But this time the voicemail wasn’t from Thomas. Her pulse leapt when she saw it was from Ryan. From the timestamp, he must have left it just before he got on the plane to New York.
‘Momma, can we go now?’
‘Sure.’ She slid her phone back into her pocket. She’d save that particular piece of masochism for later. Her heart was already in pieces, no need to shatter it even more.
The diner was half-empty when they arrived, and they slid into a booth and gave the waitress their order. A hot dog and fries for Poppy, and a coffee and a salad for Juliet. She didn’t bother to order anything else, she’d only push it around the plate anyway. By the time they’d finished, and Juliet had laid down twenty dollars under the check, snow had begun to fall softly outside. Poppy ran out onto the deserted sidewalk, sliding on the wet concrete, and lifted her hand up to catch a flake.
‘Look at this!’ she squeaked with excitement. ‘I caught one, I caught one. Did you know they’re all different? Every single one of ’em. Mrs Mason told us.’ She held her hand out, and her face fell with disappointment. The flake had melted on impact with her warm palm. ‘Where’d it go?’
‘There’s plenty more to catch,’ Juliet pointed out. ‘Look, it’s still falling.’
‘But not that one. That one’s gone forever. I can’t ever get it back.’
Juliet searched her brain to find the right words to comfort her daughter. To explain that though each snowflake was special, they were just fleeting moments, frozen in time, impossible to capture. Things to be admired, not held.
Of course, that made her think of Ryan. He was so much more than a snowflake, and yet he was impossible to hold, too. A snapshot in time she could never recreate.
It made her shattered heart ache.
By the time they made it home, the merest dusting of white had settled on the driveway, crunching along with the gravel as they pulled up in front of the house. Juliet grabbed their bags, hurrying Poppy onto the steps. The air had taken on a distinct chill outside.
They were about to walk inside when she saw it. She leaned down to look closer, frowning as she picked it up from the doormat.
A yellow flower.
‘That’s pretty.’ Poppy reached out to touch the orange flared trumpet. ‘What is it?’
‘A daffodil.’ Juliet held it carefully by the long stem.
‘What’s it mean?’ Poppy was used to her telling the meaning of flowers. Red roses for passion, a white daisy for innocence.
‘It means rebirth and chivalry.’
‘What does that mean?’ Poppy’s teeth chattered as she asked. Realising how cold it was outside, Juliet quickly opened the door and ushered her inside.
She placed the flower gently on the hall table, careful not to bruise the petals. ‘It’s kind of old-fashioned. It’s the code people used to live by in the olden days. When beautiful maidens were wooed by wh
ite knights.’
Oh.
Oh.
She looked at the flower again. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch it.
‘Why was it on our porch?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe somebody left it there.’
‘But why?’ Poppy demanded.
Juliet said nothing, still staring at the daffodil. She was wondering exactly the same thing herself.
29
Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste
– Richard III