Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
It was a chance to reconnect with the man who had helped make me, a man whose talents and mystique had rooted themselves in me from the moment I was conceived.
But, most importantly, it was a chance to finally get answers to the questions that had haunted me since the day he disappeared from my life.
Chapter Two
We passed Central Park on our way to Sistina, an upscale Italian restaurant. I could tell he was keeping a leisurely pace for my benefit, letting me soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. It’d been years since I lived close enough for regular trips into Manhattan, and I missed it, everything about it. The rush and the hum and the heft of it.
The host at Sistina recognized my father and seated us at once. I hadn’t eaten much besides a granola bar and a handful of Skittles on the bus that morning. I ate four pieces of bread and was still ravenous by the time our entrées arrived.
We talked about his works-in-progress, my senior year and graduation. I wanted to ask why he hadn’t so much as sent a congratulatory card, but again, I decided not to push for answers—though I hoped he would offer them of his own accord. Whether it was resentment or elusiveness that made him seem so alluring, all I knew was that being around him made me feel needy in a way I’d never felt before.
I was still picking at the last of my gnocchi when he pushed his plate away and asked, “How’s your mom doing?”
“She’s good. Still working in the town planner’s office.”
“Is she still seeing the foot guy?”
“You mean Dave, the podiatrist?” I smirked. “Yeah, he’s around.”
“Do you like him?”
I shrugged. “He’s friendly, in a weatherman-esque, ‘Back to you, Tom,’ sort of way.”
“Does he wear themed ties?”
“Yeah, but he saves the really dorky ones for special occasions.” It occurred to me that I could not recall ever seeing my father in a tie. His style had always consisted of jeans and paint-stained tees with the occasional sweater. Today was no exception. “He’s good to Mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
I snagged another slice of bread to soak up the sauce on my plate. “So much curiosity about Mom’s love life. You obviously miss her.”
He didn’t respond right away. “I’ll always care about your mother.”
I sensed his hesitation. “But?”
He shrugged. “But nothing. She’s an important part of my past.”
“Like me,” I said quietly.
“No, Paige. You are very much a part of my present. But your mother… I’m sure I don’t have to tell you she’s guarded. It’s hard being close to someone who hides so much of themselves.”
I nodded in understanding. For as long as I could remember, my mother had kept secrets, sometimes for no apparent reason. It was impossible to gauge her opinion on anything unless she wanted you to know how she felt. In a rare moment of candidness, she’d once confided that my grandma had made a habit of using her as a decoy while she shoplifted. My mother had been taught to choose her words carefully from a tender age.
“I’m the complete opposite,” I said, pulling the elastic from my hair, “for better or worse.”
“I’d say for the better.” His gaze tracked my fingers as I combed them through the smooth, dark locks. “God, you’re beautiful.”
Something like pride trilled through me. “Um, thanks.”
The force of his stare and the feeling behind it made my heart stutter. For a brief moment, I imagined pressing his palm to my chest so he could feel the rampant beat.
“I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable. It shouldn’t. You’re stunning, and you’ve always been stunning. I still have sketches I made of you as a child. There’s one hanging in my studio right now. People ask me all the time, Who’s that gorgeous child with the wide eyes? And I tell them, that’s my daughter. That’s my little girl. You look so much like your mother did at your age, only not as hardened. You’re porous. You know how to let people in, and there’s beauty in that translucence. There’s radiance.”
My arm hairs stood on end. I’d always wondered what had happened to all those drawings, proof of the times I’d sat like a stone until my father’s hand grew tired. No matter how much my back ached or how numb my legs felt. I’d welcomed the suffering, because I wanted him to look at me.
I had no way of knowing if he thought about me when he was away during the week, but for as long as he sketched me, I was the center of his universe. It was exhilarating being on the receiving end of his concentration, like drunkenness, or falling in love. Not that I had much experience with either.