I settled in my chair and stared at the mounted surfboards hanging across the room. As always, I had plenty to do, but there was no way I was in the right headspace to tackle any of it. The stress of what happened with Gwen combined with whatever fresh hell awaited me at home was enough to convince me that I needed to get out of the office for a few hours.
If I didn’t take a break, there was a chance I’d do something I might regret. Ormorethings that I’d regret. There were a couple of interns that literally hid in closets when they saw me coming.
I grabbed my briefcase before I could change my mind.
“I need to head out—something came up,” I said to Susan as I strode past her desk. “Call if you need me; otherwise, I’ll be back after lunch.”
She said something to me, but I was already gone.
I heard the same refrain echoing in my head every time I got back out on the water.
Why don’t I do this more often?
Growing up, surfing was my passion, and one of the few things my brothers and I had in common. We had our locals-only secret spots, where we’d spent hours under the sun without a care in the world. Now, I wasn’t even sure if either of them still owned a board.
I had half a dozen that rarely saw any action, but after today’s session, I was determined to find a way to carve out more consistent surf time. I managed to forget about the state of my life for the few hours I was connected to my board, like surfing was a drug that blotted out everything but the pleasant sensation of going very, very fast.
The active meditation was so powerful that I lost track of time, leaving me scrambling to change back into street clothes andmake it home in time to meet Dad. He was so perceptive I wondered if he’d notice the salty ocean smell lingering on me.
The main gates slid open before my car could even pause at the base of the driveway. Dad clearly had the house staff on high alert for my visit.
I drove up the driveway fighting the usual warring emotions. A brief flicker of happiness, because this house was infused with so many wonderful memories, and then the stabbing reminder that I wasn’t going to find my mother curled up in the lounge with a book or out back in the yard tending to her flowers.
The white Tuscan-inspired mansion wassomy dad. Elegant, but just a half step away from over-the-top, what with the columns, circular windows, and arches that greeted visitors. I’d hoped for a few minutes to collect myself beneath the shade of a weeping willow, but the giant main doors swung open the moment my car came to a stop.
It was my father himself, not his house manager. I studied him as I crossed the driveway. He didn’t look overly stressed, and I wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking or reality, but he looked more vibrant. Less sallow and gaunt than he’d seemed at his party.
Maybe it was purely a social call after all?
“New baby?” Dad pointed at my black Aston Martin.
“Ish,” I replied.
I didn’t want to get into the fact that I’d bought it on a whim a few days prior, hoping that a small, reckless car could take my mind off the empty seat beside me.
We embraced briefly, another anomaly. Who was this huggier version of my father?
“Come see what I’ve been working on,” he said, beckoning me to follow him in.
I steeled myself for the wave of memories as I crossed the threshold. I still half expected to hear my mom’s voice echoing down the main hall. She wasn’t here, but she was still everywhere.
I followed him through the house, trying to ignore the empty vases scattered around. Filling them was always my mom’s job. Even though Maria, our house manager, could’ve taken over, Dad preferred leaving them empty as a way to mark the fact that she wasn’t with us.
“Remember those plans your mother had, to increase the size of her rose garden and revamp the potting shed?”
“Of course. I think she loved her roses more than us.”
Her potting shed—a misnomer if there ever was one—was her passion project that she hadn’t had a chance to finish, and the in-progress area toward the back was the only blight on a property that was otherwise magazine-worthy.
“What the hell is that?” I asked when I saw the new construction in the distance.
“It’s the Victorian greenhouse she wanted, from that company in England. She, uh, never had a chance to make it happen. I decided it was time.”
We walked over to check it out. The foundation was set, and the footprint was big enough to consider the greenhouse a guesthouse.
“This is…a lot,” I said. “Do you really want to take it on?”
His mouth went tight. “I do, no question. This area has been a mess for too long. Every time I looked at it, it was a reminder that your mother wasn’t here to see it through. Now I’m closing the chapter for her.” He paused. “We needed to dosomething. Plus, greenhouses are great for resale value.”
