Page 54 of A Late-Blooming Rose
“How sad to have family and never know them.”
He had years of practice in banishing familial pain. “My mother and brothers are angry with me for leaving New Orleans. For making Delia a central part of my life.” Andre ran a hand through his hair.
“I remember some of what you shared, like setting your slaves free and how that caused a rift. You’d think by now your family would have learned what kind of man you are.” She leaned to lightly touch the back of his hand. “You did the right thing taking Delia away from New Orleans.”
“I’m not forgiven. I doubt I ever will be.”
“Delia is such a wonderful young woman and a good and loving daughter. They’ve no idea what they’ve lost with their prejudicial judgment. Sad, really.”
“So I tell myself.”
“Still hurts, though, doesn’t it?” She reached for another sandwich.
Andre leaned forward, caught her hand, and kissed the back. Although, he wanted to press his lips to the pad of each finger and draw her closer, he returned her hand back to her lap. “Enough of the past,” he said in a light tone.
Rose gave him an impish smile, one that took him back to the first time she’d caught his interest with that very same smile, so at odds with the solemn, shy demeanor she’d displayed with him until then.
Leaning over the arm of the sofa, she appeared to look for something. “Ah, just as I thought.” She reached down.
He tilted to the side but couldn’t see what Rose was doing.
She straightened, a large, slim book in her hand. With a triumphant smile, she extended the volume toward him.
Puzzled, he stared at the brown cover with the inked illustration and title. He set down his cup and saucer and took the book, recognizing the copy ofDante’s Inferno, with the illustrations by M. Gustave Doré. He had the same one in his library.
“Open to the flyleaf,” Rose commanded. “Read what’s written there.”
Obediently, Andre followed her orders, flipped open the front cover, and recognized his own handwriting.
To Marty,
With many thanks for your friendly welcome to New York.
Andre Bellaire
1873
She smiled, but behind the glasses, her gray eyes grew misty. “I have a crate of books here that my brother wanted you to have. Some he knew you coveted, but a few, like this one, are merely sentimental.”
Andre swallowed down the lump in his throat. “In one of his letters, Marty mentioned planning to do so.” He closed the book and thumped the cover with his knuckles. “Good times.” Setting the book on the empty wingchair next to him, he leaned forward. “What else is in that crate?”
Not until the light through the windows began to fail did Andre realize they’d spent the whole day in the parlor—except for a couple of discrete trips to the bathroom, and one raid on the kitchen, the spoils of which they’d brought back and set on the butler’s table to eat.
The day had passed like a dream, in many ways so ordinary, eating, talking, discussing books—but still Andre held every moment dear.This was what life with Rose would have been like.
He couldn’t, shouldn’t, ache with regrets, for a life spent with Rose would have meant never discovering Delia, and, therefore, he wouldn’t have the loved ones and the good life in Sweetwater Springs he now possessed.
Yet, the heartfelt regret for what he’d missed with Rose lingered.
* * *
A few days later, Micah brought Rose two letters—one from Cora and the other addressed in an unfamiliar childish hand.
Eagerly Rose took them and went to her room to tear open Cora’s and read her description of Brian Bly’s predictable reaction to her presence in his home. After some brangling, her niece had managed to forge an uneasy détente with her patient. She shook her head.I wonder how that situation will turn out.
Next, Rose opened the second letter. Eagerly, she pulled out a single piece of flowered stationery, a little grubby, with writing on both sides. A flip to the back and a glance at the signature line told her this one was from young Jimmy Ortner. With a smile, she settled back in her chair and began to read.
Dear Miss Collier,
