Page 3 of A Late-Blooming Rose
The comment made Rose realize with a chill that, yes, indeed, she’d lost hope for her brother’s recovery. All she had left was duty…and love.
And when Marty is gone?
Not wanting to think of the loneliness to come, she shrugged off the insidious question. For truthfully in some ways she’d been lonely for twenty-two years, ever since…. An image arose in her mind of an auburn-haired, hazel-eyed bibliophile. From long practice, she forcefully banished the reminder of Andre Bellaire and turned her thoughts back to her brother.
I’ll have time enough to learn the answer of my life without Marty.
CHAPTER TWO
Sweetwater Springs,
Montana
Andre Bellaire puttered around the glass conservatory attached to the back of his new house—mansion, really—dead-heading the roses. A phonograph played a disc recording, and the muted strains of Handel filled the air. He smiled at the sunny yellow center of the bright pink Apothecary’s rose and bent to inhale the fragrance, closing his eyes to better savor the sweet scent.
Opening his eyes and straightening, Andre looked around the room, a large half-circle filled with plants—mostly roses. Pots held other flowers, some hothouse blooms and others native to the area. Pipes running underneath the tiled floor kept the room warm in the colder months—and Montana had plenty of those.
His daughter Delia, a native of New Orleans, struggled with the long winters. But she’d planted her roots deeply into the soil of this land out of love for her new husband, as well as Joshua’s ten-year-old son, Micah.
As for Andre, after twenty years in New York, he’d thought he was used to cold temperatures. But the East Coast winters weren’t Montana winters. At least he didn’t have to cope with the dingy gray sky of a New York winter. Here, on a clear, cold day, the stark sky arched overhead, blue and beautiful. Those last few years in New York, he’d struggled with low spirits during the cold months.
Ah, well, there is still time before winter hits. Best enjoy the August sunshine while the season lasts.
Looking through the glass wall of the conservatory, Andre enjoyed the extensive view of his garden, flowing into the acreage he’d donated to the town of Sweetwater Springs for use as a park. He picked up opera glasses resting on a round wicker table and raised them to his eyes. Through the lenses, he could see several men from the work crew digging a massive hole near the bandstand constructed for the Harvest Festival.
Close by, a tree lay on its side, the roots bagged in burlap.
Elton Reid, the horticultural designer imported from New York, supervised the planting, his hands moving to direct the men or hold the trunk.
With satisfaction, Andre set down the opera glasses and turned back to his work, snipping off the remains of a Queen Maud peach rose and dropping the withered blossom into a wicker basket near his feet.
He moved to the next bush, the Empress Red, imported from New York at great expense, and frowned. The gardener assured him the flowers were velvety red. Yet, in the year and a half he and his daughter’s family had lived in their new home, the rosebush failed to bloom. Not for the first time, Andre glowered at the recalcitrant bush, wondering what he should do.
He heard rapid approaching footsteps and turned.
Micah, still in his school clothes, burst through the door, waving an envelope. He trotted over to Andre and rocked back on his heels. “I looked in your bedroom,Grand-père, but you weren’t there. After school, I picked up the mail from the train station. A letter’s come from your friend, Marty. I recognize the handwriting.”
“Give that to me, you rascal.” Andre swiped the letter from his grandson and tapped him on the forehead with the envelope, his fond smile softening the comment.
Micah frowned pointedly at the scissors in Andre’s hand. “Maman’sgoing to be angry. You’re supposed to beresting.”
Who’s the adult here, and who’s the child?“Working with my roses is very restful.”
Micah gave him a stern look that reminded Andre of the boy’s other grandfather—a minister with an Old-Testament appearance, intelligent blue eyes, which he’d passed on to his son and grandson, and a heart of loving kindness. “I don’t think that’s whatMamanhad in mind.”
Andre suppressed a smile. “Perhaps,mon-fils,we can keep this a secret between us, eh?” He held up a hand. “Not alie, you understand. Just don’t offer the information to my daughter.”
“Hah, as if I would. UnlessMamanasks, of course,” Micah said hastily, picking up the opera glasses, holding them to his eyes, adjusting the focus, and looking outside. “The work’s coming right along,” he intoned, mimicking his father’s voice before pulling away the opera glasses and setting them on the table.
Andre watched with amusement. Ever since he’d met the boy, who’d snuck into the sickroom after a heart attack landed him and Delia in Sweetwater Springs, he and the child had become conspirators. “Now, away with you, scamp. Let me read Marty’s letter in peace.”
His grandson flashed an impish grin, stiffened and clicked his heels together, and snapped a salute. “Aye, aye, sir!” Lowering his arm, Micah left as quickly as he’d entered.
After the glass door closed, Andre shook his head and allowed his grin to break out.Micah provides me with endless entertainment.Then he glanced down at the envelope and saw the wavering letters of Marty’s usually impeccable script. His smile fell away.
With a feeling of foreboding, Andre sank into the nearest wicker peacock chair. As if to prepare himself, he picked up a glass of water from the table and sipped, wishing the hour wasn’t too early for wine. Fortified, he opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper with Marty’s shaky handwriting on both sides, and began to read.
Dear Andre,
