Page 70 of A Late-Blooming Rose
With a wave of his arm, Joshua Norton gestured the congregation to their feet. “Our next hymn will be ‘Joy to the World.’”
Oh, how ironic!
With Elizabeth Sanders leading the way on the piano, the congregation began.
“Joy to the world, the Lord has come.
Let Earth receive her king.”
Although Rose mouthed the stanzas, the lump in her throat made singing impossible. When they came to verse three, the words hit particularly hard. “Nor thorns infest the ground.”
I’ve allowed thorns to infest my heart.The realization came to her a gift from heaven. In that moment, Rose knew what she needed to do next.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Andre must have drifted to sleep, for knocking on the door jolted him awake. No doubt his daughter returning from the church service to check up on him. “I’m fine, Delia,” he called. “Go on to the party.”
“It’s not Delia.”
Rose’s voice.For a moment, his spirits lifted. Then he remembered Dale Marsden, and his heart plummeted like a rock into a pond. He told himself the feeling was unwarranted. But the truth couldn’t be evaded.I’m jealous.
Although wishing to sink back into sleep, Andre made himself sit up, running a hand through his hair and pushing the afghan off his legs. He stood and walked toward the door, his body heavy, as though he moved through water. He hesitated but couldn’t think of any way to avoid her. So, he sighed and opened the door.
Rose stood framed in the doorway. In one hand, she held two mugs by their handles. She’d removed her outerwear, and her figure showed to elegant perfection in a green silk evening gown, curving over her body, making her waist tiny, and her breasts and hips, well, lush.
His desire stirred, and Andre firmly tried to repress any impossible urges. He took a deep breath and smelled hot chocolate and peppermint. But he was too grouchy for the scent to tempt him. “What are you doing here?”
“Delia was concerned about you.” She transferred one mug to the other hand and extended it out.
Ignoring the offer, Andre turned back to the Chesterfield. “I don’t need you women fussing around me.” He didn’t moderate his irritable tone.Might as well drive her away.But when he glanced back, her open expression was unchanged. She didn’t seem disturbed by his grumbling.
Instead, Rose followed him into the study. “Delia’s right. You aren’t yourself.” She handed him a mug. “Drink.”
“As if you know me so well.” Andre could almost taste the bitterness of his words. He sipped the chocolate, heavy with peppermint from a piece of candy cane stirred into the mixture, and realized this drink belied the resentful words he’d thrown at her. He and Rose hadn’t drunk hot chocolate together since she’d come to live in Sweetwater Springs.She remembers this detail from our past.He looked into her eyes.
“I do believe I know you. Well….” Rose hesitated.
His painful love for her made a tight ache in his chest. Memories shimmered between them, soft and tender and enticing. He steeled himself against their lure.
With a thoughtful expression, she sipped her chocolate. “I should remind myself that I once believed I knew you very well, indeed. Well enough to believe you loved me.” She shrugged and gave him a small, rueful smile, that didn’t belie the pain in her eyes. “What happened to us, Andre? You must tell me.”
Andre couldn’t bear to see her hurting. Setting his mug on the desk, he took hers and placed it beside his. He seized her arms, and then loosened his grip but didn’t let her go. “Ididlove you, Rose. I never stopped.Never.I love you still.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Then why…?”
He let out a long, shaky breath. “I suppose you’re no longer a young, innocent girl to be sheltered.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Sheltered from what?”
Andre slid his palms down Rose’s arms to take her hands, pulling her around the afghan on the floor to the chesterfield. “Sit. We’ll talk.” He released her hands.
Her face pale, she perched on the edge of the sofa, clasping her fingers together.
He lowered himself next to her. “Do you remember me being sick for a few weeks? I didn’t see you, even though you dropped by with soup or books or cheerful notes. Then when I recovered, I abruptly left for Europe?”
She nodded, her gaze not leaving his face. “Left without a word to me.”
“I was ill with the mumps, Rose. The doctor told me I was sterile.” His heart hurt at the memory, and he pressed a hand to his chest. “What a blow! I’d already imagined our children. I’d hoped for at least six spoiled hooligans.” He covered her hands with his.
