by Fiona Grace
He cut her off. “I’m very much looking forward to a nice warming cup of tea, and then perhaps we can go for that beach walk you suggested, and grab some lunch at the pub?”
His sudden return to form was enough to make Lacey’s head swirl. “Sure,” she murmured, flummoxed. “Sounds perfect.”
The sooner they were out of here, the better.
Tom came back to the table, carrying a pot of tea and three mugs. He’d selected the plainest ones he had, Lacey noted, probably worried he’d accidentally spark offense if he used his more gaudy or ironically kitschy ones.
“Here we go,” he said, setting the tray down with a tinkle of china, before taking the spare seat beside Lacey.
She immediately noticed the not-so-subtle shift in her father’s demeanor, like his hackles had gone up. She, too, felt her stress levels spiking in response.
It made no sense. Tom had been able to charm her mother, who was infinitely more prickly than her father. But Frank seemed to have taken a disliking to him, just because of a few slips of the tongue. She hoped all the weird history and baggage her dad had brought with him wouldn’t become a huge roadblock between the two liking each other.
“So, where are you guys going next?” Tom asked.
“Why?” Frank replied. “Trying to get rid of us already?” He smiled, as if to indicate he was joking, but the smile didn’t even touch his eyes.
Lacey forced out a strained laugh. “Oh, Dad,” she said, patting his hand. “He’s only teasing.”
Tom managed a weary-sounding “heh,” before seeming to deflate from the effort. Lacey couldn’t blame him. She’d not seen this side of her father before. But then again, she’d never introduced her father to her lover before, either. This was the first time Frank had ever met a man romantically involved with her. It was the equivalent of her first time bringing a boy home for dinner, only she was a forty-year-old woman, not a teenager.
“The beach,” she said to Tom, answering the question Frank had failed to. “We’re going to walk Chester and work up an appetite, then come back to the Coach House for lunch.”
“The Coach House!” Frank exclaimed, sounding delighted. “Ah, it’s still there. I used to drink in there all the time way back when.”
Tom opened his mouth, as if to ask a follow-up question, but must’ve second-guessed himself and decided against it, because he snapped it shut again. Lacey could hardly blame him. There wasn’t exactly a question he could ask that wouldn’t seem loaded—“when was that?” was quite obviously off limits.
“It’s a lovely place,” he murmured instead.
He immediately occupied himself with pouring the tea, taking his time over it as if to stretch the distraction out for as long as humanly possible. Lacey had never seen someone pour milk so slowly, and her stomach turned at the sheer tenseness of it all.
But as awful as she felt for Tom for being given such a frosty reception by her father, she also felt awful for herself. Her dad was supposed to be giving her away soon, to a man he’d made so uncomfortable he couldn’t even sit down and share a cup of tea with him! How was she supposed to share her life with the two of them in such circumstances?
Overwhelmed by emotion, Lacey grabbed her cup and slurped the tea. It was still very hot and stung the roof of her mouth, but Lacey didn’t care. She just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
As soon as her cup was drained, she put it back on the saucer with a clatter. “Yum, thanks, Tom, that hit the spot. How are you getting on, Dad? Ready for our walk?”
Frank was yet to take a sip. “Can do,” he said. “It is rather stuffy in here.”
He stood, abandoning his tea. Lacey stood too. She looked at Tom, whose jaw was tight with offense, his gaze fixed on Frank’s untouched cup of tea.
“I guess we’re off now,” she said, squeezing his shoulder with what she hoped was tender affection. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yup,” was all Tom said in reply.
Frank didn’t even say goodbye or thank you. He just strode off in the direction of the exit, Chester trotting behind him.
Lacey looked at Tom, who wasn’t even trying to hide his fuming now.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He stood, his chair scraping back. “Have fun with your dad,” he said, before marching back toward the kitchen.
Her chest sinking, Lacey turned and ushered her father out of the patisserie.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lacey and Frank took Chester for a long walk along the beach before heading up the cliffs. It was a bracing morning, with a chilly wind that seemed determined to blow them all the way back down.
“You’re fit,” Lacey commented to her father. Despite his age, he appeared to be taking the steep hill in his stride. She, on the other hand, was puffing and panting her way up the incline.
“Yes, well, it’s all just practice,” Frank said, gazing out toward the ocean. “I must’ve done this walk a hundred times.” He whistled. “Perhaps even a thousand!”
“Oh,” Lacey said, her stomach dropping.
The comment struck a nerve. Because while he’d been busy taking those thousand walks, she’d been going through a thousand agonies back in New York City, wondering where her father had gone. And the poignancy of the moment was not lost on her. Her sister, Naomi, had stood at the cliffsides when she’d visited, gazing out at the ocean, not wistfully or with nostalgia as Frank was doing, but with pain and anguish, wondering if their father would ever be found. As much as Lacey was grateful to have found her father, alive and well after years of wondering and months of searching, there was just so much history there she was unwilling to sweep under the carpet.
“Are you all right?” Frank asked, breaking through her ruminations. “We can rest if you need to.”
