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Rosie registered Jack Hamilton’s lined, pale face wreathed in concern. His appearance was so suave in his charcoal-grey morning suit and baby-pink cravat – his back erect, his still-thick silver hair and beard neatly trimmed in honour of his youngest daughter’s wedding day. But he had a lot on his mind. Not only did he have the responsibility of walking his beloved daughter down the aisle but it was only the third day in twenty-five years that the Hamilton family’s hardware store had been closed to the service of Stonington Beach residents and curious tourists bemoaning the disappearance of such Aladdin’s caves in their home towns.
She recalled the pang of regret she’d experienced at the previous evening’s dress rehearsal when she witnessed her father’s slower, more deliberate movements. It had occurred to her that now Freya was to be married, she should maybe consider returning to Stonington Beach to take care of her father and help him in the store which, she’d noticed with a stab of concern, was looking a little shabby around the edges. Jack needed more help than Dot, now herself in her sixties. Would such a step-change relieve her of her constant anxiety about her father’s health, the stalking fear that she’d lose him too? Would it alleviate the weight of apprehension that pressed against her chest, maybe even allow her to make some of those human connections she found so elusive in Manhattan?
Gosh, no!
Having taken a year’s sabbatical to care for Jack and Freya after her mother’s passing, she had proceeded to squeeze every last ounce of knowledge from her studies at college and business school, squirreling away every morsel of offered wisdom into the recesses of her mind for future extraction. Why should she even be contemplating allowing it to drain away into a small town hardware store? New York City had many flaws, but she adored its vigour and vanity, its tenacity and traumas. The only tinge of sorrow that day was the absence of their beloved mother, but her presence would be with them all in the hollows of their hearts.
There had been no thanks from her sister for the long months of grief Rosie had endured in organising this spectacular occasion from one hundred and thirty miles away. For giving up numerous weekends to travel out to Connecticut to taste and select the menus, to advise on table décor and choice of linen, flower arrangements, wine lists, whilst Freya was just looking after number one.
A conversation with Dot popped into her mind; Dot had hugged her goodbye and noticed the deep hollows of tiredness around Rosie’s eyes. ‘I hope once this fiasco of a wedding has finally taken place, it won’t mean your visits down to Stonington Beach will be any less frequent, darling?’ Dot had said. ‘Jack adores having your sharp professional eye run over the store. No other business in Stonington can boast a high-flying New York City executive bestowing regular financial advice upon its eaves and coffers. We love you here, Rosie. Don’t be a stranger.’
A second wave of dizziness enveloped Rosie and she slumped down onto the pale blue sateen duvet. Her mind had suddenly seized. Her father managed a tight smile and joined her, resting his hand on her arm. She saw he was studying her as she fiddled with the huge gold hoop earrings Freya had presented both she and Lauren with that morning. Freya had mistaken Lauren’s look of abject horror as that of shock at the level of her generosity. Rosie prayed her photograph would never, ever appear in any publication covering the Jacob Bennett, Jr. and Freya Hamilton wedding. She would struggle to live down the fashion shame. She felt and looked like a gawky teenager.
‘All this will happen for you one day, darling. You’re so like your mother, worrying about everything and everyone. You’ve pulled off a miracle today, organising this wedding for Freya and Jacob.’ His eyes sought out hers. ‘She’s gorgeous, but so are you. You need to take some time for yourself now, darling. That crazy job of yours is squeezing all the sparkle from your eyes. I can see how tired you are, even if your mirror speaks differently to you. You career girls don’t understand what you’re leaving behind in your blinkered pursuit of corporate acceptance. Manhattan demands insane hours and produces crazy people, their dreams skewed by their ever-increasing obsession with stockpiling the dollars.
‘You need to slow down, Rosie. Take some time to smell those flowers you and your mother were named after. Get dating, meet your own Jacob who will love and nurture you. Goodness knows you deserve it.’
He held her to him, his familiar smell mingled with the tang of a forbidden cigar. Rosie didn’t trust herself to respond with any opposing argument.
