Still, I couldn’t stop thinking of another word. Family. I had more family, possibly in Portland. A biological father, perhaps a stepmother and maybe siblings. People I might be able to hang out with, who wouldn’t judge me, but instead accept me for who I was and see me as one of their own.
My brain sped into overdrive. What did Stan know about me? Had he waited all these years, hoping I’d make the first move, wishing for a letter, an email or a phone call from his estranged daughter? What would I say if I contacted him? What would he say?
“Stop it!” I said out loud, making my head ache. How could I allow myself to think these things? Dad hadn’t yet been gone a day and I was fantasizing about a reunion with my biological father? I heard my mother’s voice in my mind, telling me I was a disgusting, despicable, ungrateful traitor.
Hanging my head, I quickly walked to the kitchen and grabbed half a dozen cookies, berating myself as I stuffed them down, two at a time, before reaching for more. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since last night, and that I should have something more substantial, but my throat closed up as my mind went back to Stan, that he was out there somewhere, maybe just a phone call away.
I almost picked up my cell, wanted to dial my mother’s number and demand the truth, but knew she’d refuse. She’d made her position crystal clear at the hospice. No, this was something I’d have to do alone—just...not yet.
As I continued resisting the temptation to search for anything about Stan Gallinger, I headed to the bathroom. Stripping down, I avoided looking at any part of me in the mirror and stepped under the warm water. I stood there for a long time, letting it run over my body, making sure I avoided my tender head, willing it to wash away my grief, take the feelings of revulsion I felt for myself with it. Neither happened, but body clean, hair shampooed and conditioned as carefully as I could, I pulled on a fresh pair of pajamas, got myself a glass of water from the kitchen and picked up my revived phone, noticing the number of new emails and missed calls.
They’d started the night before, shortly after I’d fled the hospice, and had resumed early this morning. A few calls were from the hospice, the rest from Kyle Draper, my biggest client. Judging by the sound of his voice in the messages he’d left, he’d become increasingly frustrated as he reminded me I’d committed to fixing the outstanding issues on the website for his newest nightclub, The Hub.
“We’re opening tonight,” he’d said in his last message, and despite the loud techno music in the background, I could tell he was almost in major meltdown mode. I imagined him standing in The Hub with its eclectic mix of purple velvet chairs, steel bar and expensive art-deco lighting. No doubt he was dressed in his standard outfit of black shirt and pants, his goatee shaved with exacting precision—precisely how he ran his nightclub and corporate event businesses, and why he’d become a self-made millionaire by the age of thirty-five. “Where are you, Eleanor? Where’s your team? Why isn’t anyone answering the phone? Call me back.”
I wished I’d never fibbed to Kyle about having employees. I’d lied for good reason. I knew what I was capable of, but he’d never have believed I could manage to build the new site he wanted, plus maintain his five others, without assistance, even if he knew I didn’t have a life outside of work. I’d never let him down until today. Not only was Kyle my best and most regular client, but he’d referred me to three others. I couldn’t afford to lose his business. I should’ve taken care of everything before leaving for the hospice yesterday evening, instead of planning on finalizing the corrections when I got home.
I’d told Lewis things could’ve been worse if he’d showed up thirty seconds later, which was true, but things could’ve been so very, very different if I’d got to the hospice a little later. Not only would Kyle be happy, but I’d have missed my parents’ secret conversation altogether. My world wouldn’t have been turned upside down. I wouldn’t have been attacked and—most important—Dad would still be alive.
As much as I wanted to dissolve into a puddle on the floor or rewrite the past, I couldn’t. I had to focus, do what needed to be done, and so, after another handful of cookies, I took deep breaths and dialed Kyle’s number, deciding it was best to get it over with.
CHAPTER NINE
A SUCCESSION OF LOUD KNOCKS woke me up with a start. Save for the faint streetlight glow sneaking in through the windows, darkness had engulfed the living room. I fumbled around for my phone, trying to figure out the time—and the day. When the doorbell rang three times in a row, I realized whoever had their finger on the buzzer must have been the source of the banging noises, too.
“Gimme a minute,” I yelled, stumbling into the hallway, stubbing my big toe on the table in my haste. I swore, hobbled another few steps as the knocking resumed, and reached for the handle. “God, enough already. Where’s the fi—”
The rest of my sentence withered and died as I saw Lewis standing in front of me, a paper takeout bag in one hand, the other poised midair.
“Is everything okay?” he said. “I thought you’d passed out or something.”
“I’m fine.” I wrapped my cardigan around my middle. “I must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. What time is it?”
“Six forty-five.” When he caught my confused look, he added, “Saturday night. God, for a moment there I wondered if I should break down the door.”
“For a moment there I thought you had.”
He grinned and held out the bag. “Hungry? The fish-and-chip shop around the corner always serves monster portions. There’s enough for two.”
I looked at him, tilted my head to one side. “Fish and chips? You mean every personal trainer’s nemesis? Don’t you think carbs and fat are the work of the devil or something?”
He grinned again, faint lines appearing around his eyes. They complemented the dimples in his cheeks I’d almost convinced myself I hadn’t noticed. When he leaned toward me, I could feel my pulse tap-tapping in my neck.
“After training for two hours today, I think I’ll be all right,” he said, then whispered, “but promise you won’t tell the workout police?”
“Two hours? That’s more than I’ve done in a year. Come in before you pass out.”
He followed me to my tiny galley kitchen. I pulled out two polka-dot-covered plates, knives, forks and some napkins from the cupboard and drawers, retrieved ketchup and mayo from the fridge and set everything on the table along with glasses of water. Meanwhile, Lewis opened the various containers, releasing the glorious smell of deep-fried food, making my stomach growl. I wouldn’t eat much, I promised myself, not after all the cookies I’d had, and I hated dining with others anyway because I always felt judged, that people were thinking, I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.