CHAPTER 32
Claire
Claire gripped the steering wheel tighter, listening to the whir of the golf cart as it sped along the path.
“Easy there, Danica Patrick. We only have one more hole.”
She stared straight ahead, her gaze roaming over the dark green rolling hills.
“Still enjoy going fast, I see.”
She nodded and eased up on the pedal, not saying he’d been the one to control the speed, albeit at her urging, when she used to ride with him.
The eighteenth hole was just ahead. For the past four hours, she’d tried her best to be civil, and her father had centered most of the conversation around golf and work. They’d discussed legal cases, of all things. If this country club were a room, a big fat elephant would occupy most of it.
All she wanted was to get this over with, go home, and call Ian.
Just her luck, people were lingering at the last hole, and she and Dad would have to wait their turn. She threw the cart in park. A slight breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of Acqua di Parma. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father run his palms over his thighs.
“Has your mother told you?”
Crap. Here we go.
“About your upcoming nuptials? Yes. Congratulations.” Her voice was flat.
A pause. “I know you’re angry with me—”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” She shot him a sideways glance. At least he looked duly contrite. Her heart squeezed painfully at the sight of his handsome face, changed only by a few wrinkles at the corners of his green eyes, eerily identical to her own.
“Look, I’m not expecting your feelings to change overnight. But the fact that you are here says something.”
“It says I couldn’t say no to Mom.”
“I’ll take that.” When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I never stopped thinking about you, Pumpkin. You were always on my mind.”
“Is that why you never called? Never sent a note, a birthday card?” A spiky lump rose in her throat, and she angrily swallowed it down, only to have her eyes sting too.
Ugh.
“I’m sorry you went through—”
“You don’t know what I went through! One day, you were there; the next day, gone.
Just like that. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.
You could at least have talked to me and told me you were never coming back, so I didn’t have to run to the window like an idiot every time I thought I heard your car.
” She hated that her voice sounded shaky and high-pitched.
He winced. “You are the furthest from an idiot anyone could ever be, my Pumpkin.”
My Pumpkin.
Damn the endearment, damn the tenderness in his soothing voice, the voice she used to love so much. And damn the tears that brimmed, blurring her vision and spilling hotly down her cheeks.
“You were my whole world,” she said, her voice raspy. “All that love … you just … you took the love away.”
The tears rolled freely now, one after another, but she didn’t wipe them. He sat there quietly, his manicured hands tensing and releasing on his thighs. She couldn’t believe that, despite everything, she wished he’d take her in his arms and hold her, as he used to when she was little and got hurt.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me or even to understand.” He shifted in his seat. “But you well know that evidence is more powerful than words or explanations. I have something for you. And it will show you things I can’t possibly put into words.”
Her father, the brilliant litigator capable of convincing juries and winning seemingly hopeless cases, didn’t have words.
“All I ask is that you look at it. That’s all.”
The foursome in front of them climbed into their cart and drove off. Claire swiped at her cheeks and raised her chin, doing her best not to sniffle.
“What do you say?” her father asked softly. “Will you look at it?”
Claire stepped on the pedal, and the golf cart lurched forward. “I might.”
·
Claire stared down at her Kindle book, unable to make sense of the words. Ridiculous that she thought she could read while her mother was undergoing the transfer. She turned off her iPad, shoved it in her tote bag, then picked up her phone again and swiped to bring up her messages.
Ian: If you are asleep, sleep tight. And if you’re awake, good morning.
Claire: Good morning. Sorry, I didn’t see this last night. I took some Advil PM.
She normally avoided pills of any sort, but there was no way she could have fallen asleep last night without taking something.
Claire frowned. Her message had gone through but showed as unread. He must be in the air right now. She wished she would have asked him for his flight schedule. She checked to make sure the sound was on, then put away her phone.
Her stomach made known that she’d skipped dinner and breakfast. She briefly considered going to the cafeteria, but nausea rose at the thought of food.
What was taking so long?
She shouldered her purse and rose. Just then, the waiting room door opened, and Dr. Dawson walked in, removing his surgical mask as he approached. Claire searched his face but couldn’t read a thing.
But then he smiled, and she wanted to launch herself at him and hug him, so great was her relief.
“Hello, Miss Burns. All good. She did very well.”
“You did very well. Thank you so much for everything.”
“Just doing my job,” he replied. “It’s what we do.”
“When can I see her?”
“Soon. A nurse will come and take you to her room.” He gave her a polite nod and headed out.
Claire sat, then stood and paced, then sat again.
The box her father had given her after their golf game lay untouched on the bench.
She stared at it. It was a beautiful wooden box with an inlaid mother-of-pearl design shaped like a flower.
She fingered the translucent petals, curiosity finally getting the best of her.
Gingerly, she lifted the lid.
A photo of her father came into view. Grinning broadly, he sat in a chair by her mother, who lay in a hospital bed, looking at him with such adoration that it made Claire’s throat close.
In his arms, an infant, tightly swaddled in a white blanket with hot pink and turquoise stripes.
