Dearest Rose by Rowan Coleman Read Free Book Online Page A

first things that Richard had done after they were married, as if he were determined to erase any trace of Rose’s life before she became his wife, and Rose had been glad of it, glad of the serenity of the blank canvas that her husband had made for her. Wrinkling his nose a little, Frasier redirected his gaze to her once more. ‘Were you crying because all of this overwhelms you?’
    Rose nodded, sensing she didn’t need to explain to Frasier what ‘all of this’ was, that somehow he just knew; he simply understood her. It was the strangest feeling to be standing in her kitchen with a man she’d only just met, and feeling the strongest sense of peace and belonging that she’d had since she was a very small girl. It had to be that her aching heart was clutching at straws, clinging on to any glimmer of kindness, even polite concern, and blowing it out of all proportion. And yet that wasn’t how it felt. To Rose it felt like she had somehow discovered her soul mate standing on the doorstep.
    Feeling strangely elated, Rose filled the kettle, gesturing for Frasier to take a seat at the table. She thought of Richard, sitting in his office at the surgery, nodding sympathetically at old ladies, diagnosing the common cold over and over again. If he could see her now … Rose found herself smiling at her act of quiet rebellion, at the joy she was finding in this unexpected encounter.
    Sitting down, she passed a cup of tea to Frasier.
    ‘I haven’t seen Dad since he left us,’ she repeated. ‘When he went, the house, the studio at the back, was full of his work. One night Mum had a bonfire. It was the first Christmas after he went, I think. She put all of his stuff that she could find in a huge pile in the middle of the lawn, poured a load of lighter fuel over it and burnt it to a crisp. There was nothing left, and if this painting was in that pile then it’s gone now.’
    The look of pain on Frasier’s face as he listened to her story was palpable.
    ‘All that work, up in flames, it’s sacrilege,’ he said quietly.
    ‘I suppose you would see it like that,’ Rose said. It hadn’t occurred to her before how sad it was that all she had left of her father had been so wantonly destroyed, but then she’d never seen him the way that Frasier obviously did, as a talented, intriguing man. A man to be admired and revered. Rose had only loved him and lost him, been left with the destruction he’d dealt in his wake. Suddenly, she wanted very much for Frasier to understand why her mother had done what she had. ‘Life was very difficult for us, alone. For Mum especially. She loved him so much; she gave up a lot to be with him – her life, her family, who never approved of him. When he left, when he threw all that back in her face, he hurt her so badly she never recovered. She’d put a brave face on it – or at least she’d try to every now and then – but in the end she just couldn’t go on without him. I think she started to kill herself the day he left. It took her eight more years to finish the job, but she did it in the end. Burning the paintings was part of that. An expression of her pain.’
    As she finished speaking Rose unconsciously rested the fingers of her right hand over her mouth, unable to remember the last time she’d spoken so many words at all to anyone, even Richard, let alone words of such an intensely personal nature. She felt she’d better stop herself from talking somehow, before she said more than she should to this strange man she felt so compelled by, and frightened him away.
    Frasier was silent for a moment, his long elegant fingers wrapped around the mug of tea. ‘Are you saying your mother died of a broken heart?’ he asked Rose quietly.
    ‘I suppose I am,’ Rose said, from between her fingers, her gaze directed inwardly as she remembered that last day with her mother. Marian had been so happy, as if the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted off her shoulders, and she was finally