Chapter Forty-Seven
It seemed strange to be driving into Langley Close and not be wearing her gardening clothes.
She had chosen a pair of black trousers and a pale grey boat-neck top which she hoped wasn’t too dressy.
This was strictly an exchange of information.
He could say his piece and then she would say hers.
They would have closure. She parked in the same space as she always had and turned off the engine.
Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she sat for a few minutes taking slow deep breaths. She could do this.
Hearing that request on the radio had generated an emotional shockwave, but talking to her friends had helped her rationalise her feelings.
Both Emma and Fran had spent a large part of yesterday evening on the phone giving her last-minute advice on how to avoid getting hurt, and trying to persuade her to change her mind about going, but Simon was right, she needed to hear what Connor had to say and then she could leave with a clear conscience. This had tormented her long enough.
The sun was low in the sky and it bathed the gardens in a warm peachy glow.
As she approached the little gate she saw him immediately.
He was wearing a smart pair of trousers and a white tailored shirt and was listening to something on his phone.
He clearly hadn’t heard her and she watched him for a minute, unobserved.
She knew every inch of that angular face, the feel of his hair beneath her fingers, and every contour of that body.
How could she ever eradicate those memories?
A table was laid with two glasses and a makeshift ice bucket, but there were other changes too; the flowers and plants had grown a lot since she’d last been here, and in addition to her hedgehog family that she’d never got round to collecting, there was a statue of a deer standing at the bottom of the garden, and a peacock made out of coloured metals.
Were they Connor’s or did someone else live here now?
She pushed open the gate and he immediately turned round.
‘Rosie, you came!’
Connor rushed towards her, holding out his arms as if to embrace her and then hesitated, took her hand instead and held it for several seconds. ‘There is so much I need to say.’ He gestured to the chairs. ‘Please, sit.’
Connor pulled the bottle out of the icy water and expertly removed the cork, which flew out with a large pop and sailed over the fence into Bob and Lilian’s garden. He poured champagne into the two glasses and passed one to her. He picked up the other glass and gently tapped it against hers.
‘To Rosie. Thank you for coming back.’
Rosie took a sip of her drink and then placed it on the table.
‘Actually, I think you’ll find it was you that went away.
’ This was like ripping open an old wound, and she looked at the deer for a few seconds in an effort to compose herself.
She had made her decision and she had to hear him out. ‘I believe you went to see Simon.’
‘I went to see lots of people, lots of times. I went to your flat. I sent you texts every day. I know I hurt you, and it hurts me knowing that I caused you so much pain, and I couldn’t talk to you.’
‘But you left anyway,’ replied Rosie, fighting to keep her voice level. She wanted to shout the words at him. She felt like crying as he was forcing her to relive the events she’d tried so hard to forget.
‘I had to, Rosie. I had no money, no career, no choices.’ He gestured at the flat. ‘This isn’t even my property. I wrote you a letter before I left, but you never saw it.’
‘I never received anything from you.’
Connor stood up. ‘I left it in the tool store. I thought you’d come back to your garden.’ He walked over to the little wooden store and unlocked the door.
‘It’s not my garden any more, is it,’ said Rosie bitterly.
Connor reached in and retrieved the envelope he had left in there. He then knelt on the grass in front of Rosie and handed her the envelope.
‘It will always be your garden, Florence,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever you decide.’
Rosie slowly opened the envelope and drew out the sheet of paper inside. The note was dated twenty-fifth of March; the day before he left. She steeled herself to read the contents.
Dear Rosie,
I hope Simon passes on my message in time, and that he tells you how sorry I am, but in case he doesn’t, this is Plan B.
There are not enough hours left for me to write sorry as many times as I need to.
I am sorry for not having the chance to explain why I have to leave so quickly, sorry for hurting you when it was the last thing in the world I wanted to happen, and sorry I couldn’t find you to tell you this in person. Believe me I have tried.
However, there is one thing I am not at all sorry about, and that is meeting you.
You brightened up my life from that first day you walked into the bathroom and picked me up off the floor.
You are a wonderful person and your visits were, and always have been, the best part of my week.
You are so clever and talented, and you care about people.
I don’t think I did until I met you. You made me into a better person and now I feel empty and miserable without you.
Please believe me when I say there are important reasons why I have to go, but it will only be for a few months and then I’ll be back. The garden is yours – I’ve squared things with Patrick financially and the flat will be rented without access to the garden.
I have a photo of you on my phone from Henrietta’s party, and I have printed it out so that I can carry you with me on my travels. I know I will miss you so much. You are my dearest Florence Nightingale and I will love you always.
Yours for ever,
Connor
The breath caught in her throat and somewhere inside her ached. There was something so raw and honest in his words, and as she re-read the last couple of lines again, she didn’t think she had ever read anything so moving. A single tear splashed onto the page and she hurriedly wiped her face.
‘Rosie,’ whispered Connor. ‘Is it okay if we suspend the no sympathy rule again, just for a little while?’
Rosie nodded slowly. She was smiling and crying at the same time and was in control of neither as Connor edged forwards and gently wrapped his arms around her.
Rosie leaned in to him until her head touched his and she could smell that warm spicy scent that was uniquely his.
