Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
JO
The conservatory is quiet, the buffet mostly eaten, although the faint smell of barbecued meat and blue cheese still lingers in the air.
Axel leans back in his wicker chair, arms folded over his chest, staring out at the gardens like he’s considering something far larger than our painting investigation.
I take a bite out of my chocolate tart and grin, the tension of the past hour easing slightly.
“Well,” I say. “We’ve managed to have a civil conversation for at least half an hour without bickering or nearly coming to blows.”
He glances at me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Yeah. Maybe you’re not all bad,” he says casually, but there’s a small softness in the edges of his mouth that makes me feel like I’ve just scored a minor victory.
Emboldened by the new civility, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You know,” I start, “I’ve got to ask. Why do you hate me so much?”
He looks at me seriously, his eyes locking on mine, the intensity immediately grounding me.
“You want the truth?” he asks me, his voice steady and unyielding.
I nod, daring him to continue.
“It’s because of that email,” he says, his voice almost a growl, but with an anger beneath it that catches me off guard. “The email you sent your father when you were about to turn eighteen. Right when he was about to contact you.”
I frown, confused. “What? I … What email?”
Axel’s gaze hardens, and he exhales slowly.
“That email when you coldly informed him that you had no interest in ever knowing him. And if he ever tried to contact you, you said you would ruin him.” His eyes flare, a sudden flash of anger mixed with grief.
“That email broke him, Jo. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.” His hands clench as he looks away from me. As if he can’t bear to look at me.
“I loved Joseph like the father I never had. I had to work so hard for his approval and love. And you - you had him in the palm of your hand, and what did you do? You treated him like dirt. You never wanted to know the man, but here you are, the cold fortune hunter wanting a share of his money.”
I feel my chest tighten. Hearing this, I guess it kind of makes sense why he hated me so much before he’d even exchanged a word with me.
“Axel, I swear to you, I never sent that email,” I whisper, my voice breaking slightly.
“I … I never knew who my father was. My mother never told me who he was. She told me she got pregnant during a one-night stand. I spent my whole life wishing I knew him, and I didn’t come here for money.
I actually had no idea who he was. I came because Gavin phoned me and told me my father was barely alive and asking for me.
I thought I finally had a chance to get to know him. ”
He blinks, a look of surprise crossing his features.
I continue, the tears pricking behind my eyes, the weight of the realization heavy in my chest. “She … she must have sent it. My mum. She … she sent it to keep me from meeting him.”
My voice catches as I speak the words aloud, and I wipe my cheeks as tears run down them.
The thought, the lost opportunity, hits me like a punch.
I almost met my father, almost knew him, back when I was eighteen.
He was going to get in touch with me. We could have had eight years of being in each other’s lives.
All these years wasted because my mum couldn’t bear the thought of sharing me with my father.
Axel’s stance softens slightly. He leans forward, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter now, concern breaking through the edges of his usual steel. “Are you ok?”
I wipe my eyes once more and try to regain some composure.
“I … Yes, I think so. I’m not really sure how I feel yet.
It’s a lot to process.” I take a shaky breath.
“But, Axel, I’m not here for the money. I came expecting my father to be alive, and I stayed because I couldn’t resist working on such a fine art collection. That’s why I’m here.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes flicking over my face as if trying to assess whether or not I’m lying. I meet his gaze steadily, holding my ground, and finally he nods once, sharply.
“Alright,” he says. “I believe you.”
“And?” I say, more to cover my relief than anything.
“And what?”
“And you’re sorry for being a massive dick to me,” I say.
“Don’t push it,” he says, but he smiles at me, that genuine smile I saw him give the gardener’s son that day in the grounds. For me, it’s as good as an apology. The tightness in my chest eases slightly.
“What was he like?” I ask after a moment, my voice quieter, tentative. “Joseph. My father. Can you tell me about him?”
A small shadow of a smile crosses Axel’s face, and he leans back in his chair.
“Where do I start?” he murmurs. “He was complicated. Brilliant, stubborn, larger than life in every sense. He was terribly impatient with people who couldn’t keep up, and loyal to those who earned it.
He loved art. You definitely got that from him even if you didn’t know it.
He loved going to galleries incognito, debating brushwork and pigment with dealers and artists; he would spend hours alone in the vault with his collection. ”
I listen, completely absorbed; the resentment and anger I’d felt toward Axel for the rude way he treated me have softened into curiosity. I find a surprising gentleness in his recollections, a reverence that I hadn’t expected.
“He was funny, in his own way,” Axel continues. “He’d make the most absurd wagers about trivial things. Once, he took a bet with me that a painting that I swore was a fake was real. I lost that bet, and he never let me forget it.”
He chuckles softly.
I can’t help but smile. “I wish I could have met him,” I whisper.
Axel’s eyes flick to mine, a strange weight in his gaze. “Yes, it’s a great shame. He loved you, and I think you would’ve liked him a lot,” he says finally. “You remind me a little of him - stubborn, clever, a bit of a firecracker.”
I feel my lips twitch into a small smile, touched by the rare praise. “I hope so,” I say quietly.