‘I wish Mum were here to witness how proud I am of you both today. I’ve missed her every single day of the last fourteen years. But her love lingers on in the crevices of our hearts. The passage of time has no favourites, Rosie, it treats us all equally. But I knew your mum for thirty years before that disease stole her from her family and she would have wanted all this for you too – a happy life, not a slave to the accumulation of wealth for people who have more than enough to service several lifetimes already.’
Her father knew he’d struck a chord. ‘Promise me and your mum that it won’t be years before I walk down that aisle again? It was a promise I made to her before she left us that I would see you both settled before I, well… Hey, there are some great guys who come into the store. Want me to fix you up with a date?’
‘Dad!’
‘Look, Rosie, I’m sorry I can’t go to the UK for Bernice’s funeral. I would have loved to have seen Devon one last time.’ Tears threatened to mist Jack’s lashes for the first time on that emotional day. The sadness in her father’s eyes sent a shard of panic through Rosie’s heart. Was he hiding a health issue? Was there a secret he was protecting her from, another evil incursion by an incurable disease poised to steal away her only parent?
‘It’s okay, Rosie. I’m just tired. Long hours in the store, you know.’ Her father failed to see the irony of this last sentence, having spent the last ten minutes lecturing and berating his daughter against the vices of corporate Manhattan and her solitary lifestyle.
‘Rose adored Bernice, you know.’ His kind, wise eyes clouded as he grasped Rosie’s hand in his, its paper-thin skin stretched and liberally-flecked with age spots. ‘But she wished her sister had found a partner to spend her life with. Don’t end your days like Bernice, Rosie.’
‘Are you sure there’s no way you can close the store for the week whilst you go to the UK? Maybe the break from the routine will do you good?’
‘It’s not the store, Rosie.’ The look on her father’s face caused Rosie’s heart to contract and a giant fist squeezing the air from her lungs. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I could manage the trip. It’s a long flight, and what with the jet lag and… well. I know how much Bernice meant to you, darling. I’m sure she would understand why we can’t attend the funeral, what with the store and Freya on honeymoon and your work commitments. The UK is more than an arduous car ride away.’
With huge effort, Rosie refocused on the present. She glanced down into her lap where her slender fingers were entwined with her father’s arthritic ones. Her heart ballooned with love for him and the support he had given her and Freya. She knew he had struggled at times with the gargantuan task of raising two young girls – Rosie was eighteen but Freya had only just turned eight – whilst coping with his own grief. Her unconditional love for him had been one of the reasons she had so swiftly slotted her toes into her mother’s shoes to care for Freya – to help to alleviate his suffering in any way she could.
And now Freya was to become a married woman. Rosie adored her sister. Throughout her childhood she had braided her hair, mopped her brow when she was sick, played hostess to her school friends, baked cookies, dressed her up in home-stitched Halloween costumes. She had protected her from every adolescent disaster she could, even forgiven Freya for ‘borrowing’ her favourite cocktail dress – which she had cut up for a fancy dress outfit.
She truly hoped Freya had found her soul mate. Jacob was a great guy – girls would ditch their grannies for a husband like him. When she had met Jacob, Rosie and Lauren had dragged out their personalised wish lists of essential criteria for potential dates and performed a meticulous comparison with Jacob’s plethora of assets: he’d scored favourably with both girls. He offered Freya a life she could only have dreamed of when she’d crawled home destitute from her extravagant exploits in the party capitals of Europe. Having expended every couch-surfing opportunity from the Atlantic to the Adriatic and squeezed every last ounce of enjoyment from her itinerant lifestyle, she’d been forced to return home to Connecticut.
Rosie would do anything to make life easier for Freya. She had endured more than her fair share of pain in her life and didn’t deserve to suffer further. And anyway, after her father, her little sister was all she had left of her family. But was she proud of what she had produced? Had she, and her father, over-protected her? Had they been complicit in preventing her from learning how to stand on her own two feet, how to deal with the grenades that life threw in her path?
‘Come on Dad. You go down to the garden to reassure Jacob and the rest of the congregation that Freya hasn’t run off with the best man and I’ll join Lauren in the search.’ She witnessed the look of horror gallop across her father’s tired features and regretted her flippancy. After all, Freya was a saint in her father’s eyes, not the flighty little madam Rosie had been covering for over the last ten years.
