Dearest Rose by Rowan Coleman Read Free Book Online

this is what I do. I chase hunches around the country hoping to make that one great find that’s going to change my life.’
    Rose remembered the ease with which she could look into his pale green, almost aqua eyes. There was something about him that seemed inherently decent and kind. Which were strange things to notice first about a man – the kindness, the gentleness that showed in the contours of his face, the way he spoke, softly, hesitantly – when there were so many more obvious things to admire: his flaxen hair, his height and broad, safe-looking shoulders, the fullness of his mouth, the gentle elegance of his hands. But all of those things seemed secondary compared to the qualities that Rose discovered she was unexpectedly drawn to, taking enormous pleasure in feeling so instantly comfortable with another person.
    ‘John Jacobs is my father,’ she told him, secretly thrilled by his expression of amazement and delighted to be so connected to his object of interest. ‘He lived here, with me and my mother, until I was nine. When he left, Mum got the house, and when she died, her life insurance paid off the mortgage and it became mine.’
    ‘Rose,’ Frasier breathed her name in wonder, making the tiny hairs on the back of Rose’s neck bristle. ‘You must be Rose. I never expected to find you here.’
    ‘You know my name?’ Rose felt a little unnerved.
    ‘Know it?’ Frasier smiled at her. ‘I’ve dreamt your name every night for weeks.’
    There was a moment between them, a moment when Rose thought perhaps that he’d come here to find her after all, and, perhaps seeing the hope in her face, Frasier had been anxious to put her right.
    ‘Here,’ Frasier reached into a briefcase he was carrying and drew out a photocopied sheet. ‘It’s a sketch. I bought it on e-Bay for a few hundred pounds. A sketch of a painting by your father.’
    A little reluctantly, Rose reached through the gap in the door and took the piece of paper, looking at the drawing, a tangle of thick, black, chaotic lines that somehow came together as a drawing of a small girl, leaning her chin on her hand as she peered out of the window. The caption for the drawing was
Dearest Rose
.
    ‘It’s drawn with such love,’ Frasier said, taking a step closer so that they could look at it together. ‘I assumed that Rose had to be his daughter, although there is barely any biographical information about him. I only know that he lived here because I found a clipping in the local press about an incident where he was arrested for being drunk and disorderly.’
    ‘That sounds like Dad,’ Rose said, unable to look at the image any more. ‘Look, come in. I’ll tell you what I know about John Jacobs, but honestly, it isn’t very much. I haven’t heard from him since the day he left.’
    Rose pulled open the door and saw the look of surprise, and perhaps disappointment, on Frasier’s face when he saw the swell of her belly.
    ‘You’re pregnant,’ he said quietly. ‘Very, very pregnant. Congratulations.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Rose said, feeling self-conscious of her girth as she led him into the kitchen. ‘I can’t say I really believe it, even now. I’m not sure I will know what to do or how to be a mother. Everyone says it’s instinct, but I don’t know how it can be. I don’t feel any instinct now. Just … oh, so many things. I get overwhelmed sometimes by it all.’
    ‘Is that why you were crying when you opened the door?’ Frasier asked her carefully, as he studied the generic prints with which Richard chose to line the walls of the hallway as they made their way to the kitchen at the back of the house. The house, as it was then, was so different from the one of Rose’s childhood. Then, it had been an explosion of chaos and colour, her father’s work very often painted directly onto the wall, as well as hanging in every possible space. Now each room was painted in varying shades of beige, white and cream. It had been one of the