A small shadow of a smile crosses Axel’s face, and he leans back in his chair.
“Where do I start?” he murmurs. “He was complicated. Brilliant, stubborn, larger than life in every sense. He was terribly impatient with people who couldn’t keep up, and loyal to those who earned it. He loved art. You definitely got that from him even if you didn’t know it. He loved going to galleries incognito, debating brushwork and pigment with dealers and artists; he would spend hours alone in the vault with his collection.”
I listen, completely absorbed; the resentment and anger I’d felt toward Axel for the rude way he treated me have softened into curiosity. I find a surprising gentleness in his recollections, a reverence that I hadn’t expected.
“He was funny, in his own way,” Axel continues. “He’d make the most absurd wagers about trivial things. Once, he took a bet with me that a painting that I swore was a fake was real. I lost that bet, and he never let me forget it.”
He chuckles softly.
I can’t help but smile. “I wish I could have met him,” I whisper.
Axel’s eyes flick to mine, a strange weight in his gaze. “Yes, it’s a great shame. He loved you, and I think you would’ve liked him a lot,” he says finally. “You remind me a little of him - stubborn, clever, a bit of a firecracker.”
I feel my lips twitch into a small smile, touched by the rare praise. “I hope so,” I say quietly.
For the first time, I see a different side of Axel. He’s not just the infuriating man I’ve been at odds with; he’s human, capable of warmth and humor, of sharing memories and stories that make me feel emotionally connected to the father I never knew.
Eventually, we finish our coffee, the last thing keeping us here. The conservatory is quiet again. The sun has dipped past the horizon, and is casting long shadows across the tiles. The door opens, and a kitchen hand comes in, freezing when he sees us.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“It’s fine,” Axel says, waving him in. “We’re about done here now anyway. Right?”
The question is aimed at me, and I nod in agreement. Truthfully, I’d like to stay longer and hear more stories, but I feel like saying so would make me look needy.
Axel stands up and brushes a few stray crumbs from his lap. Grabbing the notebook and pen, I get up too. We leave the conservatory and head back into the dining room and then back out of the other side into a hallway that leads to the foyer.
“Well, umm, goodnight,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward, though I don’t know why.
“If I hear anything about the culprit, you’ll be the first to know,” Axel says.
I nod. “Same goes for me. If I find anything, you’ll know.”
We share a small, almost imperceptible nod of understanding, and then we separate, each going our own way through the vast mansion. Axel heads into the lounge, and I retreat to my suite. Once I enter the comfort of the familiar walls of my bedroom, I slump on the bed, my mind churning with the evening’s revelations. My father was going to reach out to me when I turned eighteen. Axel’s insights about him as a person. The email that was never mine. All of it collides in a swirl of emotion.
I haven’t spoken to my mum in a while – I haven’t wanted an argument – but now I am ready to have this out with her. I sit down on my bed, unlock my cell phone, and call my mother. Themoment she answers, I hear the faint tremor in her voice. She sounds nervous to see that it is me calling her.
“What were you thinking?” I ask abruptly. “It was one thing when I was a child, but I was almost eighteen. I was old enough to make my own choices and my own mistakes.”
“What are you talking about?” my mum says, playing innocent.
“Stop lying, Mum. I know you sent my father a cruel email pretending it was from me, saying I didn’t want anything to do with him.”
Her breath catches audibly. “Jo … I …”
“Don’t bother denying it. You’ve lied to me enough already,” I cry heatedly.
Tears break through her voice, and she starts again. “I did it to protect you, darling. I knew he had more money that Croesus. I knew he’d come looking for you when you were eighteen. I was scared he’d turn your head with his wealth. I didn’t want him to take you away from me, from the life we shared.”
“You thought he would take me away,” I say. “So, you didn’t do it to protect me. You did it to protect yourself.”
“I was scared he would contaminate you. Make you like those unscrupulous people he hung around with.”
“Stop fucking lying, Mum.”
“Is it so bad that I didn’t want to lose you?” she sobs.
“Having a dad wouldn’t have made me not want a mum,” I say sadly.