Ted, watching her from his truck, and wondered about going back to the B & B with nothing changed, no grand reunion, no lost love restored. Something had to happen, she knew that. Richard was coming, either to claw her back into her old life, or . . . or God only knew what else. Whatever happened, it had to be something; she couldn’t just sit here and wait for her husband to find her.
Still there was no reply and, deciding she had no option,Rose prepared to leave the meager shelter of the porch. Before she could take a step the door opened at last, and an elongated rectangle of electric light snapped on, slicing through the rain.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” an angry male voice said behind her. Rose steadied herself and turned round, lifting her chin to look the old man in the eye. He was barely recognizable as her father, and yet she knew instantly that it was him. He’d aged, of course. He was smaller, almost withered; the huge life force of a man she always envisioned when she thought of him looked shrunken and diminished. The strong, tall, dark-haired man she remembered so well was thin, his face gaunt and etched with deep lines. His hair was gray, but he still wore it long, over his collar. Rose observed him for a moment longer, unable to tear her eyes away from the face that she used to adore. And then she realized he was scrutinizing her in exactly the same way. Dropping her chin abruptly, she hid her face from him, not wanting him to see the same passing of time in her that she did in him, aware of what a foolish impulse that was. She had been just a little girl that last time he had seen her.
“This is private property,” he said, his anger suddenly muffled and muted by shock.
“Don’t you recognize me?” she asked him, searching his face for any trace of the man who had kissed her in the middle of the forehead and then walked out of the door. “It’s me, it’s Rose, your daughter.”
John Jacobs opened the door a fraction of a centimeter more and stared at her in the poor light, as the rain began to increase in intensity, dribbling through the gaps in the porch roof. His brow furrowed as he studied her face, and for a moment Rose wondered if he remembered that he had once had a daughter at all.
“Of course I recognize you,” he said after a moment, his voice flat, even.
“Hello, John,” Rose said to the father she hadn’t seen since she was nine years old. “I’ve found you.”
It was such an odd thing to say, like they had just completed a long, long game of hide-and-seek, and yet it was the only thing Rose could think of to say. His jaw clenched tightly as he observed her from behind the safety of the door, and Rose knew he was debating whether or not to let her in.
And then, without another word, John Jacobs reached a decision and stood aside to let Rose pass over the threshold into his house. Glancing back briefly at the truck, Rose took a breath and went in.
At a loss as to how to behave, she looked around the single kitchen-cum–living room, paved with cold-looking flagstones, to find a battered old sofa covered in a dusty-looking throw positioned in front of a cold grate. Without looking at her father, she eased off her sodden coat, pushing the damp hair back from her face.
“Have you got a towel?”
John, who was still standing by the open front door, sighed heavily, pushed the door shut with a begrudging slam, shrugged, and looked around, crossing the ancient stone in two long strides to pick up a tea towel that had certainly seen better days and handing it to Rose. For want of anything better, Rose took the grubby paint-stained article and rubbed it over her hair until the worst of the moisture was absorbed.
“So then,” Rose said, pulling her fingers through her long hair, unaltered in style and color since she’d last seen John, and struggling to know what to say, “I suppose this is a bit of a shock for you. For me too, as it happens.”
John
Still there was no reply and, deciding she had no option,Rose prepared to leave the meager shelter of the porch. Before she could take a step the door opened at last, and an elongated rectangle of electric light snapped on, slicing through the rain.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” an angry male voice said behind her. Rose steadied herself and turned round, lifting her chin to look the old man in the eye. He was barely recognizable as her father, and yet she knew instantly that it was him. He’d aged, of course. He was smaller, almost withered; the huge life force of a man she always envisioned when she thought of him looked shrunken and diminished. The strong, tall, dark-haired man she remembered so well was thin, his face gaunt and etched with deep lines. His hair was gray, but he still wore it long, over his collar. Rose observed him for a moment longer, unable to tear her eyes away from the face that she used to adore. And then she realized he was scrutinizing her in exactly the same way. Dropping her chin abruptly, she hid her face from him, not wanting him to see the same passing of time in her that she did in him, aware of what a foolish impulse that was. She had been just a little girl that last time he had seen her.
“This is private property,” he said, his anger suddenly muffled and muted by shock.
“Don’t you recognize me?” she asked him, searching his face for any trace of the man who had kissed her in the middle of the forehead and then walked out of the door. “It’s me, it’s Rose, your daughter.”
John Jacobs opened the door a fraction of a centimeter more and stared at her in the poor light, as the rain began to increase in intensity, dribbling through the gaps in the porch roof. His brow furrowed as he studied her face, and for a moment Rose wondered if he remembered that he had once had a daughter at all.
“Of course I recognize you,” he said after a moment, his voice flat, even.
“Hello, John,” Rose said to the father she hadn’t seen since she was nine years old. “I’ve found you.”
It was such an odd thing to say, like they had just completed a long, long game of hide-and-seek, and yet it was the only thing Rose could think of to say. His jaw clenched tightly as he observed her from behind the safety of the door, and Rose knew he was debating whether or not to let her in.
And then, without another word, John Jacobs reached a decision and stood aside to let Rose pass over the threshold into his house. Glancing back briefly at the truck, Rose took a breath and went in.
At a loss as to how to behave, she looked around the single kitchen-cum–living room, paved with cold-looking flagstones, to find a battered old sofa covered in a dusty-looking throw positioned in front of a cold grate. Without looking at her father, she eased off her sodden coat, pushing the damp hair back from her face.
“Have you got a towel?”
John, who was still standing by the open front door, sighed heavily, pushed the door shut with a begrudging slam, shrugged, and looked around, crossing the ancient stone in two long strides to pick up a tea towel that had certainly seen better days and handing it to Rose. For want of anything better, Rose took the grubby paint-stained article and rubbed it over her hair until the worst of the moisture was absorbed.
“So then,” Rose said, pulling her fingers through her long hair, unaltered in style and color since she’d last seen John, and struggling to know what to say, “I suppose this is a bit of a shock for you. For me too, as it happens.”
John
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