Page 42 of Vengeful Queen
“Are you still dropping out?” I ask him.
Asher shrugs and keeps his hands on the wheel. “I’m going to look for a job. Maybe closer to Kingston, New York, and I’ll bring my brother Neville with me. Weymouth is too small for me and my uncle.”
Eddie is on his way to prison. Kidnapping, attempted rape, and stalking weren’t bad enough, but selling stolen cars to chop shops throughout the state earned him a minimum ten-year sentence. His uncle told him not to visit. The Hunt won’t welcome him, though they admire Asher for taking out Eddie with his bare fist. Trunk calls a truce and avoids admitting to any wrongdoing.
“He’s still hoping I’ll join the MC,” he replies darkly.
I watch his profile. “Will you?”
“I doubt it. Motorcycles aren’t my thing. I like driving this little car.” He teases me and laughs more often. Each time he smiles, a layer of sadness falls away.
“Dr. Rawlins offered to put us up,” I tell him. “We have to sleep in separate rooms.”
He smirks. “Yeah, I don’t want you watching.”
“Why do you like to watch?” I eye him, hoping for the truth.
“I get off on the look in your eyes when you’re happy,” he says quietly. “I like it better when you’re happy.”
Their address is easy to find on Ludington Lane. One side of the street is located in Rockingham, and the other in Weymouth. The Victorians on this street look like a fairy-tale oasis misplaced in a rundown town. The Andersens’ house is painted sage green with blue and white gingerbread trim. The tops of daffodils peek out of the ground along the walkway leading to the front door. My father is behind the front door.
“You’re okay?” Asher asks.
“On the inside, I’m freaking,” I reply, “but I’ll be okay. I’m holding my shit together with two hands.”
An older woman in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, opens the front door before we ring the bell and steps out onto the covered porch. Her wide smile welcomes us. “You must be Charlotte?”
My spine stiffens as my nerve slips. “Hello, my name is Charlotte Howland. And this is my boyfriend, Asher Nixon. I’m looking for my father, Benjamin Andersen?”
Her smile tightens then relaxes as she holds the door open for us. “Come in, please, Ms. Howland and Mr. Nixon. I’m Julia Andersen.”
“It’s Charlotte.” I hand her a hostess basket with buttermilk biscuits and jams made from berries. “And Asher.”
Her smile beams as she takes the basket out of my hands. “Come and meet my husband Peder.”
The stuffy living room is crammed with nostalgia from a full life. Tchotchkes on surfaces and framed photographs cover each wall. I walk slowly into the room and look around as if I’m in a museum of my life. A small photo on the upright piano must be of Julia when she was younger. We almost look alike.
“Can I get you coffee or tea before supper?” she asks, hurrying over to a swinging door that leads into another room.
“Tea, please.” A smiling man dressed in a bulky sweater and khakis enters the living room from the hallway. He looks too old to be my father. His gray hair is thinning, and his face is creased with wrinkles that emphasize the broad smile on his face. He looks huggable, but we shake hands instead.
“Charlotte, this is your grandfather Peder.” Julia proudly points to him as she pushes against the door. They exchange words in a language I don’t know. The short conversation is tense and ends when Julia leaves the room.
A somber Peder nods toward an easy chair upholstered in rose pattern fabric. “Charlotte, please sit down.”
I don’t like the heavy feeling in my gut. And I hope that nothing is wrong. I wait to hear footsteps coming into the hallway, but except for the noises of pots banging in the kitchen, the house is eerily silent. Julia put Peder in charge of telling me the bad news.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. But our son…your father…passed away.”
I don’t know how to react. My body slumps in the chair as if a sucker punch has knocked me down, and my mind slips into a state of confusion. Should I feel sad for a man I never met and never will? I sit in silence, staring at Peder as a misty-eyed Julia returns to the room.
Julia steps closer. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say it. We didn’t know how to tell you. But Peder wanted to tell you in person about your father.”
“Did Dr. Rawlins know?” I ask as Asher holds my hand.
“Maybe,” Peder replies immediately. “We asked her not to dig too deep or tell you our name. We were afraid you would read it online.”
“Can she have a glass of water?” Asher kneels beside the chair, and I squeeze his hand.