‘A lot of the archival material for the hotel is kept in here,’ he told her, ‘but this,’ he said, leading her towards a timber-and-glass cabinet on one wall between shelves, ‘is what I wanted you to see.’
And as she came closer she saw. There was a dried flower arrangement and an assortment of papers and newspaper clippings and above it all a photograph, of a smiling bride and groom holding a knife poised over a beautiful three-tier wedding cake.
Her parents.
Her mother in the beautiful white dress that she’d seen in the old newspaper cutting, but unlike the cutting, this picture was clear and crisp and she could see the piping on the dress and the lace at her neck and the tiny buttons on the cuffs of her sleeves.
The entire contents of the cabinet were given over to a record of that day on the Chatsfield Sydney’s opening weekend, complete with copies of the menu of their wedding breakfast and an order of ceremony.
And the flowers? Holly gasped as she read the note printed alongside. Holly’s mother’s bouquet, which her mother had offered to the hotel as thanks for their perfect wedding.
And it was so beautifully preserved, the roses crinkled at the edges but still pink, the tiny white gypsophila sprigs still light as air between.
Her mother had held this walking down the aisle to meet her father.
She pored over each and every item, read each little card at least twice, not wanting to miss a single tiny detail, and as she drank it all in, she realised she’d been given a gift—a glimpse of her parents on their special day as they’d started their new family together.
She sniffed, bit her lips together so she didn’t do more. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘it’s beautiful.’
‘I thought you’d like to see it.’
She couldn’t pretend any more. She brushed away the tears on her cheeks.
‘How did you know this was here?’
‘I didn’t, not really, but I guessed there would be some record kept, at least a picture. I contacted the manager and he told me of this cabinet and its contents. They want to get a photograph of you next to it, if you agree.’
‘Of course,’ she said, having to bite her lips together once again. ‘Gus would especially love to see it, I know.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling tremulously up at this man who had found this for her and made it possible.
She looked so vulnerable—so lonely—so alone. She was smiling but not with any great conviction and his first thought was to hold her. To comfort her for her loss. Strange, they were both without family. All she had now was Gus. He had no one really.
But then he’d chosen to walk away from his family.
She’d never had a choice to begin with.
He felt her hand in his, her other on his arm as she squeezed both of them tightly. ‘Thank you.’ And what choice did he have but to put his other arm around her and hug her to his chest after all? What power could stop him?
Even if he knew it was madness.
Even if he knew it was for nothing.
Because he could never be someone’s comfort or strength ever again, and the last thing he needed to do was let this woman think he could.
No wonder Franco had balked at the likes of Betty’s Drapery. Because while Holly didn’t have much of an idea about shopping generally, Franco’s concept of going shopping might as well have been on a different planet.
For a start, they didn’t actually go shopping. The shopping came to them.
‘How did you do this?’ she asked as a slimline keen-eyed madame and her similarly attired younger assistants rapidly turned the suite’s living room into a boutique. And if the older woman reminded her of a girls’ high school principal—with lashings more make-up—the younger women were like unsmiling head prefects—tall and willowy slim and who knew their hallowed place in the world.
‘I made a call. I don’t know where to shop in Sydney, so I had someone listen to what I needed and take it from there.’
‘I don’t see any suits.’ Although there were plenty of gowns, boxes of shoes, cartons of lingerie and evening bags. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll go shopping tomorrow.’
‘What will I do tomorrow?’
‘You’ll be busy enough. You’ll be in the day spa.’
Before she could tell him she hardly needed an entire day to have a bath, the high school principal—who’d introduced herself as ‘Penelope, please don’t call me Penny’—bustled over to claim and transform her latest fashion victim.
‘Now, what do we have to work with here?’ She took Holly’s chin in her hand and held her face up to the light. ‘Hmm, good skin, though could clearly do with some help.’ And to Holly, ‘Stay out of the sun, dear, it’ll turn your skin to crocodile hide.’