26. Leave a Trace
Leave a Trace
Jack got sick of emailing real quick, something about the typing taking too long—so I bought him a tablet while he was here—showed him how to use it for video calls and Rob helped hook up his wi-fi.
The connection crackles for a second before Jack’s face blinks into view. It’s a little dark, his reading glasses reflecting the screen.
“Look who it is.” He grins, lifting his tea in salute.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Kiddo.” He waves down the barrel of the camera. “How’s the tour going—how’s the rest of the family?”
“The tour is great—wrapped up a week ago. As for the family, well…that’s a little more complicated.”
“Oh, what happened now?” he asks.
“Monty pushed my buttons so I said some shit and stormed out of Thanksgiving.”
I omit the comment Mortimer made about my mom, pretty sure Jack would fly over here and clock him just for even thinking it. After Thanksgiving went nuclear, Philippa and my father left dozens of messages and calls. But I’m not ready to talk to them.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
Well, maybe not forever.
Well, maybe not Philippa, I’m starting to miss her, something I hadn’t ever felt before.
“Crikey.” Jack winces. “You come in swingin’, did ya?”
“Kinda.”
Riley crouches beside me, chewing a protein bar with her coat half on. “Hey, Jack! Love the flanno PJs.”
“Hey, Riley.” He waves, holding up the collar. “Genuine Kmart couture.”
“Lookin’ good, anyway gotta head out to work!” She laughs and ducks out the door.
I rub my eyes. “I think I might have broken something that’s not gonna get fixed this time.”
Jack takes a sip of his tea. “You’ve been bottlin’ all that up, it was bound to boil over. Doesn’t mean it’s broke. Just means the lights are finally on.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
He leans back, the screen tilting with him. “Means you stopped pretending you weren’t hurt. They can finally see you—whether they want to or not. That’s somethin’, kiddo.”
I stare at the little green light on my phone. My thumbnail traces the seam of the blanket.
“I hate how much I still want him to try.”
Just as it feels like I’m taking a step forward with my family, something happens, and we’re ten steps back again. But I want to keep my word to my mom.
“Christmas is next week.” My voice cracks. “I don’t want it to be like this.”
He nods once. “Then be the bigger person. Not for them—for you. Say your piece. Put it to bed. Either they show up different…or they don’t. But you’ll know you did your bit.”
A silence passes. Thick, but not heavy.
“Still not too late to bugger off home, by the way,” he adds. “We’ve got prawns, Mum’s old tinsel tree, and a heatwave brewin’. Real festive.”
I smile, throat tight. “Tempting. But no.”
“Didn’t think so.” He softens. “I’m proud of ya. Even when you’re mad as a cut snake.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
We end the call and I sit there, holding the phone frozen, my coffee’s gone cold. I call Luca and pull the blanket off, get up, and reach for my coat.
The sun hasn’t clawed its way fully up yet—just a weak glow over the buildings, stretching long shadows down the street. I stare out the window, picking at the loose thread in my glove, heart thudding louder the closer we get to the townhouse.
When we roll to a stop, I stay seated. Luca watches me.
“You gonna sit out front ‘til New Year’s?”
I exhale through my nose, unbuckle. “I didn’t even call ahead. It’s nine in the morning—what kind of maniac just shows up?”
“You,” he says, chuckling.
I give a weak smile, then climb out. Luca stays parked at the curb.
The front door opens before I can ring.
Colin. Crisp as ever in his morning coat. “Miss Elena,” he greets, a slight hint of surprise in his tone.
“Are they awake?” I ask.
“They’re enjoying breakfast in the conservatory.” He puts his hands out, offering to take my coat. “Shall I announce you?”
I swallow. “No. No, I’ve got it.”
He steps aside. I cross the threshold, the warmth of the house meeting me—orange zest, coffee, the faint pine of the Christmas garland wound around the staircase. My sneakers are too loud on the marble. I don’t remember it echoing this much when I lived here.
Down the corridor. Past the portrait of my father’s grandfather. The door at the end is already ajar.
Laughter.
Carole’s laugh.
I pause outside the conservatory, one hand curled into my coat pocket. When I open the door to the floor-to-ceiling glass room, one of their maids is tending to a shelf of delicate orchids.
“Good morning,” I announce, my mouth tastes like metal.
They both look up from their breakfast—my father in a custom three-piece suit, reading glasses perched low as he reads The Wall Street Journal, Carole in Chanel, full pearls before 8 a.m. Her hair already looks like it’s been set by someone on the payroll. It feels like I’m intruding.
I’ve shown up in last night’s sweats, coat wrinkled from the backseat of the car, worn sneakers that probably have old gum on the sole.
Haute couture.