‘Joking, Dad.’ She rose from the bed and placed her hand on his shoulder whilst she stooped to drop a kiss on his cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’
But still the butterflies played an active game of tennis in her stomach.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c9cdbbc5-9d21-5304-bec1-12c5a74143a2)
Jack and Rosie descended the impressive sweeping staircase to be met by a frantic Lauren, hopping from one foot to the other like a toddler in need of a visit to the bathroom.
‘No sign of her! It seems Little Miss Superior has melted into thin air, the selfish…’ Lauren flicked her eyes from Rosie to Jack and relented on her character assassination of the errant bride-to-be.
‘Don’t worry, Lauren. Will you escort Dad to the garden for me? Try and placate Jacob and the rest of the guests.’ Rosie checked her mother’s silver Tiffany watch – her most adored possession. ‘Technically the ceremony is not due to start for another thirty minutes so there’s nothing to panic about yet. I’m sure she’s just taking a quiet moment to prepare herself for the most important day of her life.’
Rosie heard the expulsion of air from Lauren’s lips and saw the smirk around her mouth. She swapped a grin with her friend. Freya adored being the centre of attention, had been milking every opportunity to loiter in the limelight. It was inconceivable that she would hide away for even a second. Rosie had been genuinely concerned that, despite her promises, her sister would be unable to resist a quick visit to Jacob’s suite in her bridal gown. Indeed, she suspected that was where she was now.
She shooshed Lauren and her father out of the French doors. Her eyes swept the congregation assembled on the lush, manicured lawn of Stonington Meadows Country Park Hotel, the venue Freya had dreamed of during her childhood forays into planning her perfect wedding celebrations. It had been an incredible surprise to Rosie when Freya had shunned Jacob’s offer to pay for their wedding to be held at the Plaza, but then, as Freya explained, everyone had their wedding there. To her right, in neat white picket chairs, every seat was occupied by Jacob’s extended family, friends and business connections. Their elegant attire, like the car park, oozed dollars. To her left sprawled a more eclectic gathering of those connected to the bride. Rosie spotted Arnie and Dot, her parents’ closest and dearest friends, along with a smattering of Stonington Beach friends invited to share his daughter’s special day.
She turned on her heels – a pair of five inch, ivory silk Louboutins that had cost almost a month’s salary but which she planned to mount in a glass case to appreciate as a true work of sculptural art after the wedding – and headed up the stairs to the bridal suite.
She knocked and when there was no reply, she pushed open the door. Gosh, her sister could bring chaos to an empty room! Her belongings were strewn on every available surface, she had even opened the drawers of the elegant, kidney-shaped dressing table to drape her discarded hosiery over. A quick sweep of her eyes told Rosie that Freya was not there.
Yet her wedding dress still hung in its plastic carrier on the front of the gaping wardrobe door. Where on earth was she? Wherever she was she must still be in the cream silk kimono Jacob had presented her with the previous evening, her hair in the huge Velcro rollers their hairdresser, Carl, had fussed over that morning.
Rosie dashed over to the window and peered down into the garden. Everyone was there now, and had taken up their positions ready for the imminent arrival of the bride. Even the minister, a local ginger-haired man with a comical comb-over who had christened both Rosie and Freya, was surreptitiously checking his fob watch.
‘Oh God! Trust Freya!’ muttered Rosie, her heart drumming at her ribcage and her breath quickening as panic began to swirl through her veins, depriving her lungs of essential oxygen. ‘The only thing she had to do was put on her bloody dress and turn up on time!’
Was that too much to ask? Yes, she guessed it was.
She sprinted out of the room and into the corridor, cursing as she wrenched her ankle running in her unfamiliar shoes. As she reached down to rub the pain away, a tinkle of laughter emanated from a door at the end of the corridor which Rosie had assumed was a linen closet next to the glass cube masquerading as an elevator.
