Chapter 43 Deli
Deli
If not for her eyes, Deli might have thought she was carved from white marble. The fruit pressed against her body looked like a heart in her hand.
“Mrs. Scott?”
The woman stood straighter and lifted her chin at the sound of her name. “Ah, Maureen. Is something the matter?” Deli turned around expecting to see her aunt, but there was no one. “Maureen? Did you hear me, hen?”
She was young to be this sort of sick. Guilt pickled in Deli’s memory and trickled down her spine as she thought of the things she’d said to Lachlan—about his daddy or mommy issues.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Scott.” Deli stepped closer. “I was distracted by the flowers. They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Scott appraised the roses. “Nothing compared to my garden.”
“Your garden must be magical.” Deli drew nearer. “Are you cold, Mrs. Scott? Should we go and fetch your coat?”
She rubbed an arm with a trembling hand. “I . . .” She turned in a small circle.
Deli knew there was a blanket in the trunk of Aunt Mo’s car. She spotted a cast-iron bench nestled among the wild rosebushes. “Can I sit with you for a moment? It’s so lovely here. I’d appreciate your company.”
Mrs. Scott looked past the garden, searching a horizon only she could see. “I suppose. Only for a moment. My husband will be home at half six.”
“Oh, perfect. Let’s sit.” Deli offered her a hand. A chill seemed to rack Mrs. Scott’s body as the cold metal cut through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Let me just grab the blanket in my—”
Her hand wrapped around Deli’s wrist like a vise. She was not as frail as she looked.
“Maureen,” she whispered urgently, “he doesn’t understand. Lachlan isn’t like William. He has . . . responsibilities. His father expects certain things from him. I know he listens to you. Please. Will you speak to him?”
Deli stuttered, and Mrs. Scott misunderstood her silence for a refusal.
“Please, Maureen—there are consequences for him—for us. His father is losing his patience.”
Deli shouldn’t have heard it—she shouldn’t have been here. These were the rooms where the most painful things in Lachlan’s life lived, and she had seen too much.
Suddenly, Aunt Mo covered Mrs. Scott’s hand with hers, closing them both in warmth.
She gave Deli a meaningful look. “I’m sure Maureen will help with Lachlan however she can, Lucinda. Isn’t that right, Maureen?”
White petals fluttered over their feet. Deli tried to help. “Yes. I’ll speak to Lachlan.”
Lucinda Scott looked between Aunt Mo and Deli, her lips pursed into a small O as she tried to make sense of something clearly wrong. Aunt Mo spread the blanket in her arms. She was so sure in her movements, so steady, like she’d done this a thousand times.
“They’re serving smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches with tea today. Let’s go get them before that dreadful Bernice can stuff them in her handbag again.”
Lucinda stood with urgency. “Last time Bernice wafted fish for a week.”
Aunt Mo whispered, “I’ll see you in the car.”
And Deli was alone in the cyclone of perfect snowy roses.
She thought of Lachlan—so steady and unmoving, stubborn and strong—watching his mother turn into a slip of what she’d been.
And she thought of what Mrs. Scott had said—how his father’s anger had stalked him.
Fed on his boyhood dreams. She wondered where the other son in the photo had gone.
She wondered what happened to the man who’d named The Wallflower’s Crown.
Wallflower. Fidelity in misfortune.
A wife who doesn’t leave. A mother who doesn’t protect. A boy, and the man he becomes, bound to a family he no longer has.
A pomegranate thudded to the ground and cracked open, scattering drops of vibrant crimson—foolishness—among the fallen petals.