Chapter 3
THE BOSTON SKYLINE COMES INTO VIEW, GRAY BUILDINGS POKING UP through the mist, the Charles River dark and winding through town like a snake.
I exit the highway and head downtown. I listen as Siri guides me to a multilayered parking garage close to my father’s building.
The scent of exhaust and a light tinge of sea water fills the air as I make my way down the busy city block.
At the steps of a tall, impressive apartment building, a doorman greets me and asks my name. I get past the first gatekeeper.
The lobby of the building is shiny with brass accents and crystal lamps. At the desk, I am questioned again, and Alex Spencer is notified of my arrival. Then I’m shown to the elevator. My heart beats in heavy thumps as I’m whisked to the penthouse. And I wonder if this is a mistake.
Two months ago, after Mom died, I contacted Alex Spencer through his website and told him that Lana Breen had been my mother and gave him the details of my birth, as far as I knew them.
I didn’t hear anything for several weeks and concluded that he thought I was some nut, or I was mistaken about what I’d found in my mother’s strong box.
But then his lawyer called and asked me questions and if I’d submit to a DNA test, which I did, and the proof was there.
I was stunned to find out that my father is a bestselling author when I have written fiction nearly my whole life, something my mother discouraged, but that makes sense now.
Anything to do with him was poison to her.
Alex and I have been emailing back and forth, trying to get to know each other. When he learned of my mother’s recent death, he extended an invitation to me to stay at his family’s lake house. And, while anxious, I’ve accepted.
The doors of the elevator slide open with a chime and I’m standing in a carpeted hallway in front of a massive door. I ring the bell and a woman, not much older than I am, answers.
“Emma? How nice to meet you. I’m Liliana.” She’s his third wife. I’d researched what I could about my father, trying to make sense of his life and mine. She’s gorgeous. Olive skin, large dark eyes, a beautiful smile, and heavily pregnant.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say, my voice squeaky. I feel dowdy in my jeans and black turtleneck, my long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Alex is so anxious to see you. He’s in his office.”
I follow her through a richly appointed living room full of antiques and heavy furniture. She stops before a carved wooden door, knocks softly, and pulls the door open.
He’s sitting at a large, ornate desk, an open laptop in front of him. He stands and removes black-framed glasses when he hears me enter.
My father is tall with thick dark hair mixed with a bit of gray. His blue eyes, which I inherited, are sharp and friendly, with a smattering of fine lines at their corners. He smiles widely as he moves around the desk to greet me.
My knees feel like they might buckle and render me a puddle at his feet. But he takes my hand in both of his and his strength reassures me.
“Emma.” He says my name slowly.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I manage, my thoughts and emotions whirling through my brain. I feel hot; my face is surely red, and I wonder what I’ve done coming here.
“Let’s sit.” He waves me over to two leather wingback chairs that are positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Alex doesn’t say anything for a moment. He seems to be assessing me, looking almost through me, maybe trying to see traces of my mother. I try not to squirm, to keep my face pleasant, to keep my nerves at bay.
“It’s great to finally meet you in person,” he says at last.
My thoughts turn to my mother, and I wonder what really happened between them. In our emails, Alex and I had tiptoed around my mother’s pregnancy and his leaving her. He didn’t volunteer any details, and I didn’t want to ask, not yet anyway.
He clears his throat. “How was traffic?”
“Not too bad.”
“Good. I’m so glad you accepted my offer to stay at the lake house.”
“I’m glad to be here. I’m looking for a new start.”
He nods and taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair as if wondering where to take the conversation next. We’d covered a lot of the basics in our emails. “So, tell me about this novel you’ve been working on.” He crosses his legs like some TV interviewer.
“I’ve been writing most of my life, like I told you. I started my novel in college. It was an assignment in one of my creative writing classes—”
“Amazing.” He shakes his head. “And you really had no idea who I was?”
“No. My mother wouldn’t tell me.”
He chews the earpiece of his glasses. “My other children have no interest in writing. And they grew up with me!” He huffs out a breath. “Anyway, continue.”
“We were supposed to come up with an outline for a novel and the first chapter. That was the assignment.”
“I never outline,” he says. “That never worked for me.”
I try to smile, steady my breath. “I managed to complete the assignment, but I’ve deviated from my outline completely.”
“So, what’s it about?”
I feel small and inadequate as I look at the framed book cover art hanging on his office wall, all bestsellers. And two of his novels have been made into major films. “Well, it’s nothing special. I don’t even know what genre it fits into. Just general fiction, I guess.”
