Page 71 of Pervade London
Looking around at the well-tended plants and flowers, I tried to catch her meaning.
“Chrysanthemums,” she said flatly. “The flowers one gives on the occasion of the death of a loved one. They are only used for funerals.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then you don’t know my son.”
“You’re saying his work is dangerous? He’s protecting me.”
“I’m protecting him,” she clarified.
“I would never do anything to put him in danger.”
“And yet you are here.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Trust his judgment. He’s let you go.”
“I don’t believe that. Not after what we had.” I didn’t want to say anymore and alarm her. “We were going to get married.” My fingers caressed where my ring had been.
A mask of sadness fell upon her. “You should go.”
“Tell him I love him. Tell him…I’ll wait for him.”
I would wait a thousand lifetimes if that’s what it took. I would forgo children, and a home where a family would thrive, and a place where love would reign. My heart was his and it always would be because Xander was too extraordinary to forget.
My stomach ached and I rubbed it to soothe the knots.
I wanted to spend more time here…see family photos and talk about what kind of son he was and hear funny stories she was bound to have. Like when she went shopping with him in Tesco’s when he was a child, and he’d surprise the other shoppers at the checkout when he guessed how much the stuff in their cart would cost them. I wanted to soak in as much of Xander’s history as I could and keep this connection strong.
His mum peered up at the sky as though assessing the weather and there was something uncanny in it. “There’s a shortcut to the station over the field. It’s dense woodland. The coverage is good.”
Was she hinting we were being watched by satellite?
My body felt chilled despite the warmth of the sun. “You know aboutthem,don’t you?”
She pointed to where she’d been gardening. “I’m planting peonies.”
“Please, Mrs. Rothschild, I’m concerned for Xander.”
“Xander?” She stared at me with sorrow.
That’s not his name.
“What’s your favorite flower?” she asked.
I gave a nod of resignation. “Lilies…or roses? I’m not sure.”
“That’s because you’re too young.” She gave me a warm smile.
“Mrs. Rothschild…”
“Use the gate. I’d hurry if I were you.”
“I’m fine with taking the same way back.”
She looked surprised. “Dear girl, my advice is equal in its standing to that of my son’s.”
