Somehow, Mari made it through the budget meeting. Her cheeks hurt from fake-smiling, and her stomach ached from being twisted in knots all afternoon.
Mari never left work early, but as soon as the meeting concluded, she grabbed her things and slipped out. She needed to be at her best—or as close to it as she could manage—for the upcoming discussion with her parents. That meant heading home to shower off the cold sweat that had covered her upon hearing that Charlie had passed away, putting on a little makeup to give her cheeks some color, then forcing down some food for much-needed energy.
At seven that night, she drove out of the city and into the leafy suburbs off Montana Avenue where her parents lived. The Spanish-style, white stucco house with its half acre of blooming, well-tended garden was the home Mari had lived in nearly all her life. Until she was three, she’d lived with her mother and Charlie in a condominium above a brewpub on Santa Monica’s Third Street, in the heart of downtown. But she’d been too young at the time to remember much about her time there.
From the driveway, she could see her mother and stepfather standing together in the kitchen. They looked up through the window, and when they saw her car, they both smiled.
Mari hated knowing that what she was about to tell them would wipe their smiles right off.
Her mother was waiting at the open front door by the time Mari walked up the stone path. “Your timing is perfect if you’d like to join us for dinner, honey. We have more than enough for three.”
“I already ate, thanks.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “There’s actually something I need to talk about with both you and Dad.”
She almost flinched as the word Dad left her mouth.
All day, she’d been mourning the loss of the father she’d never really known—and regardless of what Carson had said, she couldn’t help feeling that it was a betrayal of the man who had cared for her for the past twenty-nine years with love and care.
Her mother looked at her more closely. “That sounds serious. Is everything okay? Are you feeling sick? Gary didn’t mention anything about you not feeling well at the office.”
“No, I’m not sick.” But things were most definitely not okay. “We should sit down, and then I’ll explain everything.”
It was at moments like this when Mari wished she could suggest that her mother and stepfather pour them all a drink. But not only did Donna refuse to drink alcohol, she wouldn’t let Gary have one single sip of spirits either. What’s more, for as long as Mari could remember, her mother had drummed into her head that her genetics made her a prime candidate for developing a drinking problem.
In the hours that had passed since the solicitor’s call, she had gone around and around inside her head to try to find a palatable way to explain her plans to travel to England to see Charlie’s flat and bookstore. Unfortunately, she had yet to land on one.
“My birth father—” The immediate look of horror—and fury—on her mother’s face made her break off in midsentence.
Mari belatedly realized her first error had been in using the word father in reference to him.
Clearing her throat, she began again. “I got a phone call this afternoon. Charlie—”
Her mother cut her off. “Has he contacted you?” Donna turned to Gary. “What did I tell you? I knew there would come a day when he wouldn’t leave well enough alone.” Donna scowled as she asked Mari, “What did he say?”
For a long moment, all Mari could do was shake her head as she worked to swallow her grief. “Nothing. He’s dead.”
Her mother gasped, her face going pale as she gripped her husband’s hand for support. “How did you find out?”
“A phone call from a solicitor.”
She could see both the concern in her stepfather’s eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, Mari.”
“Well, I’m not.” Donna stood, clearly agitated. “That man was a useless, drunk danger to you. I say good riddance.”
Though Mari had only vague memories of her father, they were surprisingly good ones. They had played games together—Chutes and Ladders, which he had called Snakes and Ladders; tic-tac-toe, which he had called noughts-and-crosses; and her favorite, conkers.
She had loved exploring the local public garden to look for chestnut trees, then collecting the glossy nuts to find the best conkers for their competition. He would make holes in the conkers so that they could thread a string through each of them. Charlie would then hold his conker steady, dangling it from a string, while she tried with all her might to hit it with hers. Every time she knocked one of his conkers off the string, he would hug her and tell her what a clever little girl she was.
She also remembered his English accent. It didn’t much matter what he said—just listening to him speak, or read aloud from one of the dozens of children’s books he’d bought her, had been so nice and soothing.
Thinking back to those lovely memories made Mari want to defend Charlie to her mother, however unwise that course of action might be.
Before she could, however, her stepfather asked, “Did the solicitor say anything more?”
“Yes. As I’m his next of kin, his bookstore, flat and savings have now passed to me.”
“No!” Donna spun around. “Under no circumstances should you take ownership of anything that was his. There must be a way for you to refuse his estate.”
Mari understood why her mother wanted her to do that. But she couldn’t bring herself to just up and disavow her father’s legacy.
Donna’s expression grew even more aghast when Mari’s silence indicated that she didn’t agree. “You aren’t thinking of keeping his store, are you? Do I need to remind you what kind of man he was—and what he did?”
Of course Mari didn’t need a reminder, not when she knew the story by heart. Charlie Forsythe had come to California from London, charmed Donna into marrying him, then gotten her pregnant before she realized just how out of control his drinking really was. He was bohemian—he sketched and wrote—but brought in little to no money from a part-time job at a bookstore. They survived because of Donna’s job as a secretary at an accounting firm. And then, one day when Mari was three, her father had blacked out when he was supposed to be watching her. Mari had left the apartment and was toddling down busy Third Street when the owner of the downstairs brewpub saw her from the window. Just in time, the man darted out to stop her from crossing the road in front of a delivery truck.
Mari’s mother had kicked Charlie out that night, telling him never to come back.
And he never had.
“I know he made mistakes,” Mari said, “but I can’t make any decisions without going to England.”
“I’ll save you the trip,” her mother said. “Both his store and flat will be a mess, just like he was. In any case, why would you want to own a bookstore—in England, of all places—when you have a wonderful job right here at home, with a family who loves you?”
If Mari hadn’t already felt guilty, she certainly would have now. The easiest thing would be to bend to her mother’s will, to agree that England and everything in it, especially her birth father, were horrible, and turn her back on Charlie’s unexpected legacy. But Mari had always been secretly fascinated by all things British. Especially the southwest corner of London, where her father lived. She’d gone so far as to Google-walk the streets on her computer, trying to imagine what his life was like five thousand miles away—and inevitably wondering what it would have been like to grow up on Elderflower Island instead of in Santa Monica.
“I need to see it for myself.” Mari’s words were firm, despite the fact that her mother’s reaction was even worse than she’d thought it might be. She would never want to hurt Donna, but she couldn’t bury her own needs for another moment longer.
Her mother sat, looking shakier than ever. “How long are you planning to be away?”
“I have quite a bit of accrued vacation on the books.” Turning to Gary, Mari said, “I’ll take the next few weeks to finish my current projects, or pass them into capable hands, before I go.” According to the solicitor, she had six weeks until probate was done. Six weeks to prepare herself to finally enter her father’s world.
“You have my blessing to do whatever you need to do, Mari.”
Donna scowled at her husband, clearly displeased that he would encourage their daughter to pursue anything involving Charlie Forsythe. She turned her attention back to Mari. “You still haven’t said how long you’ll be gone.”
“I don’t know yet.” Understanding that nothing she said tonight was going to soothe her mother, Mari stood. “Sorry for interrupting your dinner. I’ll leave now and let you get to it.”
Her mother glowered. “I’ve completely lost my appetite.”
Though Mari wished there was something she could do to bring back her mom’s smile, she simply kissed her cheek, gave her stepfather a hug, then saw herself out.
Surprisingly, as she headed to her car, she realized that she felt better than she had all day. One of her biggest dreams was on the verge of coming true. She was finally going to visit her father’s home. Though Charlie wouldn’t be there to greet her, hopefully she would still find enough clues in his home and business to discover who he had been.
And while she was there, she couldn’t help but wonder if she might also discover new things about herself too.