Take This Regret (29 page)

I pul ed the phone from my pocket, rol ed to my side as I tucked my pil ow under my head and lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Daddy.” Her sweet voice assuaged the weight on my chest and chased the fog from my brain.

She’d been so scared this afternoon, fearing I was leaving her, not understanding what was happening or why I’d reacted in such a way. It was that voice that had touched me, had
shaken
me—one that I could never ignore.

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s my girl?”

She sighed, the sound wrapping me up in her tiny arms. “Just thinking about you, Daddy.”

And for the first time tonight, I smiled.

My mother sat in front of me while I stood with my hands resting on her shoulders. Tremors rol ed through her body as she tried in vain to hide the tears she shed for a man she had never stopped loving.

I squeezed her and hoped it gave her comfort, a quiet reassurance that I was here.

Though we felt as if we didn’t belong, my mother and I blended in with the sea of black—black suits, black dresses, and black umbrel as that protected from the ceaseless drizzle of rain, the air heavy and damp. A black casket gleamed bright and ominous in the middle of it al . It was covered in what seemed to be thousands of white and yel ow flowers and a mil ion raindrops. My father’s last spectacle, his final farewel .

Samuel Clymer, my father’s business partner and probably his only true friend, rose to give the eulogy. He moved heavily to the podium, cleared his throat as his eyes flitted over those in attendance, and looked upon my mother and me for a moment longer. He was a man I’d known al of my life, tal and stocky, his cheeks round and red. From my childhood, I remembered him with a ful head of brown, curly hair; he now was balding and wore wire-rimmed glasses that he continual y pushed up his nose.

His voice cracked as he spoke kind words of my father and told of a man different from the one that I’d known.

When Samuel finished, he moved aside and lifted his glasses to wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief.

The minister began the last prayer, and my father’s casket was lowered into the ground.

With the prayer, I bowed my head and wil ed tears that never came.

Instead, I watched with a hol ow ache as my father’s widow stood to throw the first handful of dirt into his grave.

She was young, younger than I was, her black-skirted suit perfectly tailored to fit her perfect body—another prize my father had won.

As she threw the dirt, Mom reached up and clutched my hand. She held her breath in grief as the soil scattered and showered through the flowers. She failed to stifle a cry with a tissue against her mouth. I kneaded her hand in mine as everyone who had gathered to grieve my father went forward to pay their last respects; some faces familiar, distant relatives and old friends, as wel as many strangers.

Voices were hushed and respectful as they passed by.

We waited until the crowd cleared before Mom stood, and together we went forward. Mom whispered at the edge of his grave, indecipherable words that bled together, maybe a prayer, maybe a goodbye. Then she reached down and tossed a handful of dirt onto the black casket below.

I knelt and dug my hand into the mound of soft dirt, cold and foreign. I fisted it and wished we had ended things differently, that I could mourn my father as a real son should.

I felt sick as I dumped the handful of dirt over his casket and murmured an unheard goodbye.

The limo turned onto the private drive lined with wiry elms and lush oaks. The sun had broken through the clouds, and rays of light glinted down through the branches as we passed by.

Mom and I sat in apprehensive silence as the driver fol owed the path that curved around the sweeping grounds and came to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the enormous house we had once cal ed home. It was an imposing three-story colonial, its roof pitched as it stretched for the sky. Evergreens towered over its height, impressive and strong, so much in the way my father had viewed himself to be.

From the backseat of the car, Mom gazed out at the house I had grown up in. Her grief was suffocating, and I found it hard to breathe in the confined area. She looked at me, her face wet and splotchy as she shook her head as her lips trembled.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.”

I had no words to comfort my mother, so I reached out and drew her to me, hugged her while she sobbed against my chest. She’d told me once that she’d never stopped loving him, but I’d never understood the depths of that love until I’d first seen her in the hotel lobby when I’d arrived, her face ashen—devastated.

“We don’t have to stay.” I rocked her as I spoke, unsure if my offer was more for her benefit or mine.

She sniffed, pul ed away to wipe her eyes and nose with a tissue, and looked back at the house. “No.” She slid her watery eyes to me, swal owing back the emotion. “We should stay.”

Even though I didn’t want to be here, I knew she was right. In the very least, I owed my father this, a measure of respect in his passing and my presence as his family and friends gathered to say goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted me here, but in the end, I was what I was—his son.

With a tight smile, I extended my hand to Mom. “Come on.”

She clenched my hand, breathing through her nose in calculated breaths, unsure of her welcome or where she stood.

This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.

The house was almost exactly as I remembered. The furniture in the formal living room off the foyer remained the same—ornate upholstered pieces widely unused, polished antiques. A staircase wound to the floors above, and artwork hung from the wal s, planned and cold.

How I longed for the warmth of Elizabeth’s little house, for the clutter and the mess, for the comfort of stepping over toys abandoned on the floor, and for the ability to rest my bare feet on the edge of her worn coffee table.

I took a deep breath and told myself, “
You can do
this
.”

Muted voices echoed over the dark hardwood floors.

The first level overflowed with people, family and acquaintances, friends and clients. They converged in smal groups, some chatting quietly and others hugging each other and wiping away lingering tears.

Mom’s gaze caressed the living room, embracing fond memories before final y resting on the piano at the far end of the living room.

