You never told me before that he was an artist and a writer. That he was areader.
All my life I’d been the opposite of my mother. She had no imagination. She thought books were stupid and had barely ever set foot in Nevermore Bookshop (except to drag me away as a child or to sell her pet dictionaries), whereas I had practically been raised by those fictional characters. She was the one who talked me out of my English degree at Oxford because she thought I had a better chance of making it as a fashion designer than as a writer. Even when I was being bullied and I hated myself and I felt so completely alone, she never told me that there was someone else out there like me – my father.
Rage boiled up inside me, turning my veins to lava. My hand balled into fists at my sides. Ihatedher. She kept this from me, and Ineededit. If I’d known I wasn’t so completely alone, if I hadn’t felt like such a freak, things might’ve turned out so differently for me…
I slid into the chair across from her. On the stove, the kettle boiled, but both of us ignored it. I studied my mother’s face, noting the bags under her eyes, the vein throbbing on her temple – the same one that throbbed when I did something naughty. My fingers itched to slap the expression off her face.How dare you be angry with me? I have every right to hate you right now.
“You’ve never told me this,” I whispered, the words hard. “You never told me that I was like my father. All my life you made me think I was a freak because of the things I liked. And it was all because you were angry with him. When you looked at me reading or drawing, you saw him. The only reason you wanted me to pursue fashion was because it was somethingyouliked.”
“Don’t turn this around on me, Mina,” she snapped. “He’sthe one who walked out on us and left me to raise you. I did the best I could with what I had. I put you through school and I let you hang out at that musty bookshop you loved more than our home. I did everything I bloody could to give you the life I didn’t get to have. And you get one letter from him in twenty-three years and now you hate me.”
“Don’t you think I might have liked to know I had a father who loved to read? Don’t you think I would have wanted some kind of relationship with him? But you made me think he was an evil criminal just so I’d hate him as much as you. Well, congratulations, Mum. I hated him, all right, but not as much as I hated myself!”
“Hewasa criminal!” she screamed. “Just because he did his crime with pretty pictures instead of drugs doesn’t mean he was a person you should have in your life.”
“I’m twenty-three years old. You don’t get to make that decision for me.”And you don’t seem to have a problem with Morrie even though he’s more than implied he hasn’t obtained his fortune legally. A smartly-dressed rich criminal is still a criminal.
Mum’s gripped her head in her hands, her whole body trembling. “This is exactly why I hoped he’d never contact you. Can’t you just trust that I know what’s best for you? Don’t try to see your father. Don’t answer his letter. If you think you feel lonely now, wait until you love him and he leaves you. You don’t know what lonely is.”
I glanced up at the glitter-stained ceiling. It took every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes. “I’m not you, Mum. I won’t fall to pieces just because of some guy. I’m strong enough not to fall into that trap, and you should know that.”
“Oh, you are, are you? Then why did you come crawling back from New York City so I could look after you?”
I recoiled, my cheeks stinging, as though she’d slapped me. “I can’t believe you said that. I can’t believe you just threw the factI’m going blindback in my face.”
“Fine,” she sniffed. “Do what you want, Mina. You always do. After everything I’ve sacrificed to give you a good life, go back to the man who abandoned you when you were a baby. But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.”
“Suits me.” I stood up. “Don’t expect me to come home again.”
“Wait, Mina—” Mum grabbed my wrist. I wrenched my hand away, flung myself into the hallway and grabbed my rucksack. It took me all of two minutes to throw in some clean clothes, my current book, my journal, and my tickets for the Jane Austen Extravaganza.
“Come back inside. You don’t know who he is, what you could be walking into—”
“Of course I don’t, because you won’t tell me. You gave me an ultimatum. I’ve made my choice.” I shoved my feet into my Docs and stepped on the front porch.
“You ungrateful bitch!” Mum slammed the door in my face.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I walked to the corner of the street and called for a rideshare.Fuck you. If you don’t want to tell me about my father, fine. I’ve solved two murders over the last six weeks. I can solve this, too.
Chapter Nine
Iwas still fuming about the fight with Mum on Friday as Heathcliff, Morrie, Lydia, and I approached Baddesley Hall along a wide avenue lined with ancient oaks. Another Christmas snow fell during the night, blanketing the vast lawn in a white carpet. I shivered in my red trench coat, thick scarf, two pairs of gloves, red merino sweater, homemade ‘Jane Austen is my Homegirl’ t shirt, red tartan wool mini skirt, and fleece-lined leggings.
I hope that big old house has modern heating.
“You might have called a carriage,” Lydia sniffed at Heathcliff as her silk shoes sank into the snow. Despite how comfortable she’d become in modern clothing, Lydia was back in her empire-line dress and bonnet for the occasion, only with Morrie’s leather jacket draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill.
“You might have dressed weather appropriate,” he shot back.
“Only another mile to go,” I said, my teeth chattering.Stupid rideshare refusing to go up the driveway because of a tiny amount of snow. Something heavy fell on my shoulders. Smiling gratefully, I tugged Heathcliff’s coat tighter around my body and squeezed his hand. Although his expression remained surly, he pulled me closer, allowing the reassuring warmth of his bulk to heat me through.
Yes, I think this weekend might be good for all of us.
At the end of the avenue, the high and handsome Baddesley Hall awaited us. Backed by a ridge of wooded hills – the trees now bare and glittering with snow – the grand facade stretched out in two high wings, flanked with decorative turrets from which flew flags bearing Jane Austen’s likeness. Elegant columns flanked a set of wide marble steps leading up to double-height wooden doors, where a crowd of people in period costume milled about, waving as cars and carriages navigated a tight turning circle around a grand fountain.
Even Lydia was warm in her admiration. “It’s as fine a house as I have ever seen. I should think it even finer than that prig Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley estate.”
“Remember what we told you,” Morrie said. “For this weekend, the guests believe thisisPemberley, which never actually existed except for in the book. It’s very important no one guesses you’re a fictional character come to life. If you can make it for the whole weekend without shattering their illusion, I’ll let you buy that Prada handbag.”
