The Soul of the Rose Read Free Page B

moments longer. “I still can’t see him suddenly dropping the subject. As I said before, he is so particular.”
    Celia looked at him apprehensively. “I’m very sorry I ripped the book. I should have left it alone.”
    “Yes! I’m glad you realize that.” He pressed his lips together. “I’m trying to think what should be done.”
    After some moments, he said, “If Mr. Lyons did say to forget it, I think that is what we must do, whatever his reasons. He is a man of decision, and we need to comply with his stated wish.” Mr. Chestley shook his head. “Knowing how much his books mean to him, this shows him to be more of a gentleman than I thought—considering the rumors that have circulated about him.”
    Celia looked a question at Mrs. Chestley.
    “You see, Celia, since his wife’s death, he’s become the town hermit and rather unapproachable.” Mrs. Chestley paused, her forefinger drawing a circle on the table cloth, as if she was trying to decide whether to say more.
    “Mary—”
    Celia glanced at Mr. Chestley and saw his warning look to his wife. Would anyone say anything, explain a little more? She ventured, “A Miss Waul was in the bookstore. She warned me away from him.”
    “She would.” Mrs. Chestley took her napkin from her lap and very decidedly folded it and placed it next to her plate. “No wonder he goes out and about—at night.”
    Celia wasn’t sure where Mrs. Chestley was going with her comment. Mr. Lyons did look a veritable curmudgeon with that bush of hair and scraggly beard. But he had overlooked her accident, forgiven it so quickly. The thought struck her forcibly.
    “What we could say,” Mrs. Chestley began, “is that Mr. Lyons’s wife died in unhappy circumstances. Quite young, and Mr. Lyons has never been the same.”
    He has a broken heart then, Celia thought. After some moments, she asked, “Was his wife in ill health?”
    “Some might say that,” Mrs. Chestley said. “Of course, no one is sure, although the mother-in-law intimated her daughter had suffered tremendously. And the rumors—one didn’t know whether to believe them or not.”
    “Well, as noted earlier,” Mr. Chestley said, “I have chosen not to believe them.”
    “That is the Christian thing to do,” his wife said. “Still, where there’s smoke, one wonders if there’s fire, as the saying goes.”
    “It’s none of our business, my dear, and ’tis now in the past. Marguerite died—has it been two years?”
    “Two at the turn of the year. I remember leaving the Christmas wreath on the door longer than usual. To give added cheer. The cold winter seemed especially chill after news of her death.”
    For some moments, the three of them sat quietly.
    “I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Chestley leaned forward, her hand grasping Celia’s arm. “I wanted this to be a celebratory meal and instead we’ve turned it into—well—our dessert ought to change all that.” She rose. “Stay seated, Celia. You are the guest of honor tonight. From here on, we’ll forget Mr. Lyons, the ripped page, and anything else connected with him.”
    Returning to the table, Mrs. Chestley held aloft a white cake. A large candle glowed in its center, and she started singing, “We’re glad you are here,” over and over to a tune of her own making. Her husband joined in as best he could. She set the cake on the tablecloth with a flourish. “I chose a white one with cream frosting to symbolize your youth and freshness. And, of course, the candle represents your light in our lives. Now, to cut it.” She handed the first piece to Celia.
    Celia looked up at Mrs. Chestley, grateful she was turning the meal into the celebration all of them had looked forward to. She began to feel more lighthearted.
    Celia closed her eyes, savoring her first bite of the cake. It was thoroughly moist, the creamy frosting the perfect complement. “If the saying is true the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, this would be just the