“No, it’s not that,” Lacey mumbled. But she felt unable to bring up her thoughts. They were too heavy. She’d wanted Frank back in her life to walk her up the aisle, but if she harangued him over his past failings would it drive him away? The risk was too great to take, so she held her tongue. “I was just thinking about lunch.”
“Lunch!” Frank exclaimed, joyously. “Yes, it is amazing how a hike in the cold weather builds up an appetite. Shall we turn back and head to the Coach House?”
“Yes, okay,” Lacey said.
Frank slung an arm around her shoulder. “Now tell me. Do they still serve bangers and mash there? I remember it being the best I’d ever tasted!”
“Uh-huh,” Lacey said.
“Not to mention their Sunday roasts,” Frank continued. “They used the best lamb. I probably spent every Sunday I had in that place while I lived here.”
This time, Lacey felt herself bristle. She couldn’t help but feel hurt to hear about the enjoyable times Frank had had in Wilfordshire, when miles away in New York City, his little girl had been crying into her pillow wondering where he’d gone. Perhaps leaving the past in the past would be harder than Lacey anticipated. Because even if her father’s visit was short, if he continued to pepper it with tales of his most happy memories, keeping quiet would become impossible. His happy memories coincided with her worst. And while his actions were the direct cause of her terrible memories, her presence was absent in his happiest ones. He’d thrived without her. She’d wilted without him.
She shoved her hands deep into her pockets and marched down the hill, her feelings growing more conflicted with every step she took. She hoped she would not regret taking Gina’s advice.
*
Her feelings did not fade during lunch, nor during their amble around town afterwards, nor the drive up to the cottage in Frank’s mucky cattle van.
They arrived just in time for darkness falling. A whole day Lacey had spent with her father, feeling her conflicted emotions festering and tumbling inside of her.
“Wow,” Frank said, as he stepped in through the door of Crag Cottage. “This is… uncanny.”
“The decor?” Lacey said, closing the door behind hi
m and shaking the raindrops from her coat. “Yes, we have very similar taste.”
“It’s not just that,” Frank said, glancing all about him as he shucked off his own rain-splattered coat. “I lived in a place just like this when I was in Wilfordshire.” He paced along the corridor, looking at the beautiful artworks Lacey had recently framed and hung up, and into the living room. “You have a record player!”
“Yup,” Lacey said. “Everything sounds better on—”
“—vinyl,” Frank finished for her.
She smiled. It seemed like they had a lot in common, even though her father hadn’t had much of a hand in raising her.
He paced over to the machine and began flicking through her collection. “We have the same taste in music as well!”
“Everyone likes the Beatles, Dad,” Lacey replied.
Something about his comment had rubbed her the wrong way. She didn’t need, or even want, his seal of approval.
“Shall I show you to the guest room?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m famished,” Frank said. “Do you have anything to eat?”
“Sure,” Lacey said.
She guided him out of the living room and into the kitchen, where Chester had beelined the moment they’d arrived home, and was now sitting patiently beside his bowl waiting for his dinner.
“I’d better feed the pooch first,” Lacey said.
She headed to the pantry to fetch a tin of dog food, before returning to the kitchen to find Frank at the antique wooden shelving unit, admiring her collection of objet d’arts.
“The yellow Elysees Le Creusets!” he said, pointing at the tea set and wiggling his brows as if this was now some kind of in joke they shared.
For the second time since he’d set foot inside her home, Lacey bristled. She couldn’t help it. There was something about having him here inside her safe protective bubble that was putting her on edge. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling this way. Wasn’t this what she wanted? What she had dreamt of for so long?
She fed Chester, then washed her hands and went over to the fridge to see what she could cobble together for dinner. She was in luck; there was a Tupperware of potato salad. Tom had made it earlier in the week, and had obviously put his own special twist on the usual recipe—with cloves, bacon, and shallots.
She served them each a portion, using the plainest bowls she could find rather than anything from her usual vintage stock, since she didn’t feel like having yet another conversation with him about their shared taste in all things retro.
“Take a seat,” she said, nodding to the round table in the bay window. “I’ll bring them over. Do you drink? Wine? Beer? More tea?”
Frank lowered himself into the wooden dining chair. “Believe it or not, I think I’ve actually had enough tea for one day. Wine would be nice, though. I’m not much of a drinker… anymore.” His voice faded. He gazed out the window, across the lawn to the black ocean beyond. “What a fabulous view.”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” She came over with the plates and a bottle of wine. “Is red okay?”
“Perfect,” Frank replied. He looked at the plate Lacey had set down in front of him. “This looks nice,” he added.
“Tom made it,” Lacey said, taking a seat opposite. “He makes most of the food. He’s a far better chef than me.”
“Oh right,” Frank said, with what sounded to Lacey like a vague air of disapproval.
For a moment, Lacey felt like questioning him about his frostiness toward Tom, but she decided against it. This was the first day she’d spent with her father since she was a little girl, and she didn’t want to spoil it by bickering. So she bit her tongue and poured them both a glass of wine.
“Shall we toast?” Frank asked, picking his glass up by the stem.
Lacey lifted her glass. “To what?” she asked.
“To reconnecting?” Frank suggested.
