Free The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Page A

flowered dress. Tomorrow, on her flight home, she’d wear the denim jumper. She could hardly wait to get back into shorts and a tank top.
    Anne headed for the stairs. “I’m ready whenever you are, Grandma,” she called out when she reached the foyer.
    “I’m in here, darling.” Catherine’s voice was composed as it drifted in from the parlor.
    Anne stopped in the doorway. Her grandmother stood by the front window, gazing out at the street.
    Catherine turned. “Yes. That frock will do nicely. It covers your ankles better than the denim.”
    “I haven’t felt anything at all recently. I’m sure I’ll be fine at the Tate.”
    Catherine’s gaze hardened. “Where is your shoulder bag with the things I gave you?”
    Anne shrugged. “It’s so heavy. Can’t I take a break just this once?”
    “No, Anne. Never leave the house without it.”
    “But I can’t take a knife past security at the museum. They’ll confiscate it.”
    “I’m sure there will be a bag check, darling. Please.”
    “But then I won’t have it with me.”
    “It’s a fairly modern building, not Elizabethan. I’m certain you’ll be fine, once inside.”
    “All right, all right.” Anne retrieved her leather bag, but her grandmother wasn’t done.
    “And you’ll need this, too.” Catherine jammed a collapsible umbrella into the already overstuffed bag. “Rain is in the forecast.”
    Anne groaned, but said nothing. With all the stuff she had to tote around, she was glad they’d called a cab.
    As their driver negotiated London’s bustling streets, the women said little, and Anne let her mind wander. When she caught sight of a homeless woman, dressed in rags and talking to herself, Anne suddenly focused. Pedestrians avoided the poor woman as she shuffled along, her broken mind lost in another world.
    Another world? Anne strained for a last glimpse of the bag lady as the cab moved on. Could she be a time traveler? Had she arrived unprepared for her strange journey, unable to cope with a new and frighteningly unfamiliar reality?
    The possibility of ending up like the homeless woman, a forlorn and pitiful creature wandering alien streets, was not only unappealing, it was unthinkable.
    “Please, do stop here,” Catherine told the cab driver. She turned to Anne. “I must pop into the chemist’s for a moment, darling. I’ve a prescription that needs filling. I’ll meet you in the queue at the cash register.”
    Anne wandered to the food section and picked up some gum, a bottle of water, and several packages of chocolate. She wrinkled her nose in disgust as her gaze fixed on a jar of Marmite. How did anyone choke it down? Although it was vegetarian, she thought it tasted like the meat of forty cows, condensed into one little jar. It was very popular with the Brits, though. Trudy loved it and always put it on her morning toast.
    “Jolly good.” Catherine came up beside Anne, holding a white paper bag. “I’m set to go. Are you ready?” She saw the Marmite. “Oh, my.”
    “What is it, Grandma?”
    “Jonnie loved that. If you ever did find him, imagine his surprise if you had some in your possession.”
    Anne’s mouth twisted. “You really considered marrying this guy?”
    “Your grandfather liked it, too, although his tastes ran more to caviar.”
    “And Dr. Brandon was a more regular guy?”
    “Salt of the earth. But remember, Anne, it was just after the war. Marmite or caviar, it didn’t matter to us. We were just glad to be alive.” Catherine studied the row of plastic squeeze jars. “If Jonnie could taste it again, I’m certain he’d be overjoyed.”
    Anne rolled her eyes.
    “Humor me, darling,” Catherine said. “Take one with you. And this prescription, too.”
    “What is it?”
    “Penicillin tablets. I merely thought––”
    “Oh, Grandma!”
    “Anne, I said humor me. Please.”
    There was a shakiness, a note of desperation in Catherine’s voice, enough to give Anne pause and force her to smile.
    “Okay,