She paused, straining her ears, and her heart softened. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Freya was most likely snatching a few moments before the craziness of the wedding with the guy who had swept her off her feet. They must have got carried away and forgotten the time. Freya always had operated on a different time zone to everyone else. She replaced her smarting foot on the floor and tiptoed towards the door. As she drew nearer, her hand hovering over the ornate brass door knob, a deep-throated groan floated to her ears.
Rosie froze. Why had level-headed, reliable Jacob agreed to bunk off from his duties of herding his relatives for a snatched sojourn of delight with his fiancée, thirty minutes before the ceremony? Oh God! And here she was about to blunder in without even knocking!
Her face glowed with embarrassment as she cracked open the door and pulled it towards her. She stood immobilised in the doorway, mesmerised by the glistening bronzed back and the hint of incongruously white orb buttocks. She opened her mouth to announce her presence but words refused to form in her scrambled mind or on her lips which were parting like a gobsmacked goldfish. She began to retrace her steps until her shoulder bumped into the door jamb forcing out a gasp of pain, not from the collision but from the dawning recognition of the owner of the muscled torso.
‘God, Sis, don’t you ever knock?’
The man coiling his arms around her sister’s body twisted his head towards the interruption and mirrored Rosie’s horrified expression.
‘Giles!’
Chapter Four (#ulink_6d644376-ed19-5e12-aaf7-b3657db54f2d)
She was told later that it was the engagement of the fight or flight reflex – a mechanism that primes the body to attack when under extreme threat or to run away. A harsh whooshing sound reverberated through her ears and the urge to evacuate the contents of her stomach became almost irresistible.
Rosie spun on her heels, ignoring the splice of pain in her injured ankle and her shattered heart, and shot back down the corridor towards the staircase. Perspiration prickled at her armpits and beneath her breasts yet her mouth was dry as she struggled to swallow the rising bile. A clamp closed around her heart, squeezing out the air from her lungs until she was forced to pause on the landing to catch her breath.
Breathe, breathe.
Perhaps that solitary yoga session that Lauren had dragged her to would have some benefit after all. No, she was definitely going to vomit if she remained still. A tsunami of dizziness threatened to subsume her in its depths and a small part of her brain urged her to relent and to sacrifice herself to the desire for unconsciousness.
Think calm, breathe in, breathe out.
With a gargantuan effort to hang onto her breakfast, she reached her suite, groped for the handle and pushed her way in. The cloying perfume of the stargazer lilies Freya had insisted adorned every available horizontal surface assaulted her nostrils and scattered her senses further. She swooned and slumped down onto the bed.
What was she going to do? She had orchestrated every aspect of the forthcoming nuptials, personally supervised every aspect with as much attention to detail as she applied to any work project, right down to the texture of the table linen and even the bride’s honeymoon lingerie. Every second that she had not spent nose-to-screen, swinging through the corporate jungle where money is king and its accumulation the only goal worth pursuing, she had spent scouring the cathedrals of bridal consumerism. The day would run like clockwork, or it should if only her miserable, self-centred sister could keep her eye on the ball and her crazy libido in check.
A cold tremor invaded her chest as the full realisation of the treachery of the man she had given her heart to dawned on her. Freya was about to get married! How could he?
But worse than that. Freya was her sister! She knew Giles was her date for the wedding. She also knew how much Rosie had been looking forward to spending the day on the arm of the most eligible man this side of the Hudson River. Did Freya have to steal everything she had, including her boyfriend? Unbidden, her thoughts flicked back to the last incident when Freya’s selfishness had swept her breath away and the scolding she had taken from Lauren about not standing up for her right to pursue her own dreams without Freya’s taking precedence.
. She had been heartbroken when she found her mother’s eternity ring missing from her antique silver jewellery box which she still kept on her dressing table in her childhood bedroom above Hamilton’s Hardware Store where she grew up. But she had been even more devastated when she discovered that not only had the ring been removed by Freya, she’d had it remodelled to her own tasteless specifications as her wedding ring.
Was this despicable, self-centred behaviour her fault, too? She’d really struggled to forgive Freya for her truly contemptible behaviour this time. Her sister had known how much that symbol of her parents’ happy marriage had meant to her, that she herself had planned to wear it when she eventually found someone to spend her life with, someone as dependable, honest and considerate as her father.
