Take This Regret (Take This Regret #1)(54)
Author: A.L. Jackson

With a tight smile, I extended my hand to Mom. “Come on.”

She clenched my hand, breathing through her nose in calculated breaths, unsure of her welcome or where she stood.

This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.

The house was almost exactly as I remembered. The furniture in the formal living room off the foyer remained the same—ornate upholstered pieces widely unused, polished antiques. A staircase wound to the floors above, and artwork hung from the wal s, planned and cold.

How I longed for the warmth of Elizabeth’s little house, for the clutter and the mess, for the comfort of stepping over toys abandoned on the floor, and for the ability to rest my bare feet on the edge of her worn coffee table.

I took a deep breath and told myself, “You can do this.”

Muted voices echoed over the dark hardwood floors.

The first level overflowed with people, family and acquaintances, friends and clients. They converged in smal groups, some chatting quietly and others hugging each other and wiping away lingering tears.

Mom’s gaze caressed the living room, embracing fond memories before final y resting on the piano at the far end of the living room.

My father had played all his life, his mother dedicating him to lessons from the time he was a young boy. I realized suddenly that the only time I’d ever seen him let his guard down was when he’d play. I’d forgotten how Mom would sit on the chaise lounge by the window and stare outside, engrossed in the strains of his melody, her body swaying to my father’s tempo, at one with him.

Or perhaps I hadn’t forgotten. Maybe I hadn’t been old enough to see it for what it was.

Mom crossed the room to it as if it were a magnet, and I fol owed a bit behind to give her time. She ran her fingertips along the glossy black wood and sat down at the bench. She reached out her finger and played a solitary key. Her eyes were closed, lost in the past.

I turned away to give her privacy and parted the sheer curtain covering the huge windows that faced out the back of the house and over the pool; the view extended out to the salt-water marshes of Lynnhaven River. I could picture myself as a boy running through the high grass, climbing the trees, tossing rocks in the water. Mom had lol ed by the pool, and I’d thought she’d paid me no attention at all , yet she still had an uncanny way of knowing when I’d been up to something I shouldn’t be, of call ing out to be careful just before I did something that was sure to cause me harm.

“You used to play out there for hours.” I was startled from the wanderings of my mind by Mom’s soft words and tender touch on my arm. She smiled up at me, her expression wistful as if she were picturing the exact same thing I had been.

A gentle huff came through my nose, an appreciation of those memories that had been buried beneath the pressure that had come from this place. “I loved it out there,” I admitted, taking her hand. “I’d forgotten how much.”

“Claire?” We both turned. Aunt Mary, my father’s older sister, stood behind us, wringing her hands in a white handkerchief. She was still tal and slender, her long black hair pulled back in a coif at the base of her neck, her eyes sad.

Mom tensed. Her biggest fear of coming here had been the reaction of her ex-husband’s family, not knowing whether they would condemn her presence or if it would somehow bring them more pain.

Aunt Mary pulled Mom into a hug, cried into her shoulder, and told her how much it meant that she’d come before she turned to me and did the same. I hugged her close, told her how sorry I was, before I excused myself to all ow them the space to reconnect as they made apologies that were not owed, their estrangement a consequence of circumstance.

Standing at the edge of the room, I shifted my feet and dug my hands deeper and deeper into my pants pockets as I accepted the condolences of those who stopped as they passed by. I chatted with distant cousins who I’d not seen in years, murmured thanks for the apologies of strangers. It was hard pretending that the strained relationship my father and I had shared hadn’t crumbled in the end, that he hadn’t disowned me, and that I hadn’t walked out of his life. I wondered how many knew, that as they shook my hand and forced a smile that they weren’t questioning what I was doing here, why I had come.

My father’s wife wouldn’t even look at me, not that I wanted her recognition. My father wasn’t just a bastard, but a hypocrite. I couldn’t understand his unfounded ridicule of Elizabeth, and then for him to turn around and marry a woman like Kendra.

I tensed when Samuel Clymer caught my eye from across the room and approached with his hand extended.

“Christian.”

In my discomfort, I averted my gaze wishing I didn’t have to face my father’s partner. It had been easy walking from that office in reaction to my father accusations, but in doing so, I’d also walked out on Samuel. He’d always been kind to me, a mentor who had helped in every aspect when I’d made the transfer to San Diego. Out of respect, I accepted his hand. “Samuel.”

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked as he gestured with his head in the direction of the terrace.

For a moment, I hesitated. I real y didn’t want to have this conversation here at my father’s funeral. But I relented and fol owed him out back through the french doors and to the patio.

He was silent as he looked out over the river. I waited behind him, nervous to discover his intentions.

He rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his balding head, sighing when he turned back to me. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, appearing flustered.

“Listen”—he paused and released a heavy breath, seeming to need to find his words as he took one step forward—“I just wanted to tel you how sorry I am about your father.”

Sighing, I roughed a hand through my hair as I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” I didn’t know how to respond.

Samuel’s name was listed right beside my father’s on the lawsuit, and as much as I didn’t regret making a stand for what was important in my life, I regretted that in the process I’d let Samuel down.

His voice lowered, tight in emphasis. “I mean for everything, Christian.” His head dropped into his hand, shaking it against his palm. “Your father was my closest friend.” His words were rough, choppy with emotion. He looked to the sky, struggling. “But what he did to you . . . I never agreed with it . . . and . . . and I won’t stand by and all ow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me.