She trickled her fingers through his hair and stroked the side of his face.
They stayed like that for several minutes, just holding one another. It had always felt right.
Rosie looked up when she saw the lights. She hadn’t noticed them earlier, but now, as the sun set, she saw strings of coloured lights attached to the fences in various patterns, and looped over and through the trellis.
‘Where did the lights come from?’
‘I put them up yesterday after I received your message. Well, when I say I put them up, I did have some assistance from Bob.’
‘And you’ve been looking after the garden too.’
‘Yes. Dorothy has been giving me lessons in weed identification.’ Connor pulled the other chair over next to Rosie so he could sit down.
‘The seedlings had dried up which I felt terrible about, so I went to the garden centre and bought trays of plants, and then Jacob and Sophia helped me plant them.’
Rosie looked around. ‘You don’t need me anymore then.’
‘Dearest darling Rosie, I will always need you.’ He took her hand again and caressed her fingers with his lips. A familiar tingling started inside her. When he reached her fourth finger he paused. ‘So, you’re not actually engaged yet?’
‘I’m not actually engaged, nearly engaged or anything else. What gave you that idea?’
Connor shook his head. ‘It’s not important.’
He kept hold of her hand and stroked her fingers gently. The only sounds were the muted roar of tyres from a passing car, and voices drifting from an open window.
‘Will you stay for dinner?’
Rosie tried to keep the tone light, while she decided whether or not this was a good idea. ‘Well, that depends on which tin you’re opening.’
Connor’s fingers ceased stroking, and he assumed an expression of mock indignation. ‘For your information, Rosie Steadman, I’ve been practising with your cookbook. I’ve decided my speciality dish is on page twenty-seven: pan-fried chicken breasts with a green bean salad.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Okay. Why not.’
‘If I disappear off indoors to do some kitchen work, how can I be sure you won’t do a runner?’
His eyes were fixed on hers. His pained expression was intense, and full of concern.
Rosie touched his face lightly. ‘I promise.’
She watched him bound back indoors and then looked around again at the garden. In the dusk, the solar lights lent the garden a magical aura, and the sculptures seemed to take on a life of their own. She could almost imagine that deer quietly munching on the grass.
While enjoying her champagne, she re-read his letter again.
She wished she’d seen this earlier. Instead, she had run off, hurt and angry at being treated like some sort of temporary distraction; a bit of entertainment until he got his big break.
But maybe she’d got it all wrong. Maybe that wasn’t how he’d felt at all.
If she had waited to let him explain, everything might have been so different.
You are my dearest Florence Nightingale and I will love you always.
That wasn’t the message of someone who wanted to break up a relationship. Had her reaction been based on anger at feeling rejected? He said he’d been to see lots of people lots of times. Surely he wouldn’t have bothered doing that if he’d wanted to end things?
Simon’s advice echoed in her head: …you’ll know what your answer will be……Just trust your gut instinct
Right now, her instinct was telling her Connor’s apology was genuine. It was like staring at an optical illusion you’d seen many times before, and then suddenly seeing a different image appearing. Rosie leapt to her feet and hurried after him.
Without bothering to slip off her shoes, Rosie ran up the stairs and into the living room. Skirting round the boxes that sat half opened in the middle of the room, she headed straight to the kitchen.
‘Connor.’
He turned to her and his face told her everything she needed to know. Rosie put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.’
Connor’s arms slid around her waist and he pulled her closer. ‘You had good reason not to. James abused your trust. But I promise you this – no one will ever hurt my Florence again.’
His mouth found hers. He kissed her slowly at first, then with urgency and Rosie whimpered softly.
The sheer pleasure of feeling his taut body pressed against hers made her head swim and she craved more of it.
However, after a few minutes Connor stopped and gently tucked a curl of hair under her hairband.
‘Dearest Florence, much as I would love to continue, I have spent days practising my cooking skills, and as you’ve pointed out on several occasions in the past, I have something to prove.’
Rosie smiled. ‘I think you’ve proved it already.’
They carried the plates and dishes outside.
Connor insisted Rosie sat down and closed her eyes while he arranged the table.
She sensed him moving behind her and felt a linen napkin being placed carefully on her lap.
Connor’s mouth was next to her ear and he gently nibbled the tip, making her giggle.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ he whispered.
On top on her chicken breast was a folded place card. It read Handmade with Love by Connor. Rosie smiled as she picked it up and tucked it into her pocket.
The dinner was delicious. As they ate, they talked about many things.
Rosie told him all about her new business born out of a desire to do something more creative, and her new friendship with Fran.
Connor talked about his time in Los Angeles, and how it had taken Grandad’s death to make him realise what was important.
He told her about his phone call with Bonnie and how he was waiting to hear about the financial implications of not returning.
As she finished the last mouthful of food, Rosie put her knife and fork down on the plate.
‘I am officially impressed, Cooking Boy. You’ve been promoted from assistant mixer to head chef.’
‘It’s just a shame I don’t have a job yet to go with the title.’
‘Well, you’ve proved me wrong and I can’t wait to see what’s for dessert.’
A slow sexy smile spread across Connor’s face.