Runaway Wife (47 page)

Rose and Maddie’s journey through the gallery with John, before the doors had opened and all of these people had streamed in, had been a journey through years of her life, her life that she had not even been aware of, her life as it had been kept alight in John’s imagination, heart, and memory. Or rather, both the life he regretted destroying so wantonly and the one he imagined could have been, if he had been a different man.

As he led Rose from painting to painting, saying very little about each one, she understood why he had been so reluctant to talk to her about the past this morning, why he hadn’t
wanted to waste any more precious moments on it when it was all here for her to see. Every memory he’d clung on to, every regret and mistake, the image of Rose as a child, the same image, over and over again, it was all here, laid out with brutal, affecting honesty.

Tilda was part of the tapestry too, appearing often, sometimes on her own, sometimes with Rose. It had been his depiction of Marian, Rose’s mother, as the beautiful, confident girl he’d first fallen for that touched Rose the most. Marian, whose hair had been light blond, and whom Rose always tried to remember as she was when Rose was very little, always laughing and full of joy. When Rose looked at John’s painting of her mother, she saw not only that precious memory of her mother brought to life, but most touchingly of all Rose saw herself as she was now, the image of her mother then. And perhaps that had been the greatest gift that John could have given her, the sense that by surviving Richard, by coming through this, she had picked up the torch of her mother’s life, which had once burnt so brightly, and was carrying it forward into the unknown, living her new life for both of them.

The very last painting by John featured Maddie too, flying amongst the clouds, her arms outstretched above the mountains that surrounded Storm Cottage. And it was there that they found Maddie’s surprise.

Her own painting, mounted and hung right next to John’s portrait of her. It was an image of John at his easel, his granddaughter sitting at his feet, drawing, and Rose, complete with her short spiky blond hair, sitting on a stool reading a book, waiting for the artists to finish. It was about as close to a depiction of perfect, if untraditional, family life that Rose had ever seen, and it meant more than she could say that it was Maddie who recognized and captured the moment.

After that, Rose had been more than content to let her father go, walking into a world that was waiting to greet him, and to take quiet pleasure from seeing how very much he enjoyed a constant stream of people telling him how wonderful he was. Which was exactly how it should be, Rose decided. He’d lived too much of his life believing the opposite, and though that once had been true, it wasn’t anymore.

“This is all a bit wonderful, isn’t it?” Frasier said, appearing at her side.

“Yes,” Rose said, turning to smile at him. “More wonderful than I could have imagined. Look at him, after all that fuss he made, he loves this!”

“I always thought it was a shame that he insisted on hiding away for so long,” Frasier agreed. “But to be honest, I don’t think he could have done this until he had you back in his life, until you’d been reconciled. Thank God you found him when you did. If you hadn’t, I think we would all have missed this moment.”

“Yes,” Rose said, smiling thoughtfully as she watched her father throw his head back in laughter at something Maddie had said. “I was following love when we came here, after all. I just didn’t know which love it was.”

•  •  •

There had been talk of staying overnight in a hotel after the show, but John had been insistent that he wanted to go home, telling everyone that if he was going to die, he damn well wanted to do it in his own bed.

Not long into the journey Maddie had drifted off to sleep, leaning against John, who soon followed her, his chin drooping to his chest, his eyes closing. Neither Tilda, Frasier, nor Rose spoke a word on the way home, content to sit in silence because there was simply nothing that needed to be said.

“Here,” Frasier said, as he turned off the engine outside Storm Cottage. “I’ll carry Maddie up to bed. Tilda, would you mind turning on the lights for me, turn down the bed for John? I’ll be back in a second, Rose, to help with John.”

Rose stretched her arms above her head as she got out of the car, taking a second to look up at the blanket of stars that shone so brightly here in the countryside, extending right across the sky. Weary, but happy, she went around the car and opened the passenger door.

“Dad,” she whispered, gently tugging at John’s arm. “Dad, we’re home.”

“Are we?” John said, opening his eyes with some difficulty. “Good. I’m glad, I’ve been waiting.”