Lacey’s heart flip-flopped, and she took a sharp inhalation. “To reconnecting,” she echoed in a shaky voice, and clinked her glass against his. The ding of crystal echoed through the kitchen.
And then all went silent.
With the conversation stalled, Lacey distracted herself with her food. Tom always used the best quality potatoes, so fresh and organic they had an almost earthy tang to them. The mayo was the creamiest she’d ever tasted, and it was perfectly complemented by the mustard, vinegary capers, and the sharp but sweet shallots. The bacon was beautifully crisp, and so succulent.
“Gosh!” Frank said, his eyes watering. “That really packs a punch, doesn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm,” Lacey said.
“Might be a bit much for me,” he added.
“You don’t like it?” Lacey asked.
“A bit too much mustard for my taste,” he said, putting his fork down.
That was it. Lacey had wanted to keep things peaceful, but all the unspoken issues between them were growing and enough was enough. She had wanted to leave the heavy discussion until after the wedding, but their day touring the town had made her realize that they could not leave that stuff unspoken between them. Someone, be it Tom, or Taryn, or Gina, would bring something up sooner or later, and Lacey couldn’t bear the tension of it all. She felt like she was always on edge, always on the cusp of saying something but holding her tongue.
She set her fork down too. “Dad, we should probably talk.”
Frank cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. It was quite clear to Lacey that he knew what was coming.
“What would you like to talk about?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said with a heavy sigh. “How about where the hell you’ve been for the last thirty-odd years?”
She’d not meant to say it so abruptly, but the words just spilled out with her emotion.
Frank pursed his lips. “It’s complicated,” he said, finally. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start at the beginning,” Lacey suggested. “With you, me, and Naomi, vacationing in Wilfordshire without Mom.”
Frank drew a breath. “I don’t know if that’s the best thing to address right away. Your mother and I always had a very fractious relationship.”
“Fine, then start at the end and work your way back,” she said. She was determined not to let him worm his way out of this. “Tell me about Canterbury.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose. “You know about Canterbury?”
“I know a lot of things,” Lacey said. “For a man trying to disappear off the face of the earth, you sure dropped a lot of breadcrumbs.”
Frank’s features dropped. “I wasn’t trying to disappear…” he said, quietly. “I always hoped you’d choose to find me one day.”
“So you left a trail?” Lacey asked with a scoff. “Like it was some kind of treasure hunt? You know, most people who want their abandoned kids to come find them at least leave a forwarding address.”
Frank lowered his gaze to his lap with shame. “I know,” he murmured.
Suddenly, Lacey’s phone began to ring, making them both jump a mile. She took it from her pocket. To her shock, the name flashing up at her was: Mom.
CHAPTER FIVE
A shiver peeled through Lacey. It almost felt like her mom had some kind of sixth sense, like she knew they were talking about her behind her back. Even having her name on the phone screen felt too close for comfort for Lacey. It was as if she’d suddenly been transported into the kitchen and was glaring sternly at them for gossiping behind her back.
“I should… I have to get this,” Lacey said, standing.
Frank looked surprised that she’d abandon their conversation at such a dramatic moment to answer her phone. “It can’t wait?”
Still not sure who to believe, Lacey looked down at her father and twisted her lips.
“Sorry, no. It’s a long-term client. A particularly difficult one, who’ll go crazy if I don’t answer.”
Frank frowned, but nodded his relent.
Lacey cast a final wary glance in his direc
tion, before pacing out of the kitchen into the small laundry room. It usually took at least a minute or two before Shirley made her feel harried, but thanks to her father’s presence in her home, this time her blood pressure was up before she’d even answered the call.
“Mom?” she asked, shutting the door behind her. “What is it?”
“Am I interrupting something?” came Shirley’s abrupt voice on the other end of the line.
“No,” Lacey said quickly. It wasn’t like her mother to be concerned about whether she was interrupting her. It felt almost too close for comfort, like she could sense Lacey had a guest. “Why would you be interrupting anything?”
“Well, it’s a work day, isn’t it?” Shirley said. “You’re usually doing something or other at that shop of yours. Working all the hours of the day.”
Lacey let out a breath of relief. She rested her backside against the washing machine. “I’m at home. What’s up?”
“I was calling about the harpist,” Shirley said. “Have you had a chance to look at the shortlist yet?”
Shirley had been tasked with finding musicians for the wedding. So far, they’d narrowed it down to a harpist for the ceremony and a bluegrass band for the reception, but Shirley had managed to make a list of about a hundred different potential candidates for each and Lacey hadn’t had a chance to begin to sift through them yet.
“Mom, honestly, I trust you to choose.”
“You say that,” Shirley replied. “But one of them is a concert harpist with a six-foot gold-gilded harp, while another offers to wear a matching ball gown for your color scheme but only plays a small wooden Celtic harp, and then there’s the one with amazing ginger hair and a repertoire of Disney songs…”
“Not that one,” Lacey said, quickly. “The Disney one. Definitely not them.”
“See!” Shirley replied. “You don’t trust me, because that’s the one I would’ve chosen. So you do have an opinion. I knew you would.”