Runaway Wife by Rowan Coleman

face John again after all these years unbearable.
    “No, no. I’m done with him and he’s done with me, and that’s the way I want to keep it,” she said, quietly adamant.
    Frasier nodded, looking regretful.
    “My father loves to fish, he loves it more than he loves breathing, I think sometimes,” he said, as if casting around for something personal to share with her in exchange. “Fly-fishing is his thing, standing up to his waist in waders in the loch, do you know what I mean?” Rose nodded, smiling. “Every few weeks I go home to see my folks. Mum cooks for five thousand, even though there are only three of us, and Dad and I fish. And I bloody hate fishing. I hate the water, the hooks, the mess, the cold, the boredom, I don’t even like fish. But I still go, because Dad loves fishing and it’s the only thing we do together.” Frasier looked a little perplexed. “And I don’t know why I told you that.”
    “I’m glad that you did,” Rose said, smiling, glancing up atthe clock as she always did, habitually checking the minutes she had left until Richard got home.
    “Well, I’d better go.” Frasier stood up, taking it as a hint. “It’s been so nice to meet you.” He took her hand on impulse, holding it for a few moments.
    “You too,” Rose said, pulling her fingers from his with some effort, walking hurriedly to the door, anxious that he shouldn’t see the bright spots of color that were flaring on her cheeks.
    “Good, that’s us officially friends, then,” Frasier beamed at her, diffusing the sadness and tension in an instant.
    Rose laughed, not realizing in nearly enough time that he was leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. It was the briefest of kisses, over in one fraction of a chaste second, the warmth of his lips grazing her skin for the shortest of moments, and yet it made her heart pound.
    “Goodbye, dearest Rose,” Frasier said and, seeing Rose’s eyes widen in alarm, added, “The sketch title, I will always think of you as ‘dearest Rose’ now. You may think of me however you choose, or not at all, I wouldn’t blame you.”
    “I think that I’ve been very glad to meet you,” Rose said a little formally. “Goodbye, Frasier.”
    Her heart had been light with happiness as she had closed the door on him, leaning back against it, forcing herself to take a little time to work out what had just happened. Rose believed she might have flirted just a little, although it had been a long time since, as a teen, she used to bat her lashes at the boys on the promenade and flick her hair over her shoulder to make them look at her. No, it hadn’t been flirting, it had been a . . . connection. A moment of contact with another person who wasn’t Richard, or the people he worked with, one of the very small number of people that Rose cameacross in her daily life, and that was what had been so exhilarating. That, and the way he’d held her hand and kissed her on the cheek. Rose had found herself laughing out loud, humming as she danced back to the kitchen, carefully washing and drying the teacups and returning them to the cupboard. Smoothing her hands over her smocked top, she had smiled to herself as she turned round to examine the kitchen, returning the chair Frasier had sat on to its exact position. Which was when it hit her that nothing, actually nothing at all, had changed. So why did it feel like everything had?

Chapter
Four
     
    “W e thought you might like to join us for dinner,” Jenny said as soon as Rose let herself in through the front door.
    “Dinner?” Rose said. “Are you sure?”
    It was a kind offer, but Rose suspected it had more to do with Jenny’s insatiable need to find out everything about John Jacobs’s long-lost daughter than it did with being benevolent.
    “Yes,” Maddie said, appearing behind Jenny, wearing an oversized apron. “We are making dumplings, Mummy. I don’t even know what a dumpling is. It looks quite icky.”
    “Have you ever heard the