Chapter 3: Among the Roses
Mary Rose POV
Mary Rose followed Thomas through a side door that led to what could only be described as paradise. The memorial garden stretched before them in the moonlight, a careful composition of white roses, jasmine, and night-blooming cereus that filled the air with intoxicating fragrance. Soft landscape lighting illuminated winding stone paths that curved around raised flower beds and a central fountain where water danced in crystalline arcs.
"Catherine designed this space," Thomas said quietly, his voice carrying the reverent tone reserved for sacred places. "She spent her final months planning every detail, choosing plants that would bloom in sequence to ensure year-round beauty."
Mary's breath caught as she took in the ethereal scene. Even in October, the garden lived and breathed with purposeful beauty. Late-season roses clustered along trellises while ornamental grasses swayed in the gentle breeze, their silvery plumes catching moonbeams like captured starlight.
"It's extraordinary," she whispered, understanding instinctively that normal conversation felt inappropriate here. "She must have been remarkable."
Thomas's smile carried both profound sadness and unmistakable love. "She was a landscape architect before Emma was born. This garden represents her final masterpiece her gift to future couples who would celebrate their love here."
They walked the meandering path in comfortable silence, Mary's camera hanging forgotten around her neck as she absorbed the garden's peaceful energy. Thomas moved with familiar ease, occasionally touching a rose or adjusting a wayward vine with unconscious tenderness that spoke of countless solitary visits to this sanctuary.
"The white roses were her favorite," he said, pausing beside a climbing variety that cascaded over an ornate iron bench. "She chose white because it represents new beginnings, pure love, and eternal remembrance. She wanted couples to understand that true love transcends everything even death."
The raw emotion in his voice made Mary's chest tighten with sympathetic pain. She had witnessed grief through her camera lens dozens of times, but experiencing Thomas's quiet anguish firsthand felt entirely different. His loss radiated from him like heat from a flame, warming and dangerous in equal measure.
"How long has it been?" she asked gently.
"Five years this December." He settled onto the bench, patting the space beside him in invitation. "Emma was only seventeen when Catherine was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The doctors gave us eighteen months. She lived for twenty-two."
Mary sat carefully, maintaining respectful distance while fighting the urge to comfort him with touch. The professional boundaries she maintained with every client seemed suddenly inadequate, her heart responding to his pain with an intensity that should have alarmed her.
"Emma seems remarkably well-adjusted for someone who lost her mother so young."
Thomas's expression softened with paternal pride. "Catherine made sure of that. Even during treatment, she focused on preparing Emma for independence. Art therapy sessions, college applications, driving lessons—she refused to let cancer steal Emma's future along with our time together."
The fountain's gentle melody provided soundtrack to their conversation while night-blooming flowers released their perfume into autumn air. Mary found herself relaxing completely for the first time since arriving at Graystone Manor, Thomas's presence creating unexpected sanctuary from the constant vigilance that had defined her existence since Henry's betrayal.
"She sounds like an incredible woman," Mary said. "And an extraordinary mother."
"She was both." Thomas turned toward her, his steel-blue eyes reflecting moonlight and something deeper, more personal. "Catherine made me promise something during her final weeks. Something I've struggled to honor."
The intimate tone of his voice sent warmth spiraling through Mary's chest. She should redirect this conversation back to professional topics, maintain the careful distance that protected both of them from complications neither could afford.
Instead, she heard herself ask, "What did she promise?"
"She made me promise to find love again." The words emerged soft and vulnerable, completely different from his confident professional demeanor. "She said Emma would need a complete family, that I would need companionship as I aged, that love was too precious to bury with the dead."
Mary's heart hammered against her ribs as understanding dawned. This conversation had moved far beyond memorial garden tours or wedding venue consultations. Thomas was sharing his most private pain, his deepest fears, his impossible hopes. She should excuse herself immediately, retreat to professional safety before this moment could develop into something that would complicate everything.
