Tea and Primroses Read Online Free PDF

hated every minute of it but we got a trip to New York. It was just before Christmas last year, and after filming we went out to lunch at a restaurant in Rockefeller Center and drank a bottle of wine and looked at the tree and the ice-skaters, then walked around town. I was beyond happy to be in New York in December, seeing the sights, with her relaxed and not working. She was fun to travel with because she was so interested in everything.”
    He chuckled. “Wish I’d been there for that.”
    “I don’t know if I can watch this,” she whispered.
    “Me either.”
    But neither of them moved. They stood together, sipping their drinks and watching.
    The interviewer, Quinton Waits, reminded Sutton of a young Charlie Rose. Her mother was a fan and hadn’t been able to resist when he asked for an interview.
    “In my research I found less than a half dozen interviews over the years, all of which were print and all in the last five years. Why so private?”
    “Primarily to keep my daughter safe. I live in a small community where the citizens know who I am but are protective of my privacy. I’ve preferred to live in anonymity. It’s kept my work pure and my family safe.”
    “You’re extremely prolific. This latest release is your thirtieth book. Would you describe yourself as driven?”
    “Yes, certainly that. And my readers continue to ask for another. As long as they keep asking, I keep writing.”
    “You write epic love stories but you’ve never remarried after the death of your husband over twenty-five years ago? Has this been by design?”
    “I suppose you could call it design.” Constance laughed softly. “Some might call it never leaving my house.” She swept her hand over the table. The camera moved in for a closer shot. “I had my one big love, which is more than most get, and I will not be greedy enough to think it will come my way again.” Watching, Sutton knew her mother had been uneasy at this moment. She was quick to flush, with a way of tilting her head toward the ground when asked a personal question, instead of the unflinching gaze with which she looked at her beloved sea.
    “But how do you write of romantic love without having any of your own?”
    Constance spoke quietly, with a sad look in her eyes. “I remember what it was to love and to be loved by a man. It never leaves you, once you’ve felt it.” She added then, with a dart of her pale blue eyes to where Sutton had sat beyond the scope of the camera. “And I have my daughter. My father used to tell me when I was small that my birth was like winning the lottery. I feel the same about my daughter. There are so many kinds of love and I’ve been blessed with deep friendships and family relationships.”
    “You’ve had a lot of loss in your life. Has there ever been a time when you’ve been unable to write?”
    “Loss?”
    “Your mother, father, husband, your close assistant.”
    “You did your research well.” Constance smiled politely. Sutton knew she was buying time, trying to think of how to answer the question.
    Quinton flashed a row of perfect, white teeth. “It’s my job.”
    “Well, yes, I’ve had a lot of loss, but probably no more than the average person, and one goes on, especially if there are children who need you.”
    “Has it informed your writing?”
    “Surely. Grief has, unfortunately, defined much of my life and work.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Sutton saw the front door open. She turned to see who was arriving so late.
    Declan.
    He entered, the expression on his face like someone coming into a surprise birthday party. He was thirty-two years old now and appeared much more sophisticated than when he’d left six years ago. His hair was still dark but he wore it slightly longer than he once had and his cheekbones were more prominent. But his sensitive eyes were the same—always looking, peering, capturing. And now there was a confidence and wisdom to him that seemed made of experiences and perhaps even