by E. K. Blair
His eyes are flooded in pain, and it kills me to see him like this when he’s always so pulled together. And in a rare moment, he stands in front of me before lowering to his knees, and then grips my hips and lays his head on my lap.
My undeniably strong Declan, slayed to the core.
Leaning over, I shield his body with mine.
I can’t sleep. Declan went to bed hours ago, but all I can do is toss and turn. My mind keeps drifting back to the past, and memories of my dad play in my head. Looking over at Declan, he looks so peaceful. I watch him as he sleeps, but it’s impossible to ignore my stomach when it growls at me. Slipping out of bed, I pad across the room and shut the door quietly behind me. I head over to the kitchen and pull out a slice of cheesecake that room service delivered earlier. Grabbing my notepad and the list of passengers, I take a seat on the couch in the living room and begin working on the next name.
Asher Corre
Looking at the name, I pick up a strawberry garnish from the plate and eat it, and another memory of my dad finds me again.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
“Daddy,” I groan as I roll over in bed, rubbing the sleep dust out of my eyes with my hands.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
I open my eyes to see my daddy sitting on the edge of my bed with a great big bundle of pink balloons and a smile on his face.
“Am I five today?”
“You are. You’re getting so big, baby.”
“Then you can’t call me ‘baby’ if I’m so big.”
“I’ll call you ‘baby’ even when you’re my age,” he says. “Come on, get out of bed.”
I groan again, still sleepy, and he sets the weight that’s tied to the bottom of the balloons on the floor and then reaches his hands out in an over-sized gesture. I immediately squeal and throw the covers over my head.
“The tickle monster is gonna get you,” he teases in a playful monster voice, and I start laughing before he even gets me.
When his fingers get ahold of me I squeal and squirm with loud giggles.
“Daddy, stop!”
“Say the magic word,” he says in a sing-song voice as he continues to tickle me.
“Abracadabra . . . Please . . . Hocus pocus . . .” I ramble off, saying everything I can think of, and then he stops. My belly hurts from all the laughing, and I have to catch my breath.
“Are you getting up?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Breakfast in ten minutes, princess. Get ready and don’t forget to brush your teeth,” he tells me as he stands and walks to my bedroom door. “Oh, wait. I forgot something.”
I get out of bed as he walks back to me. He lifts me up, and I wrap my arms and legs around him like a monkey when he starts kissing my neck. The prickles from his beard tickle me, and I laugh.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, birthday girl,” he says before setting me back on my feet. “Now get dressed.”
Because it’s my birthday, I decide to wear as many colors as I can find in my dresser, and when I’m ready and my teeth are brushed, I run out into the kitchen.
“Pancakes!”
“And whipped cream,” he adds.
I take a seat at the table in front of a ginormous stack of pancakes, but before he puts the whipped cream on them, he says, “Open up.”
He holds the can over my head, so I lean back, open my mouth, and he squirts my mouth full of whipped cream.
“When does my party start?”
“Your friends will be here at noon, so I need to get started on your birthday cake as soon as we’re finished with breakfast.”
“You’re making the strawberry cake, right?”
“Of course. It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
“Yes! Strawberries are my super duper favorite!” I exclaim.
I begin eating my pancake tower, but it doesn’t take long for my belly to get full. I play with my dolls in the living room while Daddy cleans up, and when he’s done, he calls me back into the kitchen.
“Did you want to help me with the cake?”
“Yes!” I say excitedly and then drag one of the chairs from the table over to the counter and climb up.
He pulls out all the ingredients from the pantry and fridge and helps me fill measuring cups that I dump into a big bowl. Once the cake batter is made, he lets me lick the spoon and bowl as he puts the pan into the oven.
While it’s baking we play a couple games of Go Fish and watch Saturday morning cartoons. The timer goes off and we return to the kitchen.
“Is it time for the strawberry slime?” I ask.
“Yep!”
As Daddy prepares the strawberry gelatin, he lets me stab the holes in the cake with a toothpick. When the gelatin starts to thicken a little, I help him pour it over the cake. He puts it into the fridge to set before we go outside to play in the back yard.
“Will you push me high?” I ask when I run over to the swing set.
“You don’t want to do it on your own?”
“Not today.”
He pushes me, and when I call out, “Higher!” he says, “What if I push you into the clouds?”
“That’s silly, Daddy. That can’t happen.”
We spend a good amount of time playing outside, and when we’re done and the cake is ready, he lets me frost it with strawberry icing.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?” he tells me as I smear on the icing.
“Am I your favorite?”
“My super duper favorite, but I need you to make me a promise,” he says. “I need you to promise me that you’ll stop growing up so fast.”
“How do I stop growing?”
“Well,” he says with animation. “I guess I’ll have to stop feeding you.”
I giggle, “You can’t do that! What if I get hungry?”
“What are we going to do then?”
“I don’t wanna be little forever though. I wanna be great big, just like you.”
“Just like me?”
“Yep! Just like you because you’re my favorite thing in the whole wide world,” I tell him and then lean over to kiss his nose.
