asked.
Without a word she lifted her hair and Owen’s strong and gentle hands looped over her head then brushed against her neck as he fixed the necklace in place. The hairs of her neck prickled. She closed her eyes, imagining the real thing – the maple, deep-brown cello, elegant in its beauty from the scroll at the top of its neck to the strings and its body. She pictured the instrument, its natural wear and tear and the varnish that had worn off behind the neck where it had rested against her dad’s chest, against his heart as he’d played so beautifully.
Owen leaned in and kissed her on the cheek before he turned and went back inside, leaving her wondering what she would say to him next.
*
‘Where did you get to?’ Carrie immediately latched onto Owen’s arm when he found his way back to the edge of the small dance floor.
‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’
Carrie took a deep breath. ‘I think we need to talk, don’t you?’
‘Not now, Carrie. Today isn’t the time.’
‘You’re wrong. It’s the perfect time. Come on.’ She ushered him over to the quiet corner where two chairs sat vacant, and she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
‘Aren’t you driving?’ he frowned at the glass, wondering whether she’d assumed she was staying at his place.
‘I’m leaving the car here. A few of us have arranged a minibus to take us home.’
‘Oh.’ So she had no intention of staying with him. ‘God, I’m sorry, Carrie. I haven’t made much of an impression on you, have I?’
Her hand rested on his arm. ‘I don’t know about that. We’ve had fun, but I think I knew from the moment I saw you with Rosie that you and I would never be anything more than friends.’
‘Rosie? I—’
‘You don’t look at me like you look at Rosie.’ She knocked back her champagne but she was smiling. ‘You look at her like she’s another fire to put out, a challenge to overcome.’
God, was it true? And if it was, did it mean that deep down it was the challenge that was the real attraction rather than Rosie herself? He buried his face in his hands, took a deep breath and looked up at Carrie when she spoke again.
‘She’s a nice girl, Owen. Just be sure you really want her before you rock her world.’
He opened his mouth to protest but clamped it shut tightly when he couldn’t think of a defence.
‘You’re a good man.’ Carrie brushed his cheek with the back of her hand and then she was off to the dance floor. She only turned back once, mid dance, to wink at him, and then he left, walking towards Lakeside Lane to contemplate his next move.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Owen stood at the kitchen bench in darkness, the only light spilling out of the lounge from Rosie’s Christmas Village. His hand grasped the box until he heard the gentle rumble of the Hubba coming home. The car’s headlamps cast a golden glow across the room as the car passed the front door, and Owen was glad he’d waited to see Rosie again before he left Magnolia Creek.
She switched on the light in the hallway and then the one in the kitchen. She jumped when she saw him. ‘God, you scared me.’ Her hand rested against her chest. ‘Why are you lurking here in the dark? Hey, George.’ She reached down to stroke the cat who never missed an opportunity to ease his way into her affections.
Owen held Rosie’s gaze until hers dropped to the box on the kitchen bench.
‘I found it in the garden,’ he began. ‘And let’s just say it explains a few things.’
He pulled open the bag and some mud fell onto the bench top. The only way to explain all this was to show Rosie what was inside, piece by piece.
He held the pile of evidence in his hand. ‘My biological father is alive. He’s some hot-shot property tycoon. My parents have been lying to me my whole life.’
Rosie stood, open-mouthed, her gaze anywhere but on him.
‘Why won’t you look at me, Stevens? Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes,’ she mumbled to the floor. ‘Owen, I’ve already seen the box and its contents.’
His fingers stilled on the papers.
‘I dug it up by mistake, weeks ago.’
He shook his head in disbelief. She stepped towards him but he backed away.
‘Owen, ple—’
‘No, Rosie!’ He pulled his hands away before she could touch him. ‘What gave you the right to look? And what gave you the right to keep something like that from me?’
‘I wish I’d never, ever found it!’
‘But why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t know how to. And when I thought about your mum’s email—’
‘What email?’
‘Your mum emailed days before I found the box. She told me if there was a fire and we were told to evacuate Magnolia Creek, then I was to call her any time, day or night.’
His fists balled against the kitchen bench as he waited for what she’d say next.
‘She said she had some personal items she wanted me to find for her, and that …’
‘Oh, don’t stop now.’ This was almost laughable.
‘And that I wasn’t to tell you anything,’ she finished.
He wanted to punch something – a wall, the sofa, anything. He slumped against the kitchen bench, head in his hands.
Tears began to stream down Rosie’s cheeks.
‘This is so fucked up, Stevens.’
She hung her head. ‘I wrestled with my conscience so many times over this. I didn’t know what to say, and then Bella—’
Owen’s head shot up. ‘Bella’s in on this too? My whole life is exploding to shit and I’m the only one who didn’t know!’
‘I went to Bella because I didn’t know what to do. We thought your mum should explain it all, and Bella promised she’d speak to her and get her to do just that.’
‘Did you read all this?’ Owen picked up the papers and dropped them again as though they were laced with ricin.
‘I did. And it’s an awful secret to keep from you, but letters, articles and photographs don’t mean much on their own. Not without an explanation.’
‘Oh, I know the explanation! My biological father is some low life who preyed on my Auntie Natasha, causing a rift between her and my mum. And for all we know she killed herself in what was labelled an accident and it would be down to him. Oh, and let’s not forget the photograph of daddy-dearest with a girl who looks barely the age of consent!’
‘Don’t shout at me.’
He didn’t respond to that. ‘I’m the spitting fucking image of him, too. How do you think that makes me feel? God, no wonder my mum could barely look at me sometimes. I’m slowly turning into him.’
‘You’re not him.’ She put a hand on his arm but he shrugged it off.
‘Why did Mum bury it all in the garden? If she didn’t want me to know, she should’ve destroyed everything. God knows I’d be better off not knowing.’
‘Owen, there’s more.’
He shook his head. He didn’t know if he could take any more.
‘Bella told me your mum left your biological father when she found out he’d been having an affair … affairs – we’re not sure – and we know he threatened her.’
‘Did he hurt her?’ The venom he felt for his Mum gave way enough to let sympathy edge its way in.
‘I don’t know all the details. But your mum got to the point where she couldn’t cope, and she left you with Bella when you were eight months old.’
‘Left me?’ When he saw Rosie’s face drop, he knew exactly what she meant. ‘So she didn’t want me, even back then.’
When Rosie reached for him this time, he let her hand grasp his forearm. He had no idea how to process all this: everything his mum had kept from him, the truth behind his feelings of failure for so many years, his inability to measure up.
‘You could’ve come to me earlier, Rosie.’ He sat on a stool at the kitchen bench, long fingers steepled in front of him. ‘I thought we were friends.’
She took a seat next to him. ‘I thought about it, believe me. But I didn’t think it should come from me. I really think you need to talk to your mum about this when she gets back. With secrets this huge, there’s nearly always more to it than there seems on the surface.’
He pulled his arm free of her hand. He had to get out of here, this house, this keeper of secrets he wished he’d never come back to discover.
‘Where are you going?’ Rosie stood back as he stalked out of the kitchen.
He raced up the stairs two at a time. He struggled to extricate himself from the bow tie that felt like a noose around his neck, the jacket and the cummerbund that were as restricting as the BA he wore to go into a structure fire. In his bedroom he threw his remaining cufflink, like a tiny missile, at the window and watched his reflection. Who was the man looking back at him anyway? Who the hell was Owen Harrison?
Dressed in his leathers he flew down the stairs and snatched up his helmet.
‘Where are you going?’ Rosie clung to the kitchen door frame. ‘Don’t drive off into the night when you’re angry, you’ll have an accident.’
What Rosie Found Next Page 18