The evening had obviously taken it out of him. He had to lean heavily on Frasier all the way into the house, and he collapsed gratefully into the bed as soon as he saw it. Rose discreetly left as Tilda helped him wash, undress, and get ready for bed, returning when she came out to pick up her bag.

“Why don’t you stay the night, Tilda?” Rose asked her, putting her hand on her wrist before she could pick up her bag. “Stay with Dad. I know that he’d like it if you were here with him in the morning and from now on. I could help you get someone for the shop, and we can collect what you need from home tomorrow. I want you to be here, we all do.”

Saying nothing, Tilda nodded, her eyes filling with tears. Rose sensed not to say any more, that Tilda needed a moment to collect herself after the emotional day.

At last Tilda sniffed and said, “I’ll make some tea. Milk no sugar, for you.”

Rose went into John’s room, where the light was already turned out and he was almost asleep again.

“Well, it’s official,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed
and taking the hand that he reached out to her. “The whole world loves you and thinks you are a genius.”

“That’s what they say to your face,” John said, but there was pleasure in his voice.

“And that’s what they will always say,” Rose said, adding casually, “Look, I know you won’t mind, but I’ve asked Tilda to stay with us until . . . well, for as long as she wants. That’s OK, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” John said, squeezing her fingers in the dark. “Thank you.”

They were content to sit there for a moment or two, neither speaking until John broke the silence.

“Do you love me, Rose?” he asked her. “I feel like a damn fool for asking, but I think perhaps that it’s all that matters to me now.”

“Yes,” Rose said with certainty, kissing the papery skin on the back of his hand. “I’ve always loved you, Dad. Never stopped, not even when I hated you. And now I know why: it turns out you are
quite
good at painting.”

John smiled. “I want you to know that I always loved you, even in my darkest, most selfish hours. Even when I didn’t know my own name. My love for you never went away. Thank you for coming back, Rose. And thank you for tonight.”

Rose sat with him for a moment longer, the two of them watching the moon through the window as it sailed behind the peak of the mountain.

“Tilda will be back in a minute,” Rose said, getting up. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Marian had hair that always smelt like honey,” John said suddenly, causing Rose to pause by the door. “And a laugh so bright, she could light up the brightest corner. You are like her, Rose. You are her legacy. I look at you and I can see her again. Bright and brave and strong, the girl I first met all
those years ago. You are her now. You will do her memory justice, I know it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Rose said, her voice thick with emotion. “I hope so. See you in the morning.”

“Yes,” John said. “See you in the morning.”

•  •  •

It had been almost three weeks after the exhibition, the morning that Rose woke up and knew, as soon as she opened her eyes to the very first light of dawn, that John was gone.

The house just felt different, emptier and bereft of the life that had inhabited it so fiercely for so long. Uncertain how to feel, because nothing seemed real, she got up and padded downstairs in her bare feet, which were numb to the icy-cold flagstones, to find Tilda sitting perfectly still at the table, staring blindly at its rough surface.

“Tilda,” Rose said, putting a hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

“He’s . . .” Tilda looked up at her, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I know,” Rose said. “How long?”

Tilda shook her head. “I’m not sure, I just woke up and he was gone. I stayed with him, held him until he was . . . cold.”

Rose took a seat next to her father’s wife and held her hand. “This was exactly the way that he wanted it,” she said, filled with a sense of calm and peace. “At home, in bed, with you by his side, and me and Maddie in his life. This is exactly what he would have wanted.”

“Yes,” Tilda agreed, a tear tracking its way down her face. “But it doesn’t change it, does it? It doesn’t change how very awful it is that he’s gone.”

“No,” Rose agreed, feeling the sobs rising in her own throat. “And it doesn’t change that however much time I had with him, it would never have been enough.”

And with their arms around each other, Rose and Tilda sat at the kitchen table and cried until the gray light of the early dawn turned into golden later summer sunshine, and the first day that John Jacobs was no longer in the world rose up to meet a perfect blue sky.