“You’re my favorite too, princess pie,” he tells me and then gives me a kiss on my nose as well. “So I guess I won’t starve you. Here,” he says, taking the rubber spatula out of my hand. “I always get the first lick.”
I laugh when he licks some of the pink frosting.
He hands it back to me, saying, “Enjoy,” and I begin licking the strawberry icing.
I take another bite of the strawberry as my heart aches at the memory of the last birthday I had with him, and get back to the next name on the list.
ASHER CORRE
I stare at the letters and begin scrambling them.
SHORE RARE C
HERO CRASER
I take a bite of cheesecake and continue. I know this is nonsense. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to decode, but it makes me feel better than doing nothing.
I continue to stare at the letters.
“My little princess pie,” he says again as I lick the frosting. “My little Elizabeth Archer.”
_ S _ _ _ _ O _ RE
A H E R C R
“Oh, my God,” I murmur and then unscramble the letters.
ARCHER
My pulse picks up as I stare at the letters that spell my last name—his last name. I then look at the remaining letters.
S O R E
Tears prick my eyes and my hands tremble.
I take another lick of the sweet frosting, and he ruffles my hair with his hand, continuing his doting, saying, “My little Elizabeth Rose Archer.”
R O S E
ASHER CORRE
ROSE ARCHER
“Oh, my God!” I blurt out as I lurch off the couch, covering my mouth with my two hands. My heart beats rapidly as I stare down in shock at the notepad where my middle and last name look up at me. This can’t be a coincidence.
It’s him!
And suddenly, I can hear his voice so clearly.
“My little Elizabeth Rose Archer.”
“Declan!” I holler, grabbing the notepad and running across the penthouse.
I sling the bedroom door open, waking him up when it slams against the door jamb.
“Declan, it’s him! It’s him!”
He leaps out of bed, still half asleep. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my dad!” I cry out. “Look!”
I show him the notepad, and he takes it from my hand.
“What am I looking at?” he questions at the paper that’s filled with so many names, and I point to ASHER CORRE.
“That’s him! The letters in that name spell ROSE ARCHER.”
“Who’s Rose?”
I look up at him, tears streaming down my cheeks, and I can barely breathe when I tell him, “Me.”
He stares at me, confusion etching his face, and I claim without a shred of doubt, “My name is Elizabeth Rose Archer, and that man is my dad.”
“THERE’S A LISTING for an A. CORRE in Washington,” Declan tells me from behind his laptop. “Gig Harbor, Washington. There’s no more information.”
“In Washington? Is that him?”
“Only one way to find out,” he says. “I had the plane scheduled to take us back to London, so I’ll have to wait until morning to call and get it rescheduled.”
Adrenaline intoxicates me, putting my body on high alert. My heart pounds, begging me to strap on my shoes and run across the country to get to my dad because waiting seems like an impossible feat. I pace the room, and when that dulls, I pack my bags, and when that’s done, I get on Declan’s computer and search every social media site and people-finder database to see if anything pops up.
Nothing, aside from what Declan had found. City and state. That’s it.
The night drags on, testing every ounce of patience in me. Seconds feel like hours and hours feel like years, and after an eternity, the sun rises. Declan is beyond demanding when he calls to reschedule the plane, and I feel sorry for the poor sap that’s on the other end of the line. He barks his orders, and when he hangs up, tells me, “Grab the bags.”
“We’re leaving now?”
“Yes.”
We move at lightning speed as we get all our belongings together, but it’s still not fast enough for my growing anxiety. Thank God for his private jet, because the flight takes less than four hours. Once we’re settled into our hotel suite in Tacoma, I ask, “Now what?”
“Now we need to find a way to get his address.”
“How far is Gig Harbor from here?”
“Twenty minutes or so. Not far,” he tells me.
I sit and think, and it doesn’t take but a couple minutes for the idea to pop into my head.
“Can you look up the utility companies in that town?” I ask Declan who is already on his laptop.
I walk over and stand behind him while he looks up the information for me. He pulls up the number, and I quickly punch it into my cell phone and send the call.
“City of Gig Harbor,” a lady answers.
“Yes, I’m calling on behalf of my brother, Asher Corre. He’s been in an accident and is currently in the hospital and unresponsive. We don’t know when he’s going to pull out of his current state, so I wanted to make sure that his bill is up to date,” I lie, and when I look to Declan, he gives me a smirk at my quick thinking.
“What was the name again?”
“Asher Corre.”
I hear her typing at her keyboard before saying, “Yes. Our records show that there is currently a zero balance.”
“Oh, good,” I respond. “In the meantime, would it be possible to have a paper copy of his bill mailed to the house. I know he pays online, but since I don’t have access to his passwords, I want to make sure that I can pay via snail mail.”
“Of course. Yes. We can definitely have the bill mailed out to you.”
“Great. And just to make certain, can you tell me the address you have on file?”
“I’m showing 19203 Fairview Lane with a zip code of 98332.”
“That’s correct. Thank you so much for your help.”
