appearing to notice her was certainly not one of them.
Everything normal there, she thought, giving a mental shrug and continuing on her way. Passing the church, she saw an unfamiliar car parked outside, and remembered the diocesan surveyor was expected.
Damn, she thought. I meant to wish Dad luck.
As she wheeled her bike up the Vicarage drive, she saw there was something in the porch, leaning against the front door, only to realise as she got closer that it was a large florists’ bouquet—two dozen crimson roses beautifully wrapped and beribboned.
She picked them up carefully, inhaling their delicate exquisite fragrance, then detached the little envelope from the outer layer of silver-starred cellophane, and took out the card.
There were just two words. ‘Peace offering.’
No sender’s name, but she knew exactly who needed to make this kind of atonement and whispered, ‘Patrick.’
This wonderful, extravagant, passionate gesture more than made up for the apologetic phone call that she’d expected but never received.
Smiling, she let herself into the house, and took the flowers through to the kitchen. She’d need at least two if not three vases for them. And wasn’t there something about cutting the stems and bruising them in order to prolong the blooming? Because she wanted to keep them fresh not just for days but weeks.
She took out her mobile and, for once, because she wanted to reassure him that peace had indeed broken out, she called him at work.
He answered immediately. ‘Tavy?’ He sounded surprised and none too pleased. ‘What is it? This isn’t a good time. I have a client waiting.’
‘But you must have known I’d ring,’ she said. ‘To thank you, and say how truly beautiful they are, and how thrilled I am.’
There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t follow you,’ he said. ‘What’s “truly beautiful”? What are you talking about?’
‘Your peace offering,’ she said, her voice lilting. ‘The lovely flowers you just sent me.’
‘Flowers?’ Patrick’s tone was impatient. ‘I never sent any flowers. Why would I? It must be a mistake by the florist—or someone’s playing a joke on you. I suggest you get it sorted. Now I really have to go. I’ll call you later.’
He disconnected, leaving Tavy standing motionless, clutching the phone, and staring at the bouquet lying on the kitchen table, as if each long-stemmed blossom had suddenly turned into a live snake.
‘No,’ she said aloud, her voice clipped and harsh in the silence. ‘It’s not true. They can’t be from—him. I don’t—I won’t believe it.’
Peace offering...
She was trembling, her stomach churning in a mix of incredulity, confusion and disappointment. She brought her fist up to her mouth, biting down hard on the knuckle, trying to distract one pain with another.
She’d believed Patrick had sent the flowers because he’d spoiled the previous evening by getting stupidly and aggressively drunk, and she’d expected him to show a measure of remorse. But his attitude on the phone indicated quite clearly that was the last thing on his mind.
She didn’t want to speculate what Jago Marsh’s motivation might be. She only knew that to receive flowers—and red roses, the symbol of love at that—from someone as cynically amoral as he was, had to be a kind of degradation.
Suggesting to her where they really belonged. She snatched the bouquet from the table and marched out of the house, down the drive to where the bins were awaiting the weekly refuse collection, thrusting the flowers on top of the kitchen waste.
‘Good riddance,’ she muttered as she went back to the kitchen.
Back in the kitchen, she picked fresh herbs from the pots outside the back door to add to the omelettes she was planning for lunch in case the surveyor joined them, then set about assembling the ingredients for supper’s cottage pie. The browned meat was simmering nicely on the stove with diced onion and carrot when her father returned.
‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said, smiling with an obvious effort.
‘I was given the afternoon off.’ Tavy saw with concern the bleakness in his eyes.
‘Because we have a visitor,’ he went on.
So the surveyor was with him, she thought, summoning a welcoming smile. Which froze as Jago Marsh followed him into the kitchen, carrying, she saw with horror, the roses she’d put in the bin only a short while before.
‘And also something of a mystery,’ her father added. ‘We found these beautiful flowers outside, apparently thrown away.’
‘I suggested you might be able to shed some light on the subject.’ Jago put the bouquet back on the kitchen table, his mouth twisting ironically as he studied her flushed face. ‘Can you?’
‘Not really,’ said Tavy, keeping her voice steady with an effort. ‘I—I found them on the doorstep when I got home. They’re obviously a mistake.’
‘If so, they’re an expensive one,’ he commented levelly.
‘So I—disposed of them,’ she added lamely, not looking at him.
‘What a shame,’ said the Vicar. ‘I suppose we should try and trace the recipient, even though the card seems to be missing.’
That, thought Tavy, was because it was currently burning a hole in her pocket.
Aloud, she said, ‘Maybe they just weren’t wanted. And ours was the nearest bin.’
‘Ah,’ said her father. ‘A token of unrequited love, perhaps. How sad. In which case I’ll take them over to the church, where they’ll make a welcome change from Mrs Rigby’s everlasting spray chrysanthemums.’ He lifted the bouquet carefully from the table. ‘Jago came to return the book I lent him, my dear. See if you can persuade him to stay for lunch.’
He strode purposefully out and a few seconds later Tavy heard the front door close behind him.
Leaving her alone. With him. In the world’s most loaded silence.
Which he was the first to break. ‘So,’ he commented sardonically. ‘Not peace but a sword?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’
He looked at the mutinous set of her mouth and smiled. ‘There were odd moments,’ he drawled.
‘In your dreams, Mr Marsh,’ she said, her breath quickening. She began to whisk the eggs in an effort to hide that her hands were trembling. ‘And there is no invitation to lunch,’ she threw at him. ‘In case you were hoping.’
‘I’m not that much of an optimist.’ He looked at the bunch of herbs on the chopping board. ‘Besides, you might be tempted to include hemlock in my share.’ He turned to the door. ‘However, please give your father my regards, and tell him I look forward to our next meeting.’
And there would be one, Tavy thought, as she added the chopped herbs and seasoning to the eggs. It was almost inevitable. She would simply arrange not to be around when it happened.
‘Has Jago gone?’ her father asked on his return, sounding disappointed.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Tavy said with spurious regret. ‘He has places to go, people to see. You know how it is.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, how was the meeting?’
‘Not good,’ Mr Denison said heavily. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid.’
Tavy abandoned the eggs and made two mugs of strong tea instead. She sat beside her father at the table and took his hand. ‘I suppose it’s the roof.’
‘That’s certainly part of it. Apparently, it’s gone beyond repair and would need totally replacing.’