For the first time, I see a different side of Axel. He’s not just the infuriating man I’ve been at odds with; he’s human, capable of warmth and humor, of sharing memories and stories that make me feel emotionally connected to the father I never knew.
Eventually, we finish our coffee, the last thing keeping us here. The conservatory is quiet again. The sun has dipped past the horizon, and is casting long shadows across the tiles. The door opens, and a kitchen hand comes in, freezing when he sees us.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“It’s fine,” Axel says, waving him in. “We’re about done here now anyway. Right?”
The question is aimed at me, and I nod in agreement. Truthfully, I’d like to stay longer and hear more stories, but I feel like saying so would make me look needy.
Axel stands up and brushes a few stray crumbs from his lap. Grabbing the notebook and pen, I get up too. We leave the conservatory and head back into the dining room and then back out of the other side into a hallway that leads to the foyer.
“Well, umm, goodnight,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, though I don’t know why.
“If I hear anything about the culprit, you’ll be the first to know,” Axel says.
I nod. “Same goes for me. If I find anything, you’ll know.”
We share a small, almost imperceptible nod of understanding, and then we separate, each going our own way through the vast mansion.
Axel heads into the lounge, and I retreat to my suite.
Once I enter the comfort of the familiar walls of my bedroom, I slump on the bed, my mind churning with the evening’s revelations.
My father was going to reach out to me when I turned eighteen.
Axel’s insights about him as a person. The email that was never mine.
All of it collides in a swirl of emotion.
I haven’t spoken to my mum in a while – I haven’t wanted an argument – but now I am ready to have this out with her. I sit down on my bed, unlock my cell phone, and call my mother. The moment she answers, I hear the faint tremor in her voice. She sounds nervous to see that it is me calling her.
“What were you thinking?” I ask abruptly. “It was one thing when I was a child, but I was almost eighteen. I was old enough to make my own choices and my own mistakes.”
“What are you talking about?” my mum says, playing innocent.
“Stop lying, Mum. I know you sent my father a cruel email pretending it was from me, saying I didn’t want anything to do with him.”
Her breath catches audibly. “Jo … I …”
“Don’t bother denying it. You’ve lied to me enough already,” I cry heatedly.
Tears break through her voice, and she starts again.
“I did it to protect you, darling. I knew he had more money that Croesus. I knew he’d come looking for you when you were eighteen.
I was scared he’d turn your head with his wealth.
I didn’t want him to take you away from me, from the life we shared. ”
“You thought he would take me away,” I say. “So, you didn’t do it to protect me. You did it to protect yourself.”
“I was scared he would contaminate you. Make you like those unscrupulous people he hung around with.”
“Stop fucking lying, Mum.”
“Is it so bad that I didn’t want to lose you?” she sobs.
“Having a dad wouldn’t have made me not want a mum,” I say sadly.
“I know. I just. I panicked. I knew he’d come looking for you when you were eighteen, and I knew he’d tell you how I had kept him away for all of those years. I was afraid you’d start to hate me. And I was afraid for you going into that life.”
“He wasn’t abusive to you, was he?”
She sniffs. “No. He wasn’t abusive, Jo.”
“And you had no reason to think he would hurt me.”
She takes a deep breath. “No. I didn’t think he would hurt you. But I just … I wanted to shield you from the public eye, from being drawn into a world that I couldn’t let you be part of. I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.”
I close my eyes, a mixture of anger and understanding roiling inside of me.
I still hated the fact that she kept me away from my father, but for the first time, she has admitted it was because she was scared that she would lose me, and I can’t help but soften at that.
I guess she did it out of a kind of fearful, possessive love.
“You lied to me all my life,” I whisper. “What did you expect to happen when I found out the truth?”
“I hoped you never would,” she admits, her voice breaking again. “And I’m sorry. I only ever wanted to do what was best for you, for both of us. I see now that I was selfish. I didn’t give you the chance to know your father, and that was wrong of me, but it was all out of love.”
My throat tightens at her tears, the sincerity in her voice.
“Mum, please don’t cry,” I say gently. I have always hated to see her cry, and to know I am the one who caused it this time hurts me almost as much as her betrayal does.
“I’m still angry, but I get why you did it,” I say softly. “I will forgive you, I promise. I just need time to process everything.”
There’s a pause on the line, the kind that hums with the weight of unspoken emotions.
“Thank you, Jo. I love you and I always will,” she murmurs, and I can hear the relief in her voice.
We speak a little longer about things that are less fraught.
She asks me about the house, my work on the collection.
I tell her about everything except the fake painting.
Not once does she tell me I should come home or say I shouldn’t be here, although when I tell her I am going to be here for a year, she makes a little mewling sound of disappointment and sadness.
I reassure her it’s only because of the collection.
The call ends on a warmer note than any of our previous ones.
When I hang up, a strange lightness settles over me, even as the enormity of the inheritance and the stipulations of the will still loom ahead.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve taken a small step towards understanding my mum’s choices. And by doing so, maybe, just maybe, I’ve taken a few steps towards inner peace.