Read Online The Light of Hidden Flowers by Jennifer Handford - Free Book Online Page B

Lincoln Memorial. I was maybe thirteen—rail thin, a mouth of giant teeth I hadn’t yet grown into, enough unstrained hair to cover five heads. Dad was in his late forties, early fifties, I would guess, with his thick brown hair, beautiful teeth, and shoulders as square and broad as the Hulk’s. In the photo, I’m leaned into him as though he were a pillar—unstoppable, immovable. As though he wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pushed.
    Today, as I swung through the doors of the community center for our Fletcher Financial seminar and found Dad milling about, it occurred to me that I had never stopped seeing him the way he looked in that photo: robust, indomitable. But now, as I examined him closely, the artificial lens through which I’d been viewing him came into focus. Dad was a seventy-year-old man with thinning hair, a scattering of sun spots on his weathered skin, and purple circles under his eyes as delineated as the rings of Saturn.
    Dad had aged, and I hadn’t seen it.
    Dad called the seminar to order. “Folks, so good to see you here!” This time, he was flawless throughout. Not a single blunder. Afterward, he circulated through the room, socializing while I broke down the electronics. As I was wrapping the cords into neat circles, Dad’s longtime clients and friends, the Andersons, found me by the projector. With them was a good-looking guy, maybe forty.
    “Missy, darling, hello!” Mrs. Anderson said. The Andersons had both been born and raised in Richmond—the west end, with the country clubs and private schools. Mrs. Anderson spoke with a drawl and dressed in Talbots twinsets; her hair was highlighted and bobbed.
    “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson,” I said, looking up from my cords.
    “Have you ever met our son, Lucas?”
    Lucas was their pride and joy; I knew that. “I’ve heard all about Lucas,” I said, “but no, we’ve never met.”
    “I guess we might have mentioned him before,” Mrs. Anderson said, blushing.
    “The brilliant tax attorney,” I said to Lucas. “Your parents are very proud of you.”
    “Parents make the best fan club,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you.”
    “You, too,” I said. “I imagine you’re keeping busy in this crazy economic/political environment.”
    Lucas nodded. “There is a lot going on, tax-wise.”
    “True enough,” I said. “I’m a bit of a tax junkie myself.”
    “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said with a grin. We held gazes until I felt my cheeks flush. Somehow, his parents had disappeared from view.
    Lucas was tall with an athletic build, blond floppy hair, and earnest blue eyes. I had the urge to trace my finger along the ropy edges of his biceps.
    “Your dad is quite a presenter,” he said.
    “Yeah.” I laughed. “Most people dread public speaking. He craves it.”
    “Not me.”
    “Me either,” I agreed. “I’d rather get my teeth drilled without Novocain.”
    Lucas smiled and lifted the projector into its case, placing the cords carefully in the side compartment. “So public speaking isn’t your thing,” he said. “But what about discussing taxes?”
    I looked at his handsome blue eyes. “Oh, I’m all over taxes.”
    “What about lunch? Do you eat lunch?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Maybe you’d like to grab lunch sometime?” he asked tentatively, less confident than his first try. “Talk about taxes?”
    I looked up, let the pieces settle.
    Lucas stammered again. “I mean, some people don’t break away for lunch. Work right through. That’s me, usually.”
    “I love lunch,” I said. “And taxes.”
    For the first time in months, I had just been asked out to lunch. And with a guy who shared at least two interests of mine: lunch and taxes. Lucas said he would call to set up a time. When he left, in my flustered state, I unpacked the projector that Lucas had already put away so neatly for me. I checked my e-mail, though I had just scrolled through it a minute ago. And I sipped at a