Submerged(Bound Together Book 1)(29)
Can this day get any worse?
* * *
“Honey, I have to tell you something,” Mom says on Wednesday evening.
Reid was kind enough to give me Monday off to deal with the insurance and police reports of my stolen vehicle. Of course, in true Reid fashion, one of his SUVs arrived later that afternoon for my use until we get the mess sorted out. Tuesday and Wednesday, I forced myself to go through the motions of work, but my mind was elsewhere. Today was a long day with back-to-back meetings and cranky client phone calls. All I want to do now is rock my daughter to sleep and then drown myself in a large glass of wine, and maybe a bubble bath.
“What’s up, Mom?’
Mom appears at my side while Nat plays with toys on the living room floor, distracted by the cartoons on the television. Mom keeps wringing her hands, as she tends to do when she’s nervous which instantly raises my antenna. “Have you talked to your uncle yet about your stolen car?” she asks, eyes full of concern.
“My uncle? No, why?” I ask, standing up so that we’re eye level.
“Well, since he purchased that car for you, I thought maybe you should let him know that it was stolen.”
“I guess,” I reply, not really wanting to call the man I see so infrequently. “I can let him know, but I’m not doing it so that he replaces the car. My insurance agent says that I should be able to get a fair market price to put towards something else.”
“I know, but there’s…there’s just…things…that I think you need to speak with him about. About your car. About all of the cars.”
“Okay, Mom, you’re starting to scare me,” I tell her. The look on her face says she’s troubled about something. Something she clearly doesn’t want to say to me. “Just say it.”
“Honey, it’s about your father.”
* * *
I held off until Saturday afternoon. It was as long as I could. I honestly have no idea how I made it as long as I did, but Mom was right. I needed time to listen to what she had to say and wrap my head around it, but that was three days ago. Now? All bets are off.
I pull up to my uncle’s house. It’s a large Tudor home in a fancy gated community with more security than the White House. The ornate pond is flowing beautifully over decorative rocks, adorning half-naked stone cherubs. Palm trees line the driveway on both sides giving it a beautiful appearance with a hint of privacy. I’ve only ever been here one other time and that was with my mom when I was much younger. My uncle always comes to me.
Security allows me to pass through as soon as I gave my name, which, considering it’s been well over a decade since I’ve been here, surprises me a little. There’s no way my uncle could have been expecting me, right?
I pull my borrowed SUV into the circular driveway and stop right in front of the double front doors. Large, white pillars extend from the concrete porch all the way to the roof of the second story. To say I’m nervous to be here would be an understatement. I’m scared to death to make this visit.
After listening to my mother tell me all about my father, I went through three major emotions–almost all at the same time. First, anger. I was angry with her for keeping this part of my life, my family history, from me. Three days later, I can see things a little more clearly and through calmer eyes, so while I may not completely agree with it, I do understand her decisions a little better. The second emotion was confusion. Why is this all coming out now? After twenty-two years, why is it okay for me to know my family secrets now? And the third emotion was anger again. Okay, so maybe only two emotions.
I take several calming breaths before making my way up the steps and approach the front door. Before I can ring the bell or knock with the fancy brass knocker, the front door dramatically opens. A gentleman dressed in a suit opens the door widely and indicates for me to step inside. Either the front gate announced my arrival, or this man knows who I am as well. That thought makes me shiver.
Before I can even ask to speak with my uncle, I hear his loud accent as he descends the stairs in front of me. The staircase curves around the outside wall and he looks like royalty as he makes his way down in his expensive suit that screams Armani. I take a quick look at my father’s aging brother. He’s tall with dark hair and darker eyes, the same dark hair and eyes that I have.
“There’s my favorite senorita,” he says in his thick Spanish accent. He attempts to pass off his smile as caring, but hidden underneath is something different. Something I’m not used to or prepared for.