What's Left of Our Hearts

Going Home

Clara felt herself calming as soon as the cottage emerged from the foliage. Nestled on a downward sloping hill, the one-story home made for an unassuming sight. The hydrangeas that lined the front steps, normally violet and pink, stood a bareboned guard. A chilly wind swept brown leaves towards the lake behind the house, making Clara shiver. It felt good nonetheless, shaking her out of her reverie.

The door swung open before she'd had a chance to knock. Eyes the color of richly brewed coffee blinked from under glasses with thin, flimsy-looking frames. The man who balanced them precariously on his nose sported a thick navy vest over a long-sleeve shirt, and trousers barely held up on his slender body by a thin belt. The slight hunch in his back made it appear like every item on his body weighted him down. The broad smile that greeted Clara spread slowly across his face as if the effort exerted him.

"Dad? What are you doing up so early?" The morning light glinted off his glasses when his smile pushed them up.

"Sleep is for the old. I was just making some coffee. Come in, Piccola," he stepped away to let her pass and Clara gave him a firm hug, the kind that only little girls give to their dads. No matter how old she got, she would always be her papa's Principessa. As soon as she'd crossed the threshold, Clara felt the ache in her chest ease. It was like a claw had released its hold on her ribcage and she was safe. She was home.

She followed her father into a cozy kitchen tucked away on the east side of the cottage where he poured two cups of fresh, much-needed coffee, and joined him out on the small terrace overlooking the lake behind the cottage. Together, they drank in silence while watching the sun push its way up through the thicket. A light breeze tickled her face as it rolled over the deck.

"How was your flight?"

"How did you—oh. Right. My luggage." Clara cleared her throat. She wasn't sure if she wanted to tell her father about Dominic. The Cole family had brought on so much pain to them that the mere mention of the name should be forbidden in their household. "It was fine. Uneventful."

"Always a good thing."

"Indeed."

Her father's eyes gently roamed her face. She took a sip, casting a glance over the lake. "How have you been?"

"Benne. I am good, but you know that because we spoke about a week ago and not much has happened since. That's not why you're here, amore." There were two men who knew her and could read her better than anyone, each in their own way. Her father was one, Dom was the other. With a painful pang, she thought of Owen and how he wasn't one of them.

Clara set her already empty cup onto the frosted glass table. Its surface looked like rain droplets frozen on a single sheet. They caught the morning light kaleidoscopically, momentarily distracting Clara from the sinking feeling in her gut. This was her father, she had to tell him. "I was in London," she said, slowly meeting her father's gaze. "I saw Dominic—Cole," she added, as if there could be another Dominic. There, it was out.

"Mmhmm." Her father's way of saying, go on.

She watched him for any reaction, but he looked merely thoughtful and remained silent. She'd have expected something—anything—at the mention of the Cole name.

"Well, that's not all. You see, he hired our firm to do work for him in New York, and I've been trying to avoid him, but he's made it impossible. And after all their family did I can't believe the nerve, but he's been trying to..." Clara chose her next words carefully. "Trying to reconnect. And I don't know... I mean how can I– "

"Pretend that nothing happened and move on?"

"I can't. There's too much history. You know this," she cried. Why her voice sounded like pleading, she didn't know.

Her father heaved a small sigh. It lifted his thin shoulders under his shirt like posts wavering under a particularly heavy circus tent. She remembered him younger and full of life, when he could walk straight and tall, when his clothes didn't look like hand-me-downs from a larger man. She remembered him lifting her up in the air, giggling with joy as little girls do when they sit on the shoulders of giants and see the world for the first time from a different perspective. The memory was bitter-sweet, looking at him folded with age now.

"I don't know why he thinks that's possible," Clara shook her head.

"Because you don't know the whole story," her father said, clasping his hands in his lap. "And perhaps it's time you do."

"Dad? What are you talking about?" She leaned forward in her chair. Something about his expression sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine.