55. Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Five
Dacre
It was a long drive from the gala, but arguably the safest place I could take her. She hands me the key I gave her for safekeeping, and I stick the key into the lock.
“This is where you grew up?”
We stand outside the estate, where only the porch light is on. John never used the house and didn’t keep any staff on-site to maintain it, so there are overgrown weeds and old branches in the flower beds. The blue shutters have seen better days, too.
“In the early months of the year, there’s this wild lilac that grows close by, and you can smell it for miles. You’re going to love it.”
Emma bites her lip in delight and bounces with a surprising amount of energy for how long of a day it’s been. I’ve given up my jacket to make up for the fact that I ripped the front of her dress. I need to get her inside and get her more comfortable.
We were able to hop in the car undetected and start driving, stopping only to snag some burgers. I expected her to fall asleep, but she stayed alert the whole drive, singing and telling me everything I had missed this week.
“Wait.” I place her hands on my shoulder and pick her up bridal-style. “You may not be my wife, but you still look like it.”
Emma’s laughter blesses our first steps into the house. My house.
The chaos of Doxlothia is locked outside the front door. Everything with my family is up in the air, but as the dust settles around us, I have all the comfort and assurance I need. My sister is safe, and so is Emma.
I shed my jacket and shoes and run my foot over the weak spot in the floorboards right by the dining room.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“I remember this creak in the floor. Every time I came to the kitchen at night, I’d try to avoid it.”
It’s as I remembered, but strangely different. There are things I remembered, like the white trim along the walls, and some things I didn’t. Like my mom’s apparent love for floral wallpaper.
“This house is . . . beautiful. Everything your family owns is breathtaking.”
I open my hand for her. “Will you walk with me?”
She lights up and takes her place at my side while we roam from room to room.
We take a tour downstairs first, and I show her the places on the wall where I made scuffs as a kid. I thought maybe it would be boring for her, but she’s excited about everything, soaking up my small recollections like a sponge.
I lean on her when we reach the kitchen. Its smell is the most familiar, and the dining room table is just how I remember it. Pressed up into the corner, by the window, the chair in the back was always mine. The fresh flowers in the white pitcher have been replaced with fake calla lilies.
“Did your parents build this house?”
“Yeah, I think my dad had it built for my mother.”
He must have loved her. There’s a rustic scalloped trim above the cabinets that’s nothing like any of the Everhart estates.
This whole place isn’t. It was their oasis from the marble floors, the meetings, and the obligations.
I run my fingers over the butcher’s block countertop and the scratches left from a knife.
Emma roams from corner to corner, searching. I’ve asked her twice now if she’s too tired from the long day and blood loss, and she told me I’m not allowed to ask her that anymore. I’m glad she’s enjoying this journey to the past as much as I am.
We search the bottom floor, and then the second. Emma giggles when she finds my room and rummages through my things. My old toys are there. I didn’t remember them till I held them in my hand. Thankfully, unlike my father, I don’t have any journals stored away in drawers.
My father’s office is next to my room, and I’m shocked when I step inside to find that it’s nothing like my grandfather’s.
It’s open with windows on three walls, and there’s an area on the floor that looks as if it were made for children, with little books and toys.
He must have let us play in his room while he worked.
“Dacre, look!” She pulls out an old camcorder that’s sitting in a filing box. “We have to play this.”
“You’re sure this isn’t . . . weird?” Emma comes out of the master bedroom in a set of red silk pajamas. When I pulled them from my mother’s wardrobe, the memory of her wearing them in the kitchen came fully into view. “Do you think she would mind?”
I shake my head, patting the spot next to me on the bed.
The linens and towels are the only things that are new in the house.
That, and my brother seems to have gotten rid of a few furniture items, or maybe he took them to his own estate.
But the master bedroom is largely untouched.
Even Mom’s perfumes still sit on the vanity that overlooks the window.
I almost cried when I smelled her perfume. I’ve forgotten so much about her, but here in the house, it’s as if I’m finding pieces scattered everywhere, and they’re so familiar, as if they were locked in my head.
Emma jumps onto the bed next to me with the remote. “You’re sure about this?”
I have no idea what could be on it, but I need to know. This whole place is pulling out more memories than I’ve been able to muster since I was a child.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
The fuzzy screen morphs into an image of the downstairs kitchen, with its muted mint wallpaper and scalloped wooden cabinets.
“Hi, say hi to Mommy.” My dad’s voice is deep. I remember. I thought I had forgotten.
The camera moves to my mom.
She’s . . . smiling with red lipstick on. Her dark chocolate hair matches mine. I’ve never seen a picture of her smiling. All the ones I have are frowning family portraits.
“Oh hello Ms. Florence,” she says.
He teases her with the camera as her laugh trickles through the speaker. I remember that, too. Somewhere in this body, I remember all of it as if it’s been a part of me this whole time.
“She’s so beautiful,” Emma says.
Something deep in my foundation cracks and I grab her hand. It’s coming from my chest and making my entire body shake.
My brothers run past the camera with toy guns.
“Look at her.” The camera pans to Florence in my dad’s arms. “Beautiful girl takes after her mother.”
Florence must be weeks old. She’s so tiny.
“What do we have here?”
The camera moves over my mother’s shoulder to a counter full of dough and flour. My mom waves to him with a flick of flour from her fingers.
“You’ll get some. Don’t worry.”
“She makes the best cookies. Doesn’t she, Dacre?”
I can’t breathe. A little boy with brown hair and green eyes waves him off with an eye roll. She did cook . . . We cooked together.
“Dad, this is our time.”
“My apologies, son.”
“Are you okay?” Emma presses her warm hand to my cheek.
I nod as tears well in my eyes. I physically can’t look away. My mother demonstrates how to roll the dough, and I follow her instructions. I’m smiling too.
We were all happy once, here in our own little oasis. I didn’t think I had this, that I was just one of the unlucky bastards in the world who had a family that didn’t care about love and only cared about money and status.
The recording stops, and we sit in the dark with only the sound of her heartbeat next to me.
“Your family loved you,” she whispers. “You’re just like them.”
The sob breaks in my chest, letting the fear and relief leak from my body. Emma’s arms are around me as I fall into her.
“I knew you were loved.”
The tears won’t stop. I didn’t think I could cry. I’ve never managed to muster even a few tears. The most I’ve ever wept has been for Florence, the night I lost her and then found her again.
Emma’s patient hands move the hair away from my forehead while I cry in her lap. There’s overwhelming grief that’s overpowered by catharsis. She softly hums till I’m ready to lift my head.
She grabs the sheet and helps me wipe my face. “I got glitter on you.”
“I don’t mind.”
I lay my head in her lap and pull her hips toward me, and she kisses my forehead.
“Do you think your parents would mind a bed and breakfast in their home? It’s so beautiful.”
She’s thinking of them as if she knew them and I love that.
“I think they’d . . . be proud of me no matter what I decide to do.”
That’s a sentence that’s never left my mouth, but I finally believe it.