He chuckles. “Okay. Where’s it set?”
“New York. Upstate. I’ve lived there since high school.”
“So, what happens there in Upstate New York?”
I swallow. “It’s about a young woman and her mother. Their relationship.” God, that sounds awful.
“Well, I’d love to read it and help if I can.”
“I’d be honored.” My eyes wander to the first book cover on the wall.
Its title is Killer on the Trail. Alex Spencer writes thrillers based on historical events.
His first novel is about a serial killer who hitches a ride with pioneers on the California Trail.
Since I discovered his identity, I managed to read his first three novels and am halfway through the fourth.
I was completely drawn to his immersive prose, historical settings, and heart-pounding mystery. My novel has felt a little flat since.
He stands suddenly. “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.” He hurries from the room, and I sink back into my chair.
All my life I’ve wondered about my father.
Who was he? What was he really like? And there was always that yearning for family, a deep feeling of being left, a vast emptiness.
That desire for connection was probably what blinded me to my ex-husband’s faults, which, looking back, are glaringly obvious now.
Ben was so handsome, so charming, and I had such a longing to be part of a family that marriage seemed to be the way to fill that void in my life. A painful lesson to learn.
Alex returns bearing a tray containing a tall mug of black coffee, a delicate teacup, and cream and sugar. A plate of cookies, macaroons, in a rainbow of colors, sits beside the drinks.
“Help yourself,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. While I fix my tea, he goes to his desk and removes a notebook. “I need to give you directions to the lake house.” His eyes meet mine. “Your GPS won’t find it. It’s quite remote.”
He sits again, sips his coffee, and sets his mug on the table between us.
“Let me give you a little rundown on the house first. There are only three, no four houses, on Cheshire Lake. For years there were only three. The fourth is fairly new.” He smirks.
“The original three were built, shit”—he scratches his head—“over a hundred years ago by three families, one, of course, being the Spencers. I grew up there, and I go there now when I’ve got serious writing to do, or I just need a break from the city.
The closest town is Evansport, not far over the Maine border.
It’s not a big place, but it’s quaint and has everything you need.
And you won’t be alone at the house. The Harwoods, Ruth and Simon, live next door.
They’re practically family. They’re elderly, but Ruth is pretty spry, knows everything about the area.
I’ve already let her know that you’re coming, so brace yourself to be inundated with homemade baked goods.
Simon is starting into dementia unfortunately.
” A shadow passes over his face. “But he’s still doing okay.
Now, on the other side, the first house you come to is the Cole house.
Noah Cole is a nice enough guy but keeps to himself.
His parents own the place, but they prefer to spend their time in New York, so you probably won’t see them. ”
Alex glances out the window where Boston Harbor lies, dark and choppy.
“What about the fourth house?” I ask.
“That was built about ten years ago. A modern monstrosity.” He winces.
“It sits across the lake. The original three families wanted to keep Cheshire Lake private and bought all the surrounding land, but old man Cole decided to sell a chunk that belonged to him, desperate to make a buck, I guess. There’s a couple that lives there.
Nice people, but outsiders really. They moved up from New York quite a while ago looking to buy up land in Maine.
Anyway”—Alex picks up a lavender macaroon—“you’ll have all the privacy you need but with company if you want it. ”
“It sounds lovely.”
He smiles and, so far, it’s hard to square this man with the one my mother painted.
“I’ll write down the directions or you’ll never find it. Siri doesn’t even know where it is.” He laughs, exposing perfect white teeth.
I sip my tea while Alex scribbles in the notebook.
“When you come to the gate, you’ll need to punch in the code.
” He writes a string of numbers in a bold hand.
“After that, you’ll get to the lake in another quarter mile.
Turn left and you’ll see three large houses in a row.
Spencer House is the middle one.” He stands and goes to his desk, rummages in the top drawer. “Keys.”
We finish our drinks, and I manage to eat a pink macaroon, although I have no appetite.
Too much happening to process. Alex tears off a sheet from the notebook and I notice the detailed directions.
“You better get going, Emma.” He glances out the window again.
“Before the sun sets.” He clears his throat.
“It’s hard enough to find the house in broad daylight. ” We stand and Alex grasps my hand.
“I’m thrilled I’ve got a new daughter,” he says. “After you get your feet under you, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the clan.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Enjoy the house, Emma. I’ll talk to you soon.”