When she had disclosed Freya’s deplorable, insensitive actions to Lauren she had been clear in her diagnosis that if she didn’t get a grip on her doormat tendencies with her sister and put herself first for a change, she would be looking at her sanity in the rear view mirror. Her best friend was right.
Her body had begun to shake and sweat had caused the man-made fabric of the hideous bridesmaid dress to glue to her skin. A spasm of humiliation shot down her spine as the full realisation of Freya’s betrayal slapped her square in the face. How could she possibly endure this blissful day after the horrific scene she had just witnessed? She knew the image would remain imprinted on her mind’s eye like a photographer’s negative for the rest of her life. How could she smile as her little sister married her handsome ‘prince’ with this knowledge bouncing around her head? It should be an occasion to wholeheartedly rejoice in, for a multitude of reasons, and now it would be a nightmare of averted glances and false smiles. All that hard slog organising every last perfect detail had been spoilt.
And how could she look Jacob in those dark brooding eyes of his with honesty and integrity when she congratulated him on becoming attached to her sister? Surely her expression would give her away; performing arts had never been her forte.
Why did this have to happen, especially today, especially when she had only just learned of the demise of her beloved aunt? She had not even been able to start grieving for her, so anxious were they to protect Freya from any distress on her special day – the best day of her life! Freya had certainly excelled herself this time.
Enough was enough!
She made a decision, and if she failed to act upon it immediately she feared the injection of courage may seep from her bones and drain out from her tingling fingertips.
She shot up from the bed, grabbed her Burberry holdall and began stuffing in her clothes and toiletries. An avalanche of emotions crashed through her gut, but she refused to allow them to douse her determination. For once, just this once, Rosie Hamilton was going to do something for herself. Something she truly wanted, no, needed, to do to preserve not only her sanity, but her self-worth. How she could have contemplated otherwise horrified her.
She shoved the internal self-analysis into a dark crevice of her mind to be explored on a more auspicious occasion, zipped up her bag and sprinted down to the foyer. Thankfully the car park was at the rear of the hotel away from the white muslin and rose-bedecked gardens.
Just as she thought she had managed to make a clean getaway, a voice as rich as melted caramel called her name.
‘Rosie? Is that you?’
She tossed her holdall behind one of the foyer’s over-stuffed leather armchairs and turned to face Jacob, resplendent in his wedding tuxedo, carrying off the required pink cravat with aplomb. A faint hint of his wood-spice aftershave floated on the air. Rosie took in his rugged, handsome features, the way his mahogany eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran his fingers through his thick quiff of hair, the colour of liquid coal, a slight tremor belying his nerves. His broken nose only added to his attraction in Rosie’s opinion.
‘Oh, hi Jacob.’
‘Are you looking for Freya? I don’t think you’ll find my gorgeous bride-to-be in the car park!’ He smiled and his face lit with the joy of a man about to be made the luckiest person alive. ‘I wanted to assure you, Rosie, that I will do everything in my power to bring all the happiness in the state of New York to the gorgeous girl whom I will be fortunate enough to call my wife. Nothing will be too much trouble for my princess.’
Rosie’s stomach churned. Freya did not deserve such a decent man. But, despite the pain her sister had caused, despite the gut-wrenching agony her date had bestowed upon her, there was no doubt whatsoever what her response to Jacob would be.
‘I’ve just come from her room. She’s putting the final touches to her makeup and she’ll be down in five minutes. She doesn’t want you to see her before she makes her big entrance, so why don’t you wait for her in the garden. You could send Dad up, though? So he can escort her?’
‘Sure, Rosie. Erm, are you okay?’ Jacob rested his elegant fingers on her forearm and for the first time Rosie had to battle to prevent her tears from escaping their water-tight cage. ‘I know how hard you’ve worked to pull this wedding off. It’s a spectacular achievement, especially with your job being so full-on. Hey, if you are ever stuck for employment, there’s definitely a place for a women with your talents at my law firm.’
Rosie managed a watery smile and was relieved when Jacob turned and, as instructed, made his way back to the end of the red-carpeted aisle to await the imminent arrival of his bride.