I hang up, and Declan asks, “Did you get it?”
“That was too easy, and that woman was too trusting,” I respond and then hand him the paper with the address.
He punches it into his computer. “There it is.”
“Let’s go!” I blurt with excitement, anxious to see if it’s really him.
“Hold on,” he says. “We can’t just go showing up on his doorstep. He’s hiding from something or someone, so we need to be careful for his sake and also yours.”
He’s right. I need to slow down for a second and think this through.
“I think we should get in the car and drive by. Check the place out. We need to verify that this is indeed your father first.”
“Okay.” I’ll agree to just about anything at this point.
We’re back in the car and driving to the address we were given, and soon enough, we’re pulling into a nice suburban neighborhood with large, New England-style coastal houses lining the streets. Children are outside riding bikes and playing, and people are walking their dogs. Everyone looks happy, enjoying the last hours of the afternoon before the sun sets.
Declan slows the car when he turns onto Fairview but doesn’t stop as we pass the house.
“It’s this one. The two-story colonial,” he says.
I look out the windshield at the beautiful house, and my stomach knots when I think about that being my father’s home.
“I say we give it a couple hours, let it get darker, and then we come back. Maybe we can catch him coming home from work.”
Anxiety mixed with every other emotion swarms in the pit of my gut. How can this possibly be happening when I’ve spent my whole life mourning his death? And now there’s a possibility that I might see him tonight, that he could be alive. It’s too much for me to understand and digest.
“Elizabeth?”
My throat restricts like a vice around the sadness inside, and I simply look at him and nod my approval to his plan.
We kill time and head to a local coffee joint. Declan makes a few business calls while I sip a hot tea and read some local Gazette magazine with all the town’s happenings. We drove around for a bit before stopping here, and it seems like a quaint place to live. There isn’t much, and everything is really spread out, but the neighborhoods are nice.
“We should get going,” Declan says, and I quickly order another tea to go.
Very few words have been spoken today; my emotions are much too high to talk, and Declan hasn’t pushed for conversation, which I appreciate. I need the silence right now.
Hopping back into the inconspicuous four-door car that Declan rented, we head back over to the house. This time, when we enter the neighborhood, the sidewalks are empty and the streetlights are on. Windows are lit while the families that live inside are probably eating their dinners, and when we pull up to what we think is my dad’s home, a few rooms are lit up as well.
We park along the curb on the opposite side of the street, and I stare into the windows, hoping to see something.
“Someone is in there,” I whisper.
“I don’t see any movement, but I agree. Too many lights are on for nobody to be home.”
No cars are in the driveway, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any in the garage.
“What do we do?”
“We wait,” Declan responds. “See if anyone comes out or if anyone comes home.”
So that’s what we do.
We sit.
We wait.
My mind doesn’t though. It keeps spinning thoughts around, plucking at my heartstrings. They swirl in a kaleidoscope of what-ifs. So many that I can’t keep them inside, so I ask Declan, “What if he’s married?” My voice trembles in despair. “I mean, this is too big a house for just one person, right?”
Declan looks at me and takes my hand, his face mottled in sorrow, and after a span of silence, he responds, “It’s possible.”
I look at the clock; it’s past eight. We’ve been sitting out here for hours when bright headlights beam our way.
“Elizabeth,” Declan murmurs urgently when the SUV pulls into the driveway.
I hold my breath as my heart pounds rapidly against my chest, the sound filling my ears. Leaning forward, I see the driver’s side door open, and when a man steps out, his back is to me. He reaches into the car and pulls out a briefcase at the same time the front door swings open and a young girl comes running out. And when that man turns around, I choke back an audible gasp, gripping Declan’s hand tightly.
“That’s him,” he voices with a look of pure astonishment, but I’m in a state of shock when I see my daddy pull this child into his arms and hug her.
“Dad, why are you so late?” I hear her muffled voice from outside the car ask him, and tears force their way down my cheeks like knives.
“I’m sorry, princess. I got tied up with a client,” he says, and I remember his voice like it was just this morning when I heard it last.
But it was me that was his princess.
Everything plays in slow motion, and when I look at his face from across the street, there isn’t an ounce of uncertainty he’s my dad. It’s that same face, the same eyes, the same smile that visits me in my dreams. Except now he’s older with a head of silver hair. The last I saw him he was in his thirties, and now he’s nearing sixty.
But that smile . . .
The smile he gives that girl—his daughter—that was mine. It was always mine, and now it’s hers.
I swore to myself that if I ever found him, I’d run to him, grab him, and never let him go. But when I see a woman and a boy walking out of the house, it’s another slap in my face—he’s no longer mine to run to. He’s theirs.
It becomes too much.
I can’t believe life would do this to me.
I want to die.
“Drive,” I cry, my voice shaky and unrecognizable.
But Declan doesn’t start the car.
“Elizabeth . . .”
“Get me out of here,” I plead.
He releases my hand and starts the car, and as soon as he begins driving, I split wide open and sob—loud and ugly.