Chapter 15
[Rose's POV]
The late afternoon shadows stretched across James's hospital room as I settled into the familiar chair beside his bed. Golden evening light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow over his peaceful form. His breathing remained steady, and his color had improved markedly since our first meeting. In my lap, a sketchpad held the half-finished drawing I'd been working on during my visits—James as a seven-year-old boy, kneeling beside a golden retriever with floppy ears and gentle eyes.
Rex, I remembered. James had loved that dog with the fierce devotion only children could manage. The sketch captured a moment from 1943, when James had insisted on teaching Rex to "shake hands" in our tiny wartime apartment. Even then, my son had possessed that earnest determination to make everything around him better.
"The proportions look right," I murmured, adjusting the retriever's muzzle with careful pencil strokes. "You were so patient with him, weren't you, Jimmy?"
James stirred slightly but didn't wake. I continued sketching, losing myself in the peaceful rhythm of drawing and memory.
The door burst open without warning.
Madison skipped into the room, her blonde curls bouncing and a crystal juice glass clutched in her small hands. She wore a pristine white dress with pearl buttons—the kind of outfit designed to showcase innocence and perfection.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in theatrical surprise. "I didn't know anyone was here."
I closed the sketchpad and set it aside. "Madison. You should knock before entering a hospital room."
She moved closer, that practiced smile playing at her lips. "I brought Great-grandfather some apple juice. Mommy said it would help him feel better."
"That's thoughtful, but he's sleeping right now."
Madison positioned herself beside my chair, the glass tilted at a precarious angle. "I could wake him up. He likes it when I visit."
"Children should learn patience," I said evenly. "Sometimes the kindest thing is to let people rest."
Her grip on the glass shifted, and I watched her fingers deliberately loosen. The movement was subtle, calculated.
"Oopsie!" Madison squealed as the glass slipped from her hands, amber liquid arcing directly toward my sketchpad and dress.
I moved with reflexes honed by years, where a single clumsy gesture could trigger catastrophic reactions. The glass sailed past my shoulder and shattered against the window, apple juice spraying across the wall.
Madison's eyes went wide—not with fear, but with shock that her plan had failed.
I stood slowly, maintaining eye contact. "That was careless, Madison. Very careless indeed."
"It was an accident!" Her voice climbed to the whining pitch children used when caught in misbehavior.
"If that's what you call an accident," I said, my tone arctic, "then you need better instruction in handling breakable objects. The next time you're so... clumsy... I'll make sure your mother learns about it directly. With her own juice glass."
Madison's confident mask crumpled. Her face reddened, and she began to cry—not the spontaneous tears of a hurt child, but the calculated wailing designed to summon adult protection.
"Daddy Christopher!" she shrieked. "The mean lady threatened me!"
Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Christopher appeared in the doorway within seconds, his expression shifting from concern to confusion as he took in the scene—broken glass, apple juice on the walls, Madison sobbing dramatically, and me standing calmly beside James's bed.
"What happened here?" Christopher demanded.
"Madison had a small accident with her juice glass," I replied. "I was explaining the importance of being more careful around fragile things."
"She said she'd throw juice in Mommy's face!" Madison wailed, pointing an accusing finger. "She's scary and mean!"
Christopher's jaw tightened. "Rose, what exactly did you say to her?"
I studied his face—the automatic assumption that I was at fault, the protective instinct triggered by a child's tears rather than objective assessment of the situation. It was exactly the kind of reactive thinking that made him vulnerable to manipulation.
"I explained consequences," I said simply. "Something Madison apparently hasn't learned yet."
"She's four years old!"
"And old enough to understand that actions have results." I gestured toward the broken glass and stained wall. "This wasn't clumsiness, Christopher. This was deliberate."
His expression hardened. "You're accusing a child of—"
"I'm observing behavior patterns." I kept my voice level, clinical. "Originally, I thought you were an intelligent man. Someone capable of taking on real family responsibility. Now I see I overestimated your judgment."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Christopher's face went pale, then flushed with anger and embarrassment.
Madison's crying intensified, though I noticed her watching our exchange with sharp interest between sobs.
"Everyone needs to leave this room," I announced, moving toward James's bedside. "He requires quiet rest, not drama and broken glass."
"You can't just—" Christopher started.
"I can and I will." I met his gaze directly. "Your grandfather's health comes first. Not your girlfriend's daughter's theatrical performances."
For a moment, Christopher looked ready to argue. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Then something shifted in his expression—uncertainty, perhaps even recognition that I was right about James's needs.
"Come on, Madison," he said quietly. "Let's let Great-grandfather sleep."
Madison's sobs reduced to sniffles. "But I wanted to say hello..."
"Another time, sweetheart."
Lauren appeared in the doorway as Christopher led Madison out. Her face was perfectly composed, but her eyes were calculating as they moved between the broken glass and me.