As she made her way to her rental car, the heel of her stiletto imbedded in the gravel and she stumbled to the ground, for once grateful for the padding of her dress. She removed her shoes and tossed them into the back seat with her overnight bag. Her eyes caught on a waiter sneaking an illicit cigarette behind the lollipop bay tree on the stone front steps. Was he jeering at her naivety for believing she and Giles had an exclusive relationship? Was he laughing at her stupidity for falling for his smouldering charisma in the first place? He was her boss after all. All the agony columns warned against having a dalliance with your boss – it inevitably ended in tears, yours mainly. What had she been thinking?
She slammed the door of the little red roadster and revved the engine. She flung the wayward waiter her harshest glare, stepped on the accelerator and sped down the immaculate, tree-lined driveway of the Stonington Meadows Country Park Hotel, scattering the rose-coloured gravel in her wake like confetti.
She had chosen the ‘flight’ option. In more ways than one.
Chapter Five (#ulink_6ca874f6-2fda-5d97-9aaa-7301419f3a79)
Rosie drove as if her life depended on it. Living in New York meant she did not own her own car, but each time she rented one for the weekend to take a trip out to the beach or to visit her father, she relished the feel of the wind in her hair and the warm sunshine caressing her face through the windscreen. Today, however, she noticed none of these favourite things as she slung the steering wheel around the sharp bends in the road, the scene of Giles and Freya ensconced in a clinch amongst the starched and folded bed sheets and pillowcases replaying on a loop through her mind as though a broken film reel. But this was more in the horror movie genre than romantic comedy.
At last the tears had arrived, along with the rain, which hammered onto her windscreen and ran in rivulets down the driver’s side window like streamers flapping in the breeze. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind her inner safety guru warned her to slow down, that her emotional state and the driving conditions combined were a recipe for ending the day in a collision, or the hospital. So what? the devil on her shoulder argued.
But she knew she couldn’t visit a further tragedy on her father. She slowed her speed, pulled off the road at a break in the trees, and slumped – like a puppet clipped of its strings – over the steering wheel where she succumbed to huge, racking sobs and the darkness that enveloped her world. As though she’d pressed the replay button, the conversation she’d had with her Aunt Bernice’s English solicitor as she was about to join the Friday night exodus from Manhattan for the journey to Stonington Beach, spun through her mind.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Hamilton. Please accept my firm’s sincere condolences.’ There had been no stopping the lawyer’s relentless, careless words as they sliced down the telephone lines lacerating her heart. ‘The funeral is scheduled for next Wednesday, April twenty-fifth. Perhaps we could meet to read the will and discuss the legal and financial formalities pertaining to your aunt’s estate thereafter?’
Who used words like ‘thereafter’ nowadays? she’d thought as the image of an elderly gentleman, stooped over his desk, peering through his pince-nez floated through her mind. But he was still talking to her in that quaint formal language.
‘I can reassure you, Miss Hamilton, that Miss Marshall passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was discovered by her friend, Susan Moorfield.’
‘Thank you for letting me know. However, I’m unsure whether I or my father will be able to attend the funeral. Perhaps instead we could schedule a video conference for the reading of the will on Thursday, April twenty-sixth. Would that be convenient? Shall we say ten a.m., that would be three p.m. in the UK?’
‘Of course, Miss Hamilton, as you wish. Until then. Goodbye.’
The rain continued its onslaught, hammering down on the roof of the little red car like glass needles. Despite her aunt’s advanced age, the news had still come as a complete shock and a repeat of the spasm of pain the solicitor’s words had delivered ricocheted around her body. Lifting the tangle of golden curls from her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut to force back the rising tears and gain some control of her swirling emotions.
She realised she had been hugging the edge of sanity these last few weeks leading up to Freya’s wedding of the decade. Every tiny detail demanded perfection and Freya assumed she had nothing else better to do than deliver it. After all, it was what she had been doing since their mother had passed away. Never mind that Rosie already slaved eighteen-hour days at the corporate coalface, frequently pulling all-nighters when business demanded, or when a deal relied on the London or Tokyo Stock Exchange time zones. What Freya wanted, Freya got.
