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Finally the tears had arrived, along with the rain, which hammered onto her windscreen and ran in rivulets down the driver’s side window like streamers flapping in the breeze. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind her inner safety guru warned her to slow down, that her emotional state and the driving conditions combined were a recipe for ending the day in a collision, or the hospital.
So what?the devil on her shoulder argued.
But she knew she couldn’t visit a further tragedy on her father. She slowed her speed, pulled off the road at a break in the trees, and slumped – like a puppet clipped of its strings – over the steering wheel where she succumbed to huge, rackingsobs and the darkness that enveloped her world. As though she’d pressed the replay button, the conversation she’d had with her Aunt Bernice’s English solicitor as she was about to join the Friday night exodus from Manhattan for the journey to Stonington Beach that weekend, spun through her mind.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Hamilton. Please accept my firm’s sincere condolences.’ There had been no stopping the lawyer’s relentless, careless words as they sliced down the telephone lines lacerating her heart. ‘The funeral is scheduled for next Wednesday, April twenty-fifth. Perhaps we could meet to read the will and discuss the legal and financial formalities pertaining to your aunt’s estate thereafter?’
Who used words like“thereafter”nowadays?she’d thought as the image of an elderly gentleman, stooped over his desk, peering through his pince-nez floated through her mind. But he was still talking to her in that quaint formal language.
‘I can reassure you, Miss Hamilton, that Miss Marshall passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was discovered by her friend, Susan Moorfield.’
‘Thank you for letting me know. However, I’m unsure whether I or my father will be able to attend the funeral. Perhaps instead we could schedule a video conference for the reading of the will on Thursday, April twenty-sixth. Would that be convenient? Shall we say ten a.m., that would be three p.m. in the UK?’
‘Of course, Miss Hamilton, as you wish. Until then. Goodbye.’
The rain continued its onslaught, hammering down on the roof of the little red car like glass needles. Despite her aunt’s advanced age, the news had still come as a complete shock and a repeat of the sharp spasm of pain the solicitor’s words had delivered ricocheted around her body. Lifting the tangleof golden curls from her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut to force back the rising tears and regain some control of her swirling emotions.
She realised she had been hugging the edge of sanity these last few weeks leading up to Hannah’s wedding of the decade. Every tiny detail demanded perfection and Hannah assumed she had nothing else better to do than deliver it. After all, it was what she had been doing since their mother had passed away. Never mind that Rosie already worked eighteen-hour days at the corporate coalface, frequently pulling all-nighters when business demanded, or when a deal relied on the London or Tokyo Stock Exchange time zones. What Hannah wanted, Hannah got.
After the solicitor’s call, her immediate reaction had been to call Hannah, but she hadn’t. There was never a good time to hear of a family member’s death, and she couldn’t face breaking the news to her sister the night before her wedding. So it was her father she’d called. She’d prayed he would take over the responsibility of deciding when and how to break the sad news to his younger daughter, who had probably been collecting her wedding gown before making the trip out to Connecticut. She’d pictured her sister clad in ivory silk, raised high on the pedestal she’d occupied most of her life, this one at the dress designer’s studio.
‘Hello, darling. Is everything okay?’ Her father’s voice, always so calm and comforting to her ears, had boomed down the phone line. She’d had to brace herself before delivering the news of his sister-in-law’s passing.
‘So we’re agreed? We won’t mention any of this distressing news to Hannah? I don’t think it’s wise to burden her with such sorrow the night before her wedding. There’s no telling how she will react.’
Rosie had quashed her immediate response that the news would scarcely indent her sister’s golden-hued, elephant-hide skin. Hannah was unlikely to be too upset at the news of their Aunt Bernice’s death as she had met their mother’s elder sister only once since their mother’s funeral; Hannah had expected Bernice to fall under her charms with a flick of her long platinum curls and a flash of her baby-blue eyes and sweet smile. But Bernice could not be won over so cheaply, and she had chosen to favour the older, more serious of her sister’s children, much to Hannah’s disgust. Bernice had been the only person Rosie knew who saw through Hannah’s masquerade of innocence personified and who refused to indulge her every whim.
‘Okay, Dad. We’ll tell her after the wedding,’ Rosie had sighed.
Why hadn’tshebeen protected from the painful news of losing her aunt – the only person who had been there for her when her relationship with Carlos had ended in tears, lots of them, last summer? She had thought he was her soul mate until he’d found love, affection and the time commitment he wanted in the arms of a sweet Italian girl introduced to him by his mother, who was keen to spend some time with her grandchildren before it was too late.
The experience had sworn her off relationships until Edward.
As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gulped in a lungful of calming breath, those heart-singeing words of the English lawyer looped around Rosie’s mind like a scratched record. To add to the turmoil of the day, a list of unanswered questions formed. Had Bernice died peacefully in her chair next to her ancient Aga? Had she had time to put her affairs in order? Say a final farewell to her friends? Despite not having married or had children, her aunt’s life had been peopledby a myriad of friends, neighbours and acquaintances. At least she had had the forethought to make a will.
It had stopped raining, and the silence drew Rosie’s concentration back to the painful present. She expelled a long, ragged sigh. She hadn’t thought it could get any worse than the loss of her beloved aunt.
What a fool she’d been.
Chapter Six
As Rosie crawled along in traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge, the April evening sunshine glanced through the forest of vertiginous buildings and towering cranes of the Lower Manhattan skyline to her left, each yearning for pole position on the crowded horizon. But the iconic landmarks didn’t register on her radar as pain engulfed the crevices of her mind and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks.
Beneath the bridge, ferries and other leisure craft laden with weekenders inched along the East River, trailing cappuccino-like froth in their wake until they melted into the distance. Joggers darted by, plugged into their own world, ignorant of the fact that Rosie’s was crumbling around her. Mothers and nannies with shining silver prams paraded proudly along the pathways, their precious cargo delivering another painful jolt to her heart.
She cleared the bridge. To her right, the network of shaded narrow streets teemed with workers and tourists alike; their gutters strewn not with leaves but with the detritus of human consumption – fast food cartons, aluminium drinks cans, and that day’s printed news. Street signs swung in the mounting breeze, their rhythmic squeaks swallowed on the wind. Flags fluttered against a crystal sharp, turquoise canvas overhead, and the waft of ground coffee beans and freshly baked bagels caused Rosie’s empty stomach to growl.
She steered a course for her apartment on the Upper West Side, dodging the throng of street artists, souvenir hawkers, and food cart vendors that spilled onto the road. As she screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with a speeding yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos.
But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.
As she searched for the illusive Manhattan parking slot, a coil of remorse spread its tentacles through her anguish when she recalled the breach of her promise to pay her aunt a return visit. She had been unable to take time off from her punishing work schedule at Christmas and then she’d had the wedding of the century to arrange. Now she would never see her aunt’s kindly face, so reminiscent of her beloved mother’s, again.
But she could have the next best thing.
She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective. However, the opportunity was so tinged with sadness that she knew it could never be a repeat of her previous, soul-enhancing visit to her Aunt Bernice’s attractive stone cottage in the Cotswolds. Nor would the visit be coupled with her aunt’s astute observations on the machinations of the human psyche and the comfort of the role reversal, absolving Rosie from her caring obsession as substitute parent to Hannah. Their mother’s absence had been felt most keenly today as the first of her daughters took their walk down the aisle.
She had always seen her aunt’s home, Willowbrook Lodge, as a refuge, a place she could run to whenever times were tough and threatened to strangle the life out of her. It was somewhere she could go to hide, to lick her wounds, to be loved in her own rightwith no strings attached. In a way, her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite.