R
ose had discovered that she loved watching the crackling fire of a winter evening, when the cold nights were drawing in, and Maddie, weary after another successful day at school, was tucked up happily in bed.

Her life in Storm Cottage had settled into a comfortable, contented routine over the last few months, one in which she had finally found the time to let her heart and her mind settle and heal, as she gradually made sense out of everything that had happened to bring her to this point.

In the weeks that followed John’s death, Rose came to realize that he had left her an exceptionally wealthy woman, and that, if she wanted, she never had to work or worry about money again. Rose had been both overwhelmed and terrified by the responsibility. With the help of Janette, she’d set up a trust fund for Maddie, doubled the already very comfortable settlement that John had left Tilda, and after a great deal of discussion with Jenny, bought into the B & B—just the business, not the property—ensuring that Jenny and Brian’s family home was safe, and they were also, at long last, free of both debt and worry.

Then together Rose and Jenny set about implementing the plan that Frasier had first come up with on that dreadful morning when he’d found out about her kissing Ted.

It was a brilliant idea, really, as clever as it was simple. With Rose’s investment they set about completely redecorating the entire establishment, to make it modern and fresh, and gutting the annex to turn it into a light, airy studio, after which they began the process of remarketing the B & B as an artists’ and writers’ retreat, its association with John Jacobs doing it no harm at all when it came to attracting trade.

Rose had even managed, after some stiff debate and the promise of hired help, to persuade Jenny to extend the hours when breakfast was served and introduce coffee. Her next plan was to convince Jenny to offer her excellent home cooking in the evening, but she was waiting for the New Year before she suggested that, having learnt from Brian that Jenny took much better to new ideas if she believed them to be her own.

It had been a happy few weeks, seeing the B & B coming back to life again, going for the odd drink in the pub, watching from a distance as Ted’s flirtations with several girls eventually petered out to just one: Tamar from the gallery, who’d begun to come down once a week to catalog and value all of John’s remaining work for the insurers, a gesture that Rose had been glad of, knowing that Frasier would have come himself, if she hadn’t told him how much she needed time alone, not only to get over what had been for her a lifelong love but also to find her feet in this brand-new world, where she was the mistress of her own destiny. Tamar had caught Ted’s eye the first time he saw her, and Rose was fairly certain that something of a romance was blossoming between the two.

•  •  •

On the rare occasions Rose did see Frasier, that special closeness between them, that easy joy they had once taken in each other’s company had slowly returned. And perhaps, Rose even allowed herself to think from time to time, just for a
fraction of a second, just maybe . . . there might be a second chance for them both.

She’d been thinking exactly that when a sound by the door interrupted her thoughts. Turning round, she noticed that a long white envelope had been slid underneath the door. Intrigued and a little alarmed, Rose went to pick it up, anxiety flaring in her chest as she recognized Frasier’s handwriting.

Dearest Rose,

I will never forget the first time I saw you, you took my breath away. But it wasn’t your beauty that I fell instantly in love with, it was your courage, the fire in your eyes, even when you sat so still and talked so quietly. I told myself I was crazy for falling for a woman who was not only married, but pregnant, a woman I’d only just met, and I tried to forget about you. But I couldn’t stop myself from writing you that note, from trying to say so much without saying anything at all.

The second I met you again, all of those feelings came back, not that they had ever really gone away—you have always been the woman of my dreams. I loved your father very much, but I confess I hoped that by knowing him, I would get the chance to see you again one day. As our friendship grew, I discovered more and more reasons to fall in love with you, but I never believed that you might feel the same way as me. When you told me about the note, and the real reason you came to Millthwaite, I was so happy, everything was perfect. I’m not proud of what happened after that, of the way I behaved, and how I slighted you, you who deserve it least of all. I believe I was overwhelmed and I realize how it must have looked, but I wasn’t running away from you. I was running away from the terrifying prospect of having a
dream come true and of somehow failing you. If only I had an ounce of your courage.