Uncomfortable. After another deep breath, I turn my chair so I face him. Those eyes cut through decades of self preservation. Behind him, out the window, the blizzard continues to dump snow, the ground growing higher and higher, burying us deeper and deeper.
“You were an actress,” Oscar’s said over and over again, “you spoke to kings and scoundrels.” I’d hated the pretenders with such loathing, it had taken me years to forget the Grace Doll Rufus had created and find my real self.
The hardest part has been reconciling the two.
“Do you mind if we talk about Jonathan?”I ask.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to hide disappointment. His hands fist on the arms of the chair. “I told you, he and I weren’t close.”
“That doesn’t sound like Jonathan.”
“Maybe it was the age difference, I don’t know. We just never…bonded. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me more about this—you, Oscar. How hard would it have been?”
“I’m sure he had reasons.” If Jonathan had explained what had happened this moment would be much smoother for Oscar and me, that was certain.
“How would you know?” he snaps.
I swivel in the chair and face the window, watching him through the reflection. He’s not going to let this go. I can’t blame him, and he does deserve some answers. He catches me watching and another round of confusion tightens his features.
“How often did you see him?” The pain in his tone means he’s bracing for the answer. I can’t tell him the truth: As often as Jonathan could get away, he would.
“Occasionally.”
“Did she—Grace—know he was in love with her?”
I swallow. The pain in his eyes is achingly raw. “Yes.”
We watch each other’s reflections.
He lowers his head. The action reminds me of Jonathan and my heart hurts. In the beginning I’d tried to talk myself into loving him, but even guilt, years, and loyalty couldn’t light the spark of a wick that didn’t exist. When he’d finally understood that, he’d wept.
I clear my throat of impending emotion. To his credit, Jonathan never asked me for what I wasn’t able to give him—a cross he carried with silent dignity I hope Brenden can understand someday.
“Does that news surprise you?” I ask. “He was your father, after all.”
“He may have been my father, and he may have married Mom—and Judy—but he loved Grace.”
I face him. “Surely he loved your mother.”
He stares at me, anger darkening his face. If he knew it was I his father had loved and longed for I don’t know what he’d do.
“Like I said, I didn’t really know him,” he murmurs.
“This is too soon.”
“It’s not going to hurt any less tomorrow or in five months.” His voice slices the cold air. “I’ve lived with this for eighteen years. It sucks.” His eyes flash with resentment.“It’s his fault.”
“What is his fault?” I ask carefully.
“If he and Mom had stayed together, she would have had a better life. He could have been there for her while she was sick. He should have been there.”
“She’s lucky she had you.”
He shifts as if he’s swamped with emotions he’s not comfortable showing me. “He got it back in the end. Nobody was there for him.”
Oh Jonathan. My heart pinches and I avert my gaze to the storm raging outside the window.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Brenden sneers. “He deserved it. You get out of relationships what you put into them, and he put in zero.”
Brenden may never understand the man I knew. I’m saddened—Jonathan was a good person, a hero to me. But his attention—the completeness of our relationship—came at the expense of his family.
Talking about Jonathan isn’t doing anything but deepening Brenden’s disappointment and my guilt.
“I need a drink.” I rise and cross to the kitchen. What I really need is that vial. A way out. Dr. Lemarchal’s words haunted me for years. As Oscar and Jonathan aged, I’d often wondered what would
“You were an actress,” Oscar’s said over and over again, “you spoke to kings and scoundrels.” I’d hated the pretenders with such loathing, it had taken me years to forget the Grace Doll Rufus had created and find my real self.
The hardest part has been reconciling the two.
“Do you mind if we talk about Jonathan?”I ask.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to hide disappointment. His hands fist on the arms of the chair. “I told you, he and I weren’t close.”
“That doesn’t sound like Jonathan.”
“Maybe it was the age difference, I don’t know. We just never…bonded. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me more about this—you, Oscar. How hard would it have been?”
“I’m sure he had reasons.” If Jonathan had explained what had happened this moment would be much smoother for Oscar and me, that was certain.
“How would you know?” he snaps.
I swivel in the chair and face the window, watching him through the reflection. He’s not going to let this go. I can’t blame him, and he does deserve some answers. He catches me watching and another round of confusion tightens his features.
“How often did you see him?” The pain in his tone means he’s bracing for the answer. I can’t tell him the truth: As often as Jonathan could get away, he would.
“Occasionally.”
“Did she—Grace—know he was in love with her?”
I swallow. The pain in his eyes is achingly raw. “Yes.”
We watch each other’s reflections.
He lowers his head. The action reminds me of Jonathan and my heart hurts. In the beginning I’d tried to talk myself into loving him, but even guilt, years, and loyalty couldn’t light the spark of a wick that didn’t exist. When he’d finally understood that, he’d wept.
I clear my throat of impending emotion. To his credit, Jonathan never asked me for what I wasn’t able to give him—a cross he carried with silent dignity I hope Brenden can understand someday.
“Does that news surprise you?” I ask. “He was your father, after all.”
“He may have been my father, and he may have married Mom—and Judy—but he loved Grace.”
I face him. “Surely he loved your mother.”
He stares at me, anger darkening his face. If he knew it was I his father had loved and longed for I don’t know what he’d do.
“Like I said, I didn’t really know him,” he murmurs.
“This is too soon.”
“It’s not going to hurt any less tomorrow or in five months.” His voice slices the cold air. “I’ve lived with this for eighteen years. It sucks.” His eyes flash with resentment.“It’s his fault.”
“What is his fault?” I ask carefully.
“If he and Mom had stayed together, she would have had a better life. He could have been there for her while she was sick. He should have been there.”
“She’s lucky she had you.”
He shifts as if he’s swamped with emotions he’s not comfortable showing me. “He got it back in the end. Nobody was there for him.”
Oh Jonathan. My heart pinches and I avert my gaze to the storm raging outside the window.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Brenden sneers. “He deserved it. You get out of relationships what you put into them, and he put in zero.”
Brenden may never understand the man I knew. I’m saddened—Jonathan was a good person, a hero to me. But his attention—the completeness of our relationship—came at the expense of his family.
Talking about Jonathan isn’t doing anything but deepening Brenden’s disappointment and my guilt.
“I need a drink.” I rise and cross to the kitchen. What I really need is that vial. A way out. Dr. Lemarchal’s words haunted me for years. As Oscar and Jonathan aged, I’d often wondered what would
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