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was best forher and their baby, and that was something she should be grateful for.
    That morning had been the end of Rose’s second week at home, and after she’d cleaned the already spotless house, prepped for dinner, put away the laundry, and made herself walk down to the seafront and back, in the searing heat of a late August day, she still found herself with several hours of nothing to do except trying to imagine the house, her childhood house, which had become hers when her mother died, full of a child’s—her child’s—laughter again. Somehow it seemed impossible that this place, where she had once been so happy, would ever be a place of light and love again. The deep sadness that was never very far from the surface welled up inside her once again, quiet tears rolling down her cheeks, and she cradled her belly, simultaneously longing for her baby to hold in her arms and yet wanting to keep her safe from all the unpleasantness that the world could contain, that this house could contain.
    When the doorbell sounded, Rose hesitated, wiping the tears away with the edge of her sleeve, peering out the living room door to look at the silhouetted figure behind the stained glass. Richard did not like her to answer the door to cold callers, who he said were con men at best, or downright predators and thieves at worst. Nor did he like people to see her upset, telling her their private business was theirs alone and not to be shared with gossips.
    And yet it was only just gone three; Rose had hours of silence stretching ahead of her before Richard got home. Hours more like this, overwhelmed and helpless by the emotions that racked her body. And, after all, before Richard had sacked her, she had, in her time, maneuvered drunks, drug addicts, and determined old ladies out of the surgery, so what harm could a salesman do her? Richard underestimatedher, Rose was all too aware of that. It wasn’t exactly that she wanted to show him he was wrong—far from it—but she liked to show herself every once in a while, just to remind herself who she really was.
    Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she squared her shoulders and opened the door, shielding most of her body, allowing just her head and shoulders to show. And there were several seconds when she and Frasier just looked at each other, as if they had each just come across a very old friend. That’s how it was in her memory.
    “Are you OK?” were the first words that Frasier McCleod ever spoke to her, his soft well-spoken Scottish accent melodic and gentle. “Have you been crying?”
    “Oh?” Rose touched her hand to her face, caught off guard by his unfamiliar concern. “No, no. Not crying. Not really. I’ve got a cold, that’s all.”
    Frasier studied her face for a moment longer, his clear green eyes so compelling that Rose did not turn away from his gaze, as she was used to doing with men. Instead she let him look at her, as she looked at him, finding some solace in the concern on his face. How long had it been since anyone had regarded her that way?
    “Can I help you?” Rose said after a few moments, prompting Frasier to collect himself as if he were waking from a trance.
    “I’m sorry to bother you, I’m an art dealer . . .” He handed her his card. “I’m trying to find the whereabouts of an artist called John Jacobs? I don’t know if you are aware, but he lived here for a while, in the late eighties. It’s a bit of a long shot, but I was hoping perhaps you might have some contact details for the previous owners?”
    Rose looked at the card. “You’ve come all the way from Edinburgh to knock on my door?” she asked him, looking upwith a tentative smile. It seemed so ludicrous, and yet here he was, and she discovered she was glad of it. Glad to hear his voice, and see his face, its expression that reminded her she still existed in the world beyond these doors.
    “Yes.” Frasier smiled ruefully in return. “I found a piece by him recently,