My father had played al his life, his mother dedicating him to lessons from the time he was a young boy. I realized suddenly that the only time I’d ever seen him let his guard down was when he’d play. I’d forgotten how Mom would sit on the chaise lounge by the window and stare outside, engrossed in the strains of his melody, her body swaying to my father’s tempo, at one with him.

Or perhaps I hadn’t forgotten. Maybe I hadn’t been old enough to see it for what it was.

Mom crossed the room to it as if it were a magnet, and I fol owed a bit behind to give her time. She ran her fingertips along the glossy black wood and sat down at the bench. She reached out her finger and played a solitary key. Her eyes were closed, lost in the past.

I turned away to give her privacy and parted the sheer curtain covering the huge windows that faced out the back of the house and over the pool; the view extended out to the salt-water marshes of Lynnhaven River. I could picture myself as a boy running through the high grass, climbing the trees, tossing rocks in the water. Mom had lol ed by the pool, and I’d thought she’d paid me no attention at al , yet she stil had an uncanny way of knowing when I’d been up to something I shouldn’t be, of cal ing out to be careful just before I did something that was sure to cause me harm.

“You used to play out there for hours.” I was startled from the wanderings of my mind by Mom’s soft words and tender touch on my arm. She smiled up at me, her expression wistful as if she were picturing the exact same thing I had been.

A gentle huff came through my nose, an appreciation of those memories that had been buried beneath the pressure that had come from this place. “I loved it out there,” I admitted, taking her hand. “I’d forgotten how much.”

“Claire?” We both turned. Aunt Mary, my father’s older sister, stood behind us, wringing her hands in a white handkerchief. She was stil tal and slender, her long black hair pul ed back in a coif at the base of her neck, her eyes sad.

Mom tensed. Her biggest fear of coming here had been the reaction of her ex-husband’s family, not knowing whether they would condemn her presence or if it would somehow bring them more pain.

Aunt Mary pul ed Mom into a hug, cried into her shoulder, and told her how much it meant that she’d come before she turned to me and did the same. I hugged her close, told her how sorry I was, before I excused myself to al ow them the space to reconnect as they made apologies that were not owed, their estrangement a consequence of circumstance.

Standing at the edge of the room, I shifted my feet and dug my hands deeper and deeper into my pants pockets as I accepted the condolences of those who stopped as they passed by. I chatted with distant cousins who I’d not seen in years, murmured thanks for the apologies of strangers. It was hard pretending that the strained relationship my father and I had shared hadn’t crumbled in the end, that he hadn’t disowned me, and that I hadn’t walked out of his life. I wondered how many knew, that as they shook my hand and forced a smile that they weren’t questioning what I was doing here, why I had come.

My father’s wife wouldn’t even look at me, not that I wanted her recognition. My father wasn’t just a bastard, but a hypocrite. I couldn’t understand his unfounded ridicule of Elizabeth, and then for him to turn around and marry a woman like Kendra.

I tensed when Samuel Clymer caught my eye from across the room and approached with his hand extended.

“Christian.”

In my discomfort, I averted my gaze wishing I didn’t have to face my father’s partner. It had been easy walking from that office in reaction to my father accusations, but in doing so, I’d also walked out on Samuel. He’d always been kind to me, a mentor who had helped in every aspect when I’d made the transfer to San Diego. Out of respect, I accepted his hand. “Samuel.”

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked as he gestured with his head in the direction of the terrace.

For a moment, I hesitated. I real y didn’t want to have this conversation here at my father’s funeral. But I relented and fol owed him out back through the french doors and to the patio.

He was silent as he looked out over the river. I waited behind him, nervous to discover his intentions.

He rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his balding head, sighing when he turned back to me. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, appearing flustered.

“Listen”—he paused and released a heavy breath, seeming to need to find his words as he took one step forward—“I just wanted to tel you how sorry I am about your father.”

Sighing, I roughed a hand through my hair as I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” I didn’t know how to respond.

Samuel’s name was listed right beside my father’s on the lawsuit, and as much as I didn’t regret making a stand for what was important in my life, I regretted that in the process I’d let Samuel down.

His voice lowered, tight in emphasis. “I mean for
everything
, Christian.” His head dropped into his hand, shaking it against his palm. “Your father was my closest friend.” His words were rough, choppy with emotion. He looked to the sky, struggling. “But what he did to you . . . I never agreed with it . . . and . . . and I
won’t
stand by and al ow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me.

al ow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me.

“The firm is dropping the lawsuit.”

I shut my eyes, knowing I should feel relief. Instead, I found myself fighting to control my surging anger.

It was
all
my father—not the firm, not a decision left up to the board. It had been something my father had led, had spurred. I backed away, knocking into the wal . While deep down I’d known, I couldn’t help but hope that the lawsuit had been pursued because of my breach of contract or company protocol and not an act of vengeance.

Samuel moved to stand in front of me and exhaled as he placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, Christian. Your father was a complicated man, but he did care about you . . . loved you.” I scoffed, the sound a scornful wound in the back of my throat. “How can you say that?” I looked up to meet Samuel’s eyes. “You know as wel as I do that my father hated me.” I clenched my fists, and a wave of grief passed through my body when the words passed through my mouth, grief for a relationship that had died long before my father had, maybe had never even existed at al .

Through al the pressures and demands, the obligation and coercion, somewhere inside me I’d always wanted to believe that my father must have loved me in his own way.

But it was clear he had never loved me at al .