Having no idea what she meant, I narrowed my eyes.
“If you bury the hatchet and forgive him, he’ll have no reason to hurt me. Then you never have to worry about that.”
Keeping her safe was always my top priority, and it was such a strange feeling to protect her from my own father. If he was willing to talk to me and drop this war, that alone would be worth it. Maybe he and I would never be close again. Maybe there was too much to forgive.
“Talk to him.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“That’s exactly why you should talk to him.”
The front entrance was deserted because of the holiday. I pulled up to the house with being screened or being patted down for weapons. There were a few lights shining through the windows, but the place still felt deserted. Once upon a time, it used to be lively and warm. My family had dinner parties in the winter and barbecues in the summer. Not it looked like an abandoned house.
I moved to the front door and rang the doorbell. My father had cameras everywhere, so he would know it was me long before he opened the door. My wife was at home alone on Christmas, but she sent me here because it was important to her. Now I stood on the doorstep in my jeans and jacket, battling the cold outside.
A moment later, he opened the door. With the same hostile dark eyes as mine, he stared me up and down as if he was sizing me up as an opponent, not cherishing the sight of his only son on his doorstep.
I almost turned around and walked off.
Stubborn as always, my father didn’t invite me inside and waited for me to speak first.
“Thought we could talk.”
One hand stayed on the door, and his wide shoulders blocked the entryway so I couldn’t invite myself inside. He regarded me like a stranger rather than his own flesh and blood. “Your wife put you up to this?”
“You think I would have come over here by my own choice?”
A ghost of a smile entered his lips, a slight brightness burning in his eyes. “She knows how to make things happen…impressive.” He dropped his hand from the doorknob and turned to walk inside the house—leaving the opening clear for me. His powerful shoulders were straight as he walked into the house, carrying himself like a proud soldier. He snatched a bottle of aged scotch off the counter and carried it to the large dining room where we used to celebrate the holidays. The mahogany wood was just as elegant as I remembered with the exception of one scratch I’d made as a child.
I sat down and ran my fingers over the crack, feeling the slight dip that had been caused by my knife. Memories of my childhood came flooding back to me, all the good times I’d had in this house. I’d been lucky to have a good mother and father to raise me. Losing that blessing made me feel sick to my stomach every time I thought about it.
My father filled my glass then slid it across the table toward me.
I didn’t drink it.
He took a drink from his own glass as he watched me with killer eyes. When he returned the glass to the table, it was with a noticeable thud. The solid wood made a formidable echo when anything tapped against it. “You aren’t going to drink?”
“I’ve cut back.” I pushed the glass to the side, still slightly repulsed by the sight of alcohol. There was some booze lingering in my bloodstream because I was so damn drunk a couple weeks ago.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve cut back. Seems like you quit cold turkey.”
“Just taking a break.”
My father had no problem drinking alone. Without an ounce of self-consciousness, he brought the glass to his lips and took another drink.
I couldn’t believe I was there. I was sitting across from the man I despised, my eyes locked on his with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. How would this conversation even start? Where should we begin? I refused to apologize and so did he, so what kind of compromise could we find? “Arwen pressured me to come here today.” It was a bland start, but it was something.
“She’s pushy.”
“Yes…a bit.” My eyes moved away, and I looked at the paintings that had been on the walls since my childhood. There was a watering can with daisies poking out of the top. There was another painting of red germaniums overflowing from a jar. My mother always loved flowers. Instead of hiring a gardener, she tended to the flowers herself. It was only fitting that the flower paintings surrounded her portrait on the wall.
He stared at the glass between his fingertips.
The silence stretched on, and the more time that passed, the less inclined I was to speak.