"Is everything all right?" she asked.
"Just a small accident," Christopher replied. "Rose was just... helping Madison understand proper hospital behavior."
Lauren's gaze lingered on me. "Perhaps it would be better if Madison and I waited downstairs while you visit with your grandfather."
"Actually," I said, "I think everyone should leave the hospital wing entirely. James needs complete quiet for the next hour."
Lauren's eyebrows rose slightly. The audacity of my command wasn't lost on her.
Christopher hesitated for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, he nodded.
"You're right. We'll go into town for an early dinner. Give Grandfather some peace."
"Christopher," Lauren said carefully, "are you comfortable leaving Rose alone with your grandfather?"
He looked at me, and I saw the internal struggle playing out across his features—duty versus instinct, family loyalty versus romantic obligations.
"Rose wouldn't hurt him," he said finally. "If anything, she's one of the few people who genuinely cares about his wellbeing."
Lauren's smile remained perfect, but her eyes went cold. "Of course. I just thought... supervision might be wise."
"I think Rose has proven she can be trusted."
After they left, I carefully swept up the broken glass and wiped down the walls. The cleaning staff would handle the rest later. Then I settled back into my chair beside James's bed.
For thirty minutes, I simply sat with him. No conversation, no sketching, no medical assessments. Just the quiet presence of a mother watching over her sleeping child, eight decades too late but exactly when he needed it most.
When I finally stood to leave, James stirred slightly.
"Don't go," he whispered without opening his eyes.
"I'll be back soon," I promised, adjusting his blankets. "Rest now."
I walked through the empty hallway and out to the circular drive, where my taxi waited. Through the main house windows, I could see Alfred tidying up, but no sign of Christopher's family. They were probably at some upscale restaurant in downtown Boston, discussing the afternoon's events over wine and artfully plated entrees.
Friday evening found me in my bedroom, quantum mechanics textbook spread open on my desk.
My phone buzzed against the desk.
"Hello?" I answered without checking the caller ID.
"Is this Rose Evans?" The voice was professional, energetic.
"Speaking."
"This is Jessica Walsh from American Dream Star productions. I'm calling to inform you that you've advanced to our preliminary rounds. Congratulations!"
I set down my pencil. "Thank you."
"We'd like you to come in tomorrow morning at ten for your preliminary audition. Can you confirm your availability?"
"Yes, I can be there."
"Excellent! You'll need to perform the same song you submitted, plus be prepared for some basic interview questions. The address is—"
I jotted down the details on a piece of scrap paper, confirming the time and location.
"Any questions?" Jessica asked.
"No. Thank you for the opportunity."
"We're excited to see what you can do! See you tomorrow."
I hung up and returned to my quantum mechanics problems as if nothing had happened. The call was simply another item on tomorrow's schedule, no more significant than a dentist appointment or grocery run.
Saturday morning brought the familiar sounds of weekend preparation downstairs. I could hear Rachel's voice carrying up through the heating vents, animated and excited.
I dressed in simple dark slacks and a navy sweater, then headed downstairs to find Rachel in full performance mode. She stood in the living room wearing a flowing coral dress that caught the light beautifully, her hair styled in loose Hollywood waves. Sarah knelt beside her, adjusting the dress's hemline and applying a final touch of lip gloss.
"Remember, sweetheart, project from your diaphragm," Sarah was saying. "The judges need to see confidence from the moment you walk in."
Rachel nodded, practicing her smile in the mirror. "I've got this, Mom. The song choice is perfect for my range."
Daniel lounged on the couch, still in pajamas, eating cereal directly from the box. He glanced up as I entered the room.
"Well, well. The family academic finally joins us." His tone held its usual edge of mockery.
Rachel turned toward me, her expression bright and seemingly innocent. "Oh, Rose! I'm so glad you're up. Did you happen to get a call from the American Dream Star people?"
The question was casual, but I caught the underlying probe.
"Yes," I replied simply.
"Really?" Daniel's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "You? They called you?"
"The preliminary round is this morning."
Rachel's smile widened, though something flickered behind her eyes. "How wonderful! We'll practically be competition partners."
"Just shows they'll let anyone audition," Daniel muttered. "Probably need some comic relief acts."
I gathered my small purse and jacket without responding to his taunt.
"Rose," Sarah called as I headed for the door. "Don't you want breakfast? It's important to eat before a big audition."
"I'll be fine. Thank you."
Rachel's voice followed me to the foyer. "Good luck, Rose! May the best sister win!"
I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, leaving behind the sound of their continued conversation. Whatever happened at today's audition, I would face it with the same measured approach I brought to everything else—one step at a time, one decision at a time, without drama or fanfare.
The taxi pulled up to the curb just as I reached the sidewalk.
"Where to, miss?"