me.”
* * * * *
Anca attempted to steady her shaking hands
as she followed Demi into a lavish sitting room. She didn’t think the Persian
carpet was imitation, nor were the Chippendale chairs knockoffs. She focused
solely on the ormolu clock on the mantle for a few seconds, struggling to
remember how to breathe.
When she felt calmer, Anca turned slightly
to face the man standing in the corner of the room, near a mini-bar. Her
father. She could barely fathom that. She stood frozen to the spot as she
stared at him.
He had long, dark hair secured in a leather
thong. Strands of silver liberally streaked his hair. Dark eyes dominated his
chiseled features. His skin bore wrinkles as testament to his age, but he
looked handsome and vital. His posture was straight, and his shoulders were
broad. He didn’t look sick.
He was staring at her just as intently.
Silence reigned in the salon for long seconds, until he broke it with a harsh
exhalation. He stepped toward her, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “You
are your mother.” He smiled. “I can almost believe Katrine is standing before
me.”
“I have your nose,” Anca said, and her voice
emerged as a croak. She had always wondered where it came from, since it was
straight and narrow, unlike her mother’s pert little nose. She touched it
unconsciously, while staring at his. She saw a tear slide down his cheek and
realized her own cheeks were wet.
Later, she wouldn’t remember who moved
first. When thinking about it, all she could recall was the feel of her
father’s arms embracing her in a hug that was twenty-six years past due.
He smelled of cognac, pine, and a trace
scent of copper. His beard was rough where it pressed against the top of her
head. The scratchy material of his tunic tickled her skin when she buried her
face in it and sobbed. He murmured words in a language she didn’t understand as
he stroked her hair.
For a moment, Anca forgot about everything,
even Demi’s presence. She was too overwhelmed with emotions to suppress the
harsh sobs. She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, allowing his soothing tone
to wash over her. Slowly, the tears lessened and dried up.
She lifted her head and gazed into her
father’s eyes. She blurted out the question on her mind without thought. “Why
didn’t you come after me?”
Valdemeer flinched, and a hint of color
swept into his pale cheeks. His hand in her hair stilled. “I wanted to.” He
shook his head. “You were safer in New York.”
She swallowed a lump of moisture in her
throat. “Demi told me that. I don’t understand why you couldn’t at least come
see me in New York. Why pretend I didn’t exist for twenty-six years?”
“Never that, dear daughter.” He shook his
head. “It is complicated.”
Anca blinked back another round of tears at
his vague answer. She could continue prodding him for information she didn’t
think he would give, or she could ease off and spend the next few days becoming
acquainted with him. Surely, he would tell her everything before she left.
She nodded. “I see.” To her surprise, he
kissed her forehead, tickling her skin with his beard and mustache.
“I promise I will give you an explanation
soon, Anca. Tonight, I want only to enjoy your company and learn more about
you.”
She nodded again and stepped away from him.
For a second, the physical separation seemed to span miles. She forced a shaky
smile. “All right…Papa,” she said the name hesitantly. When Kathryn spoke of
him, she had always called him her Papa. It had become second nature to think
of him that way.
Would he think it was too soon? Was it too
soon to be calling him Papa? Part of her rebelled at her easy acceptance of the
man standing before her. Too much time had passed, and they would never recover
it. He had wounded her deeply with his rejection, whether or not it was
intentional.
Yet, Anca felt an instant connection with
her father. He had felt it too. She was certain he had. A
* * * * *
Anca attempted to steady her shaking hands
as she followed Demi into a lavish sitting room. She didn’t think the Persian
carpet was imitation, nor were the Chippendale chairs knockoffs. She focused
solely on the ormolu clock on the mantle for a few seconds, struggling to
remember how to breathe.
When she felt calmer, Anca turned slightly
to face the man standing in the corner of the room, near a mini-bar. Her
father. She could barely fathom that. She stood frozen to the spot as she
stared at him.
He had long, dark hair secured in a leather
thong. Strands of silver liberally streaked his hair. Dark eyes dominated his
chiseled features. His skin bore wrinkles as testament to his age, but he
looked handsome and vital. His posture was straight, and his shoulders were
broad. He didn’t look sick.
He was staring at her just as intently.
Silence reigned in the salon for long seconds, until he broke it with a harsh
exhalation. He stepped toward her, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “You
are your mother.” He smiled. “I can almost believe Katrine is standing before
me.”
“I have your nose,” Anca said, and her voice
emerged as a croak. She had always wondered where it came from, since it was
straight and narrow, unlike her mother’s pert little nose. She touched it
unconsciously, while staring at his. She saw a tear slide down his cheek and
realized her own cheeks were wet.
Later, she wouldn’t remember who moved
first. When thinking about it, all she could recall was the feel of her
father’s arms embracing her in a hug that was twenty-six years past due.
He smelled of cognac, pine, and a trace
scent of copper. His beard was rough where it pressed against the top of her
head. The scratchy material of his tunic tickled her skin when she buried her
face in it and sobbed. He murmured words in a language she didn’t understand as
he stroked her hair.
For a moment, Anca forgot about everything,
even Demi’s presence. She was too overwhelmed with emotions to suppress the
harsh sobs. She rubbed her cheek against his shirt, allowing his soothing tone
to wash over her. Slowly, the tears lessened and dried up.
She lifted her head and gazed into her
father’s eyes. She blurted out the question on her mind without thought. “Why
didn’t you come after me?”
Valdemeer flinched, and a hint of color
swept into his pale cheeks. His hand in her hair stilled. “I wanted to.” He
shook his head. “You were safer in New York.”
She swallowed a lump of moisture in her
throat. “Demi told me that. I don’t understand why you couldn’t at least come
see me in New York. Why pretend I didn’t exist for twenty-six years?”
“Never that, dear daughter.” He shook his
head. “It is complicated.”
Anca blinked back another round of tears at
his vague answer. She could continue prodding him for information she didn’t
think he would give, or she could ease off and spend the next few days becoming
acquainted with him. Surely, he would tell her everything before she left.
She nodded. “I see.” To her surprise, he
kissed her forehead, tickling her skin with his beard and mustache.
“I promise I will give you an explanation
soon, Anca. Tonight, I want only to enjoy your company and learn more about
you.”
She nodded again and stepped away from him.
For a second, the physical separation seemed to span miles. She forced a shaky
smile. “All right…Papa,” she said the name hesitantly. When Kathryn spoke of
him, she had always called him her Papa. It had become second nature to think
of him that way.
Would he think it was too soon? Was it too
soon to be calling him Papa? Part of her rebelled at her easy acceptance of the
man standing before her. Too much time had passed, and they would never recover
it. He had wounded her deeply with his rejection, whether or not it was
intentional.
Yet, Anca felt an instant connection with
her father. He had felt it too. She was certain he had. A
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