She turned over the picture. Below her birth date was inscribed, Daddy won.
Her name is Claire because she looks nothing like a Taylor.
Under the picture was a letter in his distinctive, elegant handwriting.
Words of a new father’s wonder and elation jumped off the page.
Claire went through the stack. So many photos and letters, one for each birthday, ending with this year.
There were pictures of her walking home from school.
Photos of her at dance class and recitals.
Pictures of her at graduation. For every photo, there was a letter accompanying it.
All had been sent; all had been returned to the sender unopened.
Claire sat there, numb with shock. He had had people watching her all along. And taking pictures. He’d been there, invisibly, for every milestone.
The last letter was dated just last month.
Dear Claire,
Hopefully, this is the last time I have to communicate with you this way. Your mother and I have reconnected, and I’m headed your way.
Part of me is elated and excited; the other part, sorrowful for having wasted all these years.
There was never any doubt in my heart that your mom is, and always has been, my one great love.
The only greater love was that which I felt for you as your father.
I knew I’d never be the same man again the second they placed you in my arms, tiny and perfect, with my hair and eyes.
Not in a thousand years did I ever think our little family would break apart.
The day I drove away was the lowest point of my life.
I left my heart and soul in that house. I hoped your mother would at least stay in touch, and when I realized she had no intention of keeping the lines of communication open, I was devastated.
I couldn’t go on about my daily life without knowing what was happening in yours.
If I couldn’t be there, at least I wanted to see that you were OK.
So, I used my resources and hired someone.
I watched it all, sweetheart. Sometimes, it really hurt to see you growing up without me.
But it was better than the alternative: losing touch completely.
Yes, I remarried, but my heart was elsewhere. After many years of going through the motions and making it clear I wanted no children by her, my second wife chose to go her own way, freeing me to return to the place I always wanted to be: back with the love of my life.
Words cannot describe how proud I am of the strong, beautiful woman you’ve become. I missed the first part of your journey on this planet, but I am hopeful that, going forward, there will be a place for me in the next part, however small.
This box contains everything I’ve ever gathered over the years. I hope it shows you that although I wasn’t physically there, emotionally, I’ve always been right by your side.
With love always,
Your Daddy
Claire set the letter down, carefully closed the box, then clapped a hand over her mouth, sucking in several deep breaths in the fight to control herself.
Daddy had never forgotten her, ever.
The waiting room door opened, and in he walked, his handsome face showing such trepidation, she had to look away. But his presence pulled her like a magnet, and the next second, she found herself in his arms.
His warmth, his strength, and that achingly familiar Acqua di Parma scent … Claire leaned into him, inhaling deeply. The years fell away, and she was five again, enveloped in the security of her father’s comforting embrace.
·
Claire stepped into the steamy shower, letting the water run over her in a soothing, warm cascade.
This week had taken emotional exhaustion to a new level, and now she was physically exhausted, too.
She opened the little box of Irish Spring, pulling out the green bar and bringing it to her nose.
It was Ian’s soap. She’d snatched it from his bathroom and walked off with it, earning his chuckle.
“Stealing my soap, Penny?”
“If you can’t be all over my body, I’ll take this with me. At least I’ll smell like you. Why don’t you ever wear cologne?”
“I never found one I liked, except what Adam wears, and I’m not doing the same thing; that would be weird. Why? Do you think I need cologne?”
She’d buried her face in his neck to breathe in his delicious scent, then nipped him. “No.”
She passed the soap bar over her breasts and belly.
The shower stall quickly filled with Ian’s fresh green fragrance, and Claire inhaled deeply, comforted by his familiar scent.
Oh, how she missed him. She’d tried calling and texting, eager to tell him everything that had occurred over the past two days, but nothing had gone through.
She was beginning to think something had happened to his phone.
Or to him.
Immediately, she rejected that thought with everything she had.
But knowing his job was what it was, worry lingered at the back of her mind.
She quickly toweled off and dried her hair, choosing the jade-green nightgown she’d worn for Ian.
Or rather, she’d modeled for Ian. He hadn’t left it on her body long enough for the garment to qualify as having been worn.
The house was eerily quiet. She found the remote and switched on the TV, idly flipping through channels and stopping on a show about selling jets. She smiled and grabbed her phone.
Still the same texts. All unread.
Claire: I can’t wait to talk to you.
She waited for the text to be sent, but no notification showed.
“It didn’t go through,” she muttered.
Huh.
Frowning, she thumbed through her contacts, took a deep breath, and found the one she needed. Heart pounding, she tapped send.
It only rang once.
“Larssen.”
Her heart squeezed. Exactly the way Ian answered his phone.
“Hello, Adam.” When she heard no reply, she added, “This is Claire Burns.”
A pause.
“Hello.” Nothing else. He sounded terse.
Claire instantly regretted bothering him, but she already had, so she forged ahead. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. There seems to be something wrong with Ian’s phone. My texts aren’t going through, and calls go right to voicemail. Is everything OK?
An even longer pause. “No, Miss Burns, everything is not OK. Ian is in the hospital. He’s in a coma.”