Page 4 of A Late-Blooming Rose
The time has come to straightforwardly inform you that I am dying. My doctor has told me that I won’t see the New Year. I suppose the news will come as a shock, imagining me as I was several years ago when last you saw me hale and hearty—or as least as hearty as a reclusive scholar could ever be. But I’ve suffered a wasting sickness this past year, news that I’ve kept from you. Now I’m but withered, yellowing skin over bones. I think my doctor is generous in allotting me several months of life. I suspect my time will come in a matter of weeks, if not days.
This letter might appear disjointed. I’m writing in pieces when I have the strength to wield the pen and my thoughts are clear.
Don’t suppose me angry or sorrowing, old friend. I’ve had a good life and now am longing to join my dearest Eleanor in the Elysian Fields. Life holds little meaning when I can no longer read, nor spend time with my family. I rarely see John. That second wife of his clutches my son tightly to her bosom and always has an excuse for him not leaving her side, no matter the needs of his sickly father. For the same reason, my younger grandchildren are all but strangers. Thank goodness my oldest granddaughter still sometimes sneaks away from her stepmother. Cora’s visits brighten my days. But still, Andre, I’m ready to leave the burdens of life behind.
However, there’s Rose. Never did a man have a more special sister. Rose is talking about giving up her job at the library to nurse me. So far, I’ve forbidden her to do so. But, as I’m sure you recall, underneath her shy exterior, my sister has a stubborn streak. In spite of my brotherly injunction, I suspect she will give her notice any day now, and I’m helpless to gainsay her.
Wetness dimmed Andre’s vision. He remembered Rose, as he had so many times over the years, with an ache of regret. He had to stop and pull out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes before reading on.
As you know, my fortune (such as it is) along with the house and most of the contents, came from my dear wife’s family. Due to our marriage settlements, after my death, everything is willed to our son. And the doctor bills and medicine charges have drained my finances. What little I’ve retained will go to Rose, with a small bit left for Cora. Unfortunately, the child (although Cora’s a young lady now) has never found favor with my son’s second wife, who keeps her poorly clad and firmly under her thumb. So far, the harridan (I cannot bring myself to write her name) has not managed to squelch Cora’s independent streak. I hope the bequest will fund my granddaughter’s escape from her family.
With the exception of a few volumes that I know you’ve coveted, and another batch for Cora, I’m leaving the contents of my library to Rose. If I willed the books to John, thatrapacious daughter-in-law of mine would sell them or perhaps use the volumes as fuel for the fire.
Normally, I would not speak so bluntly about a lady and a close relative. However, I think being on my deathbed entitles me to honesty. For the most part, my library isn’t a valuable collection but rather an extensive one, which I know Rose will appreciate and use for the rest of her life.
I worry about my two beloved girls. Cora is young and pretty. I suspect given half a chance to go into society, my granddaughter will be snapped up by some worthy man who will provide for her. However, the girl is stubbornly set on nursing and perhaps would even be a physician if she could, although my son and his wife are equally against the idea.
Cora has devoured my medical texts and has checked out all the available volumes from the library. For her birthday last year, I gave her Grey’s Anatomy, although she has to keep the volume here for fear of her stepmother discovering the book and throwing it away.
Rose, however, is a different case. As you know, she’s stubbornly remained a spinster. Now that she’s past childbearing age, I don’t expect that situation to ever change. I have no doubt, after my death, this house will be sold, and Rose will be turned into the street. If John and his wife do invite Rose to live with them, the offer will be made so begrudgingly that my sister’s pride will not allow her to accept. I don’t like the thought of her being alone in shabby lodgings, just getting by.
Andre’s heart squeezed. Only after he’d fumbled for the small bottle of digitalis from his vest pocket, shook out a pill, and washed it down with the glass of water near to hand, did he realize the pain might not be physical. He forced himself to continue reading, not easy given his watering eyes and the deterioration of Marty’s handwriting, almost to illegibility.
So, my old friend, I’m asking you to take care of Rose. You were always fond of her, and at one point, I had high hopes that more would develop. I would have loved to call you brother. All those years ago, when you came to me for advice about your change of circumstances, I thought you were making the right decision to relinquish the courtship, and thus I encouraged you to travel to Europe and leave Rose behind. I thought she’d find another man to marry and raise a family. Hindsight shows our mistakes in stark clarity….
But you’ve been my brother in spirit, Andre, and the bond we have will never die, although my body does. Someday, we’ll walk together in the Elysian Fields, old friend.
Marty
Andre held himself very still, as if moving meant he’d shatter into an unmanly burst of tears. Slowly, the squeezing pain in his heart ebbed.
With a long, slow sigh, Andre sat back in his chair, remembering a golden time when he and Marty were young and full of vigor. He’d been fresh-come to New York, which was as foreign from New Orleans as could be. After a few lonely weeks, he’d wandered into Marty’s bookstore for some reading material and made an instant friend in the owner. Not long after, he’d accepted an invitation to the Collier home for supper and met Rose.
My dear, dear Rose.
Thinking of her only brought the twang of familiar regret.
At twenty-one, Marty’s sister had been shy, pretty in an understated way, with wire-rimmed glasses muting the sparkling intelligence in her gray eyes. She was as different from his former mistress, Isabella Fortier, with her exotic beauty and greedy, grasping personality, as a woman could be.
Rose’s bright mind drew him and, over long discussions on books, his bruised trust in women recovered. He began a quiet courtship, sinking into a loving relationship as if coming home where he belonged—withwhomhe belonged.
Andre suspected Rose had also fallen in love with him.Until I broke her heart.
* * *
When they didn’t have company, Andre, Delia, Joshua, and Micah—dineden famille, all clustered at one end of the long table to converse, instead of his daughter sitting far away at the foot. The maid served the food on their green transferware instead of the best china. This evening, they didn’t need the light of the two large silver candelabra and the electric crystal chandelier overhead, because sunlight streamed through the windows overlooking the garden.
The four took their regular places at the long table. His son-in-law, wearing a dark blue suit, sat at the head, Delia to one side and Andre to the other, facing the marble-topped sideboard in front of a cherry blossom mural.
Micah sat next to Delia, and the boy’s wink and grin at Andre told him that his daughter had no knowledge her father hadn’t spent the afternoon napping in his bed.
His mood still somber, Andre had to force a smile in response.
Andre didn’t believe in the adage that children should be seen and not heard, and he’d encouraged Joshua to allow the boy free rein at the table—as long as he minded his manners, that is. Truth be told, his son-in-law wasn’t fond of the stricture, either, and had readily agreed. Their meals certainly involved more laughter with young Micah participating.
The light from the windows glinted on the auburn strands in Delia’s dark hair. She was dressed in a loose-fitting tea dress of pale peach. Her olive skin was a trifle pale from the nausea accompanying the early stages of her pregnancy, but her hazel eyes glowed with the happiness she’d shown ever since her marriage.
After he’d read Marty’s bad news, Andre’s appetite was slight. He only sipped at the soup course—a hearty chicken and vegetable, normally a favorite—and didn’t touch the golden sourdough roll on his bread plate.
