Chapter Fifty-One
I’m back at my desk concentrating on the novel I’m editing.
It’s a hilarious romantic comedy centred around a heroine who teaches single clients how to use the five love languages to find ‘the one’ and their happy ever after.
It’s a sweet story, full of mishaps as the hero is completely unaware there is even a framework around love, let alone five of them.
It’s such a joyful romance that I lose track of time, which doesn’t often happen to me, meticulous scheduler that I am.
There’s something about the novel that’s niggling at me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. It reminds me of something, but what?
As I go, laughing, correcting and enjoying it despite my own heartbreak, it hits me.
Tiago has been following the five love languages and trying them all out.
Including that day – oh God, the flowers – when I said I despise ostentatious displays of wealth.
I circle back to that moment, was he waving the florist away after my comment?
I’d seen him at Porto Blooms and Gifts, hadn’t I?
But I’d been so focused on the salesperson flirting with him, I didn’t connect those dots.
That day, after he sent the florist away, he mentioned he wanted to spend quality time with me, to celebrate the sting.
Then there was the day he kept touching me, a light brush of his fingers across my hand, the way he tucked a tendril of hair back.
Physical touch. Then there were the Post-it notes secreted in the sprayed-edged edition of the book he bought for me.
Words of affirmation. And as for acts of service, all those times he poured me wine first, watched me sip to make sure I liked it.
When he’d offer to buy me cake and to bring it to my table.
And as for gift giving, there was the white shirt with breathable fabric and book buttons.
He’s been wooing me all along, in the most romantic way possible, trying any and all ways to show me he cares.
Is that a man in love? A man with a good heart? It bears some careful thought.
I push it to one side when Mum appears at the door. ‘I won’t interrupt your workday for long, querida, but a letter came for you and I – well, I recognised the return address. Care to share what that’s all about? Although, knowing your big, beautiful heart, I’ve got a fairly good idea.’
I hold the envelope. It hums with hope. I had to be the bigger person. It felt like the right way forward. For me, and for the children. They’ve already been robbed. And I’m the only other person that can help with that.
‘I sent a letter to the woman.’ Mum nods, she knows who I’m talking about, the address says it all.
‘I told her I’d like to write to them. I sent some photos of Dad when he was younger.
I wrote all about what kind of Dad he was, and how he taught me to play chess and maybe when they’re old enough I can teach them too. ’
She nods, her eyes glassy. ‘That’s lovely of you, Viviane. Really, the decent thing to do.’
‘It doesn’t upset you?’
‘No, it doesn’t. The opposite, in fact.’
When Mum goes, I open the letter. The woman is happy to hear from me and thanks me for the photos, and the children have even made cute cards.
Forgiveness feels like the way forward. The children lost their dad, a man who was, until the secret came out, the very best I knew.
And so, how can I not share with them all the gifts he gave me?
He might not be alive to share himself with them but I am.