“Pretty please.” I bat my eyelashes.
“Fine.” He pauses for a moment. “He deserves everything that’s happening to him.”
From Lisa we learned congregation numbers are dwindling fast, and Earl is suing Dad for ownership of the church. He and his wife are divorcing. Mary moved out, but Lisa chose to stay with Earl, who she recognizes as her father, despite DNA.
“We all eventually pay for our sins,” I mumble.
“I was hoping to never step foot in this house again,” Patrick says, parking in the driveway of our childhood home.
My stomach churns as I get out of the car. The front door opens and our father ambles onto the porch. Patrick shoves past him, not saying a word.
“Hi, Dad.” I smile slightly.
“It’s good to see you, Pepper.”
I nod and go inside. Patrick leans against the wall, crossing his arms, and I sit on the sofa. A fearsome glower etches his face; so much for having an open mind. Dad stands in the middle of the living room. He’s lost weight, and it’s obvious he hasn’t visited his barber in a while. I can’t recall a time in my life he wasn’t clean-shaven. Dirty dishes are stacked on the coffee table, and clothes, shoes, and other clutter are scattered across the floor. Church business and his legal troubles have taken a toll on him.
“Well, we’re waiting, Russell,” Patrick says, derision in his tone.
“I owe you both an apology.”
“Keep your phony apology to yourself,” Patrick scoffs.
“Let him talk.”
I’m interested in what he has to say. Russell Bryant doesn’t explain himself, ever, so this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to understand what caused him to become an unfeeling tyrant.
“I’ve failed as a parent.”
“Understatement of the century.”
“Patrick, please—”
He cuts me off. “I can’t listen to this bullshit.”
“You have every right to be upset, but I vow to be a better father.”
“So, because you had an epiphany all should be forgiven?” Patrick asks bitterly. “If your life wasn’t in shambles, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I’m asking for a chance to make amends.”
“Pepper told me about how you abused her.”
Dad regards me solemnly. “You remind me of my mother.”
Out of all the things he could’ve said, this was the least expected. Dad was raised by his grandmother. She died long before Patrick and I were born. I’ve seen pictures of her and even heard a few stories, but any questions pertaining to his parents were strictly off-limits. They met their end when he was twelve, that’s all I know.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Anita Bryant.”
“What was she like?” I bite my tongue, waiting on his answer.
“Charismatic, outgoing, and beautiful.” He smiles sadly. “Everyone loved my mother and her baking too. She dreamed of owning a bakery one day. Her red velvet cake was my favorite.”
“And Granddad?
“Everettwasmean as a rattlesnake, abusive, and insecure. My father was a jealous man and convinced himself my mother was unfaithful. He beat her and me almost daily.”