Instead, she found herself responding with equal honesty. "That must have been an overwhelming promise to make."
"Impossible, actually," Thomas admitted, his laugh holding no humor. "I couldn't imagine ever feeling for another woman what I felt for Catherine. The love we shared defined me for twenty-five years. Losing her felt like losing half my soul."
The pain in his voice resonated with Mary's own experiences of devastating loss, though her childhood tragedy and Henry's betrayal seemed insignificant compared to Thomas's profound grief. Still, she recognized the particular anguish of having love ripped away without warning, the way betrayal and death both left gaping wounds that never quite healed completely.
"But recently," Thomas continued, his voice growing stronger, more certain, "I've begun to understand what Catherine meant. She wasn't asking me to replace her or forget our love. She was asking me to remain open to happiness, to believe that hearts can expand to hold multiple loves without diminishing either."
The intensity of his gaze made Mary's breath catch. She recognized the shift happening between them, the way professional consultation was transforming into something far more personal and dangerous. Every instinct screamed warnings about mixing business with personal feelings, about risking her carefully rebuilt life on emotions that could destroy everything she had worked to achieve.
"Thomas," she began, intending to restore necessary boundaries.
"I need to tell you something," he interrupted gently. "Meeting you today has awakened feelings I thought were permanently buried with Catherine. Your passion for your work, your gentle strength, the way you see beauty in authentic moments you've reminded me that my heart still functions, that I'm still capable of connection."
The confession hung between them like a bridge neither could uncross. Mary felt her carefully constructed defenses crumbling under the weight of his honesty and her own unexpected response to his attention. Thomas represented everything Henry had never been mature, emotionally available, genuinely interested in her thoughts and dreams rather than viewing her as accessory to his ambitions.
"I shouldn't be telling you this," Thomas continued, his voice rough with emotion. "You came here for business consultation, not to deal with a widower's complicated feelings. But I can't pretend this afternoon has been merely professional for me."
Mary's throat tightened with emotions she hadn't allowed herself to feel in three years. The attraction building between them transcended simple physical chemistry, encompassing intellectual compatibility and emotional recognition that felt both inevitable and terrifying. Thomas saw her truly saw her in ways that made her feel valued and desirable and worthy of genuine love.
"It hasn't been merely professional for me either," she admitted, the words emerging before wisdom could stop them.
The confession created electric tension that seemed to charge the air around them. Thomas's expression shifted from vulnerability to hope to desire so intense it made Mary's entire body respond with warmth and longing she had believed Henry's betrayal had permanently destroyed.
"Mary Rose," Thomas said, her name carrying reverent weight that made her heart race, "would it be completely inappropriate if I said I hope this is the beginning of something rather than the end?"
Before she could respond, the garden's subtle lighting suddenly seemed brighter, more focused. Mary glanced toward the manor and saw a figure silhouetted in the French doors leading to the terrace a young woman with dark hair and artistic posture who could only be Emma Gray.
"I think," Mary said carefully, "that we should probably continue this conversation when we're not being observed by your daughter."
Thomas followed her gaze and chuckled softly. "Emma has impeccable timing. She's probably been watching us for the past ten minutes, making sure her old father doesn't embarrass himself with the beautiful photographer."
The casual endearment made Mary's cheeks warm while Emma's presence reminded her of the complex family dynamics any relationship with Thomas would involve. She was falling for a man whose life included a daughter only six years younger than herself, whose late wife's memory would always be part of their story, whose world operated according to social expectations that might not easily accommodate a relationship with someone from her more modest background.
But as Thomas helped her stand from the bench, his touch sending electricity up her arm, Mary realized she was willing to risk the complications if it meant exploring the connection building between them. For the first time since Henry's abandonment, she felt genuinely hopeful about love's possibilities.
"Should we go reassure Emma that you haven't completely lost your mind?" Mary suggested, surprised by her own lightness.
"Actually," Thomas replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief that made him look years younger, "I think I may have found it instead."