My suspicion is confirmed when I find a fine layer of dust over everything in what I guess would've been her own sitting room. There's a settee in front of a cold hearth, with a wall of bookshelves behind it. Next to the window is a little table and chair, I could imagine her sitting in to look out over the landscape.
It's brighter out now and from this vantage point, I can see more of the rocky coastline.
Perfect.
Leaning over the table, I snap a couple photos of the view. It would probably help more if there were a house or a landmark, but as far as I can see in this direction down the coast, there's nothing but trees and white rock.
Spinning a circle, I take in the room, looking for any real signs of her. Of Diana De La Rosa. A photo, maybe. I've only seen the handful Ambrose has posted of her in his pursuit of trying to find her all those years. Maybe there are some of us together.
My chest pangs as I search, but don't find anything on the walls or surfaces. There is a nail over the mantle, though, and Ithink maybe a photo might've hung there once. Maybe Ambrose couldn't stand to look at it anymore.
I check every room in this wing of the mansion, finding nothing but pretty spaces covered in dust. No photos. No real evidence of her at all, except a closet full of her clothes and a vanity stocked with old pots of cream and bottles of Jasmine-scented perfume that smells even better when I apply it to my wrists.
My disappointment in not finding what I was hoping to fades as I exit the last room and am swallowed up by amber sunlight. It paints the alabaster terrace in shades of gold and when I step into the light, it's so fucking warm I take a second to just feel it. The breeze brings the scent of the sea up the cliffside and I remember what Atticus said.
When this is over, I can pick a place, anywhere I want, and we'll go there.
I imagine being somewhere like this, with the sun and the sea, and the guys with me. Seven playing fetch with Ellie. Elijah carving through the waves. Atticus running along the beach.
Soon, I tell myself.
"Good morning."
I spin, my heart in my throat.
"Apologies," Ambrose says. "I didn't mean to startle you."
My heart is still racing, face hot, as I shake my head. "That's okay."
He nods at the view. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
"Very," I agree, noting the large book he has under his arm.
He sees that I've noticed it and holds it out to me. It's not a book, though, it's a photo album. "I thought you might like to see some old family photos."
My chest aches at the way he says it.Family.
This is my family. He is.
His brow furrows, and he starts to pull the album back. "Unless you'd rather?—"
"No." I take it from him, hands stinging where they touch the canvas fabric. "Thank you."
He extends an arm toward the terrace, and the round wrought iron table pushed off to one side of it. I notice how it looks to be already clean, and there are white cloth napkins with heavy glass tumblers holding them in place against the breeze.
"Shall we?" he asks. "I've asked for them to bring breakfast to us here on the terrace."
I take the seat he pulls out for me and set the photo album on the surface of the table.
Ambrose moves his chair, dragging it closer to sit next to me as I open the cover.
The very first photo is one taken in a room I was in earlier. Her personal bedroom. I recognize the thick mahogany columns on the four-poster bed. But that's not where my attention snags.
My throat scratches as I take in the woman in the bed—her hair plastered to her forehead, her smile wide and genuine as she stares down at the small ivory wrapped bundle in her arms. Ambrose is there, too, leaning down to press a kiss to her damp head.
It strikes at something in me, and I have to bite my tongue to stop the swelling emotion.
"I was born in the house?" I ask, clearing my throat.
