Lisa peered at the card. “I haven’t got my glasses on,” she complained. “And her name is a strange one. Madeline? No, wait, there’s an f in it.” She peered at the card again, before frowning. “Madelief,” she announced triumphantly. “Her name is Madelief.”
The glass of whisky fell from Bo’s hand, staining the carpet below.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bo was a florist who was used to early mornings. She’d learned to wake early and fuel herself with caffeine so she’d be able to face the throng of New Covent Garden Market three days a week. She’d learned to fight the crowds for the best roses, tulips, chrysanthemums and daisies. She’d learned to love the smell of moist air and damp buckets and liquid flower feed. She’d learned to bargain and barter and argue for what she wanted. She was prepared for anything her industry could throw at her; was ready to face the busiest of markets or most awkward of suppliers. She was ready for anything, except Madelief.
But then, she supposed she’d never be ready for Madelief.
She approached Madelief’s stall with shaking hands while walking on shaking legs. It was a small stall towards the back of the market, with bright buckets of flowers spread out front. Most of Madelief’s stall was daisies, in a myriad of sizes and colours, and it didn’t take Bo long to realize that this was Madelief’s specialty. Ever a florist herself, she stopped to admire a large bouquet of pink Marguerite daisies, noting their quality and delicate colouring, while she brushed her hand over a bouquet of golden shrub daisies, feeling both the softness of their petals and sturdiness of their stems. Whoever Madelief was, she was clearly a good florist who knew her business.
Ida was right, Bo realized. She and Madelief really were similar.
Taking a deep breath, Bo entered the stall, and there, sitting on a chair behind a till bedecked with yet more daisies, was a woman. She was elderly, in her seventies or even eighties, with skin that was fair but lined, her white hair drawn up and away from her face. Her eyes were a brilliant green, and when she smiled, it was warm and friendly.
Madelief. The woman Geoffrey had loved the most, but also hurt the greatest.
“Hi,” Bo said, her voice unaccountably nervous, and Madelief nodded back.
“Hello. How can I help you?”
“Actually.” Bo cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m here because I think you might know somebody I know? Or, because you knew someone I once knew.”
Madelief blinked up at her.
“You might not even be the person I’m looking for,” Bo said, realizing she was dangerously close to babbling. “It’s been a long time, and there are probably millions of Madelief’s out there — well, notmillions, that’s an exaggeration, but there are probably a few, and you might just be some random Madelief that I’m now accosting at your place of work, and not the Madelief I’m looking for. Not that I’m even looking for Madelief, but he looked for her, and I don’t know, there might be some sort of closure in this for you, and for, well, for me too, and for Max, and—”
“My dear,” Madelief interrupted her smoothly, and yes, there was a hint of an accent in her voice. A Dutch accent. Any doubts Bo had that this was the woman Geoffrey searched so long for disappeared in an instant. “My daughter helps me run this stall now, and she’s just gone to get some stock. I don’t understand. Are you here for flowers?”
“No, I’m not here for flowers. Well, maybe I am,” she said, thinking of Max. “Actually, I’m here because I’m looking for a woman named Madelief. I knew a friend of hers—” she stopped, as realization washed over her that Madelief might not think of Geoffrey as a friend. Was it even right to speak to Madelief at all? Now that she was here, now that she’d seen her, Bo began to doubt herself. Madelief and Geoffrey hadn’t ended well. Geoffrey had treated Madelief appallingly, in fact. There was a big chance that Madelief never wanted to hear about Geoffrey again.
She couldn’t do it, could she? Geoffrey’s search for Madelief had been just that: Geoffrey’s. It wasn’t hers, and it wasn’t Max’s. There was nothing to be gained by telling Madelief that Geoffrey had been sorry. Nothing to be gained from telling her he’d looked for her for years. Nothing to be gained other than hurt that Bo hoped Madelief had put behind her years ago.
She took a step back. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I’m not sure why I’m here. I thought if I spoke to you, I’d be fulfilling his wishes, and he might rest easily. But no. This is wrong. I should go. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Rest easily?” Madelief frowned, looking confused. “Has someone died? Do you need mourning flowers?”
“He died over a year ago, actually,” Bo replied.
“Who did?”
“My friend.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Geoffrey’s name, and oh no, now her eyes were filling with tears. “He died, and there was no one left but me by the end, and he was in love once and searched for her and never found her again, and I don’t know . . .”
It was awful. Truly awful. The floodgates opened and Bo started to cry, and Madelief was getting up andoh God, she has a walking stick. She has a walking stick and can’t stand well and she’s getting up to comfort me and this is awful, awful, awful. I’m making an old woman who can’t walk get up because I’m in tears and can’t hold myself together.
Madelief patted Bo on the arm. “It’s all right to cry,” she said softly, “it really is.”
“I know. I just . . . I miss him. I know he did some terrible things, but he was nice to me, and I miss him, but I also feel guilty for missing him, because of those terrible things, you know?”
“No, I don’t. But it’s okay to feel sad, and it’s okay to miss people.”
Bo smiled, wiping her eyes. “Thank you.”
Madelief gazed at her. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” Bo decided. She gave Madelief a watery smile. “You seem really nice.”
“I hope so. Kindness costs nothing.”
