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    Every Rose's Thorn
    Every Rose's Thorn
    Every Rose's Thorn
    Ebook61 pages56 minutes

    Every Rose's Thorn

    By Ellie Forsythe

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A short story from the Flower Mystery series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Shire Publishing
    Release dateJan 3, 2013
    ISBN9781301731893
    Every Rose's Thorn
    Author

    Ellie Forsythe

    Hi! I'm Ellie Forsythe and I'm a chicklit writer. I found the genre in an airport on a trip and fell in love. I could hardly think of writing anything else and I love to base my books in Scotland.

    Read more from Ellie Forsythe

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      Book preview

      Every Rose's Thorn - Ellie Forsythe

      Every Rose’s Thorn

      By Ellie Forsythe

      Copyright 2013 Ellie Forsythe

      Published by Black Shire Publishing

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

      Chapter 1

      Rose hated her name. Which is precisely why she never used it. She introduced herself by her middle name, Jane. It was plain, simple and suited her much more than the ridiculous name a romantic mother had given her before dying. Even those few people who knew her first name was Rose, knew better than to call her that. She was Jane. She always had been and always would be. And she hated roses.

      So when she found a single red rose in her gym cubby after a particularly intense workout, Jane thought it was a mistake. She angrily swept it aside and pulled out her sweatshirt and her tote bag. The rose, she left in the open cubby.

      Because she didn’t think anything of it, she didn’t mention it to her father over dinner that evening. Not even when he asked if anything special had happened that day. Nothing special ever did. It would take her a while to realize that something already had.

      Vegetables again? her dad asked as she laid down his dinner in front of him.

      Always vegetables, Jane said. Sometimes he sounded like a child though he had just reached his sixties and was in pretty good shape for an inactive man of his age.

      At least your fish marinades are always good, he grumbled, shooting a smiling look at her over the top of his loaded fork. The salmon was pink and crumbling, the top of it crispy.

      Jane rolled her eyes. I don’t have to come over here and make you dinner, if you don’t want. You can eat your nasty frozen dinners and die at sixty-five.

      You wouldn’t let me, no matter how I begged, he said, his faded blue eyes glittering in the overhead lighting.

      Jane smiled. It was true. Though he’d often told her that she shouldn’t hang around with him so much, they both knew she’s always be there twice a week for dinner and any other time she could manage. If she didn’t make him dinner, he wouldn’t eat dinner. Or, as she learned from her prying, he would eat something inappropriate, like corn dogs or Lucky Charms. He was particularly bad at taking care of himself.

      Their meals were punctuated by long silences as Jane liked to focus on her food. She’d also never been a talkative person. She wished sometimes that she could be because their meals were some of the only human interactions that her dad got. Like her, he was more of a loner, something his wife’s death exacerbated thirty two years ago.

      What days are you working again? her dad asked as he tried to spear a green bean with his fork. She didn’t like how his hand shook.

      I’m working Thursday to Sunday this week. She watched him for another few seconds before digging into her own pile of green beans. They were barely seasoned and still crunchy. She knew her dad didn’t like them but there wasn’t a vegetable he did like, no matter how she cooked them. So, since he would eat them anyway, she prepared them the healthiest way she knew how.

      Oh, right. I know you already told me that.

      And I put it on your calendar, Jane said.

      He shook his head, his salt and pepper hair flipping up. It was almost time for him to get a haircut. You know I don’t look at that thing. It’s so bare it’s depressing.

      Well, if you let me sign you up for that card club, it might not be so bare.

      Jane had been trying to get him to go to a card club that met once a week at their local senior center. Though the club was for people below the retirement age of sixty-five, her father still refused to go, saying he wasn’t a senior citizen. It was true but it was also just an excuse.

      We don’t need to argue about that again, he told her. "Why don’t we talk about your

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