Her immediate reaction had been to call Freya, but she hadn’t. There was never a good time to hear of a family member’s death, and she couldn’t face breaking the news to her sister the night before her wedding. So it was her father she’d called. She’d prayed he would take over the responsibility of deciding when and how to break the sad news to his younger daughter, who had probably been collecting her wedding gown before making the trip out to Connecticut. She’d pictured her sister clad in ivory silk, raised high on the pedestal she’d occupied most of her life, this one at the dress designer’s studio.
‘Hello, darling. Is everything okay?’ Her father’s voice, always so calm and comforting to her ears, had boomed down the phone line. She’d braced herself before delivering the news of his sister-in-law’s passing.
‘So we’re agreed? We won’t mention any of this distressing news to Freya? I don’t think it’s wise to burden her with such sorrow the night before her wedding. There’s no telling how she will react.’
Rosie had quashed her immediate response that the news would scarcely indent her sister’s golden-hued, elephant-hide skin. Freya was unlikely to be too upset at the news of their Aunt Bernice’s death as she had met their mother’s elder sister only once since their mother’s funeral; Freya had expected Bernice to fall under her charms with a flick of her long platinum curls and a flash of her baby-blue eyes and sweet smile. But Bernice could not be won over so cheaply and she had chosen to favour the older, more serious of her sister’s children, much to Freya’s disgust. Bernice had been the only person Rosie knew who saw through Freya’s masquerade of innocence personified and who refused to indulge her every whim.
‘Okay, Dad. We’ll tell her after the wedding,’ Rosie had sighed.
Why hadn’t she been protected from the painful news of losing her aunt – the only person who had been there for her when her relationship with Carlos had ended in tears, lots of them, last summer? She had thought he was her soul mate until he’d found love, affection and the time commitment he wanted in the arms of a sweet Italian girl introduced to him by his mother, who was keen to spend some time with her grandchildren before it was too late. The experience had sworn her off relationships until Giles.
As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gulped in a lungful of calming breath, those heart-singeing words of the English lawyer looped around Rosie’s mind like a scratched record. To add to the turmoil of the day, a list of unanswered questions formed. Had Bernice died peacefully in her chair next to her ancient Aga? Had she had time to put her affairs in order? Say a final farewell to her friends? Despite not having married or had children, her aunt’s life had been peopled by a myriad of friends, neighbours and acquaintances. At least she had had the forethought to make a will.
It had stopped raining. The silence drew Rosie’s concentration back to the painful present. And she hadn’t thought it could get worse than the loss of her beloved aunt. What a fool she’d been.
Chapter Six (#ulink_2f44e902-7ffa-5745-94aa-daf3c9b15d58)
As she crawled along in traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge, the April evening sunshine glanced through the forest of vertiginous buildings and towering cranes of the Lower Manhattan skyline to her left, each yearning for pole position on the crowded horizon. But the iconic landmarks didn’t register on her radar as pain engulfed the crevices of her mind and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. As if Freya didn’t have everything already, she had to go one step further and take the only thing Rosie had that she didn’t.
Beneath the bridge, ferries and other leisure craft laden with weekenders inched along the East River, trailing cappuccino-like froth in their wake until they melted into the distance. Joggers darted by, plugged into their own world, ignorant of Rosie’s crumbling around her. Mothers and nannies with shining silver prams paraded proudly in the late afternoon sunshine, their precious cargo delivering another painful jolt to her heart.
She cleared the bridge. To her right, the network of shaded narrow streets teemed with workers and tourists alike; their gutters strewn not with leaves but with the detritus of human consumption – fast food cartons, aluminium drinks cans and that day’s printed news. Street signs swung in the mounting breeze, their rhythmic squeaks swallowed on the wind. Flags fluttered against a crystal sharp, turquoise canvas and the waft of ground coffee beans and freshly-baked bagels caused Rosie’s empty stomach to growl.
She steered a course for her apartment on the Upper West Side, dodging the throng of street artists, souvenir hawkers and food cart vendors spilling onto the road. As she screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with a speeding yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos. But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.