Their eyes widen.
“Elena, good morning, dear,” Carole says, blinking fast, voice dipped in soft honey like I might bolt if startled. “Would you like some breakfast?”
I stare at the spread between them, it’s enough food to feed at least five people. While it looks appetizing, my stomach roils in anticipation.
“I’m good. Not here to fuck spiders.”
They stare. Silence balloons.
“Pardon?” Carole’s voice tilts.
“Elena,” my father says—warning in his voice like I’m eight and about to knock over a Ming vase.
I shrug. “Sorry, means I’m not here to waste time. It’s an Aussie thing—was talking to Jack before I came here.”
“What funny saying,” Carole quips, delighted.
My pulse thuds in my neck. I hold his gaze, wait for him to pull rank, demand I watch my tone.
Instead, he folds his glasses and sets them on the table. “Then sit. Let’s talk.”
I walk in slowly, unbuttoning my coat as I enter enemy territory, instead of a sunlit room full of jam and fresh croissants. I sit for a moment, but the nerves get the best of me, so I stand up again, shifting from foot to foot.
“I came because I don’t want to carry this into Christmas. I don’t want to spend another year acting like everything’s fine, only to blow up about it later.”
My father’s jaw ticks. Carole watches me, endless patience painted in her eyes.
“You hurt me,” I say, eyes still on him. “You both did. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over it—but I’m trying…”
I pause, take a breath, then continue.
“I need you,” I fix my gaze firmly on my father, “to give me a chance to navigate my life without trying to control every aspect of it, all I want from you is your support—without judgement.”
His mouth opens, but I keep going.
“I know our family history is…complicated but Carole, I’m sorry—for the shit I said. I can’t take it back, but after the crap with my ex…you were so kind to me. I can’t say I’ll always be nice, but I’ll try my best to be…nicer.”
I sigh, “So, I’m saying it. Out loud. And now it’s yours to do what you want with. But I’ve said it.”
There’s so much left to say—about the divorce, about Mom, about the damage he’s done to me. But it doesn’t feel like the right time.
Small, baby steps.
Years of resentment doesn’t just go away overnight—this is me trying—again.
Carole gasps, not expecting an apology from me. “Elena, thank you—that must have taken some courage to do…I’m proud of you,” she says, eyes glassy as she takes a sip from her teacup, swallowing her emotions down.
Mortimer looks…off-balance? As if I’ve knocked the rhythm out of his usual measured cadence.
Then, smoothing the paper flat with one hand, he says, “What about the man you were pictured with at the charity gala?”
My mouth twitches.
Rage starts to bubble up. I glance around, looking for something—anything—to calm myself.
“Can I have one of these?” I ask, pointing to the pile of croissants in front of them. I don’t wait for a response—just grab one and shove half into my mouth. One, to shut me up before I blow up. Two, to buy myself a second to calm down.
Chew.
Fuck, that’s delicious.
Breathe. In and out.
“He’s just a friend I ran into,” I say, chewing between mouthfuls.
Mortimer doesn’t need the whole truth. Broderick is my friend, and I did run into him—I’m not about to go full National Geographic detailing how he fucked me every which-way to Sunday.
He raises an eyebrow, dubious.
I swallow hard.
“Look, I can’t control what the media says. They’ll always twist situations into salacious stories about me. If you want to know something, just ask. I’m asking you to trust me. Believe in me.”
A long breath leaves him—more like a deflation than a sigh. “I would like to do that, if you would answer my calls or even accept my invitation for dinners every now and then.”
“I know…I know, I’ll do better.” I throw my hands up in defeat. I can’t rebuild anything if I keep avoiding him.
“I must admit, Elena…it was hard enough when Philippa started dating.” He clears his throat. “I think I’m still playing catch-up with you.”
That was unexpected.
“You’d never shown much interest in boys. At one point I thought…well, I thought you might have been romantically involved with Riley.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
What the fuck.
I almost laugh, but he goes on.
“Then imagine my surprise—you cavorting with a much older man, and your exploits plastered everywhere for me and the world to see.” He swallows. “It’s confronting, to say the least. I still see you as that seventeen-year-old girl. Elena—I missed out on so many years of your life.”
I grasp the half-eaten croissant like a lifeline, shoving the rest into my mouth to stop myself from interrupting.
“I only want to protect you,” he says, quieter now. “We know firsthand what the media can be like.” He throws a sideway glance at Carole, whose eyes soften with understanding.
The sentence hangs between us like smoke, curling into the memory of a scandal Carole once told me about.
“I understand—kind of. But can we agree, that if you see anything in the media, talk to me about it first? Privately. Don’t slaughter me in front of the family and make a meal of it,” I plead.