Page 37 of Culmination
Shivers run down my spine at both the possession and refuge in his tone. I nod. “Got it.”
The drive to Dr. Buchwalter’s office is…informative. Rafe’s more talkative than he’s ever been before. In fact, I’m surprised he’s telling me about his childhood: his parents, his brother, and how he loved growing up in Ohio and wouldn’t mind settling there one day, as long I’m okay with it. He’d like to be close to his parents, especially after the baby’s born, which is a nice thought. If my parents were still here, I’d want to raise my child close to them. The idea of giving my baby a family through Rafe is a heartwarming one. I have no ties to Chicago—or Philadelphia for that matter—anymore. So if Rafe wants to move to Ohio, I say Go Buckeyes.
He continues talking and I’m more than willing to sit back and listen. I have no idea if he’s trying to keep us both distracted from what answers may possibly lie ahead; I just know I’m committing every single word to memory.
He’s mid-story, regaling me with a tale about how he and his little brother got lost in a corn maze, when I see the familiar town square.
“Rafe!” I interrupt, grabbing his arm and pointing to a small parking lot. “Park there.”
He does as he’s told. The car is barely in park when I hop out. Rafe follows then gives me a stern look, gazing down at my belly.
“I know you’re eager, babe,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, “but you’re carrying precious cargo.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I know. I know. I’ll think before I leap next time.”
Rafe’s laughter echoes around us. “That’s all I ask. So…where are we headed?”
I take his hand, pulling him with me and leading him to the front entrance of Dr. Buchwalter’s office.
Or what wasoncehis office.
My heart falls as I take in the sight of what used to be my favorite dentist’s office. Only it’s all wrong. The sign on the door indicates it’s now a title and licensing office.
“This…this is wrong.” I glimpse up at Rafe, who’s frowning at me. “He must’ve retired sometime in the past five years.”
I sit on the stoop, crestfallen. I didn’t realize just how much I need this clue, how much I need for this to be all over. And yet, the answers are still firmly out of my grasp.
Feeling dejected, I brush my bangs out of my eyes and glance around the square. That’s when I see it: a bronzed statue in the median of the road, erected directly across from where I’m sitting. It depicts a robust man riding atop a powerfully gallant stallion. His figure aims a bow and arrow at an unknown foe off in the distance. My heartbeat quickens as my gaze follows the arrow’s direction. Then my eyes widen as Rafe snaps his fingers and points in the same direction.
“Law office,” we say in perfect unison.
My hands tremble as they turn the knob on the large, wooden door leading into the private practice of Charles Wentworth, a name that is not familiar to me in the slightest. A chime echoes through the air when we step through, and Rafe silently closes the door behind us.
“Welcome to the office of Charles Wentworth,” a pleasant woman with graying hair greets us from the reception desk. “I’m Vivian Wentworth. How may I help you today?”
I clear my throat to speak, but Rafe beats me to it. A moment later, I realize why.
“Hi. I’m Alexander Montgomery, and this is my wife. We’re here to see Mr. Wentworth.”
Vivian eyes him suspiciously then turns to her computer. The seconds tick by in agony as I hear clicking sounds. When she turns back to us, the expression on her face is calm.
“I don’t believe he’s expecting you.”
Rafe clears his throat. “Ah, no, of course not. This is a last-minute situation. I assure you we’ll only take a moment of his time, but it is urgent.”
She purses her lips but picks the phone up and informs the man I assume to be her husband of our arrival. A few moments later, another office door opens and out walks a tall, salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman with his lips formed into a tight, grim line.
A line that immediately breaks out into a smile the moment he sets his gaze on me. He stops in his tracks and simply stares for a moment before Vivian clears her throat.
“Charles?”
“Vivian, the Argenteuil file.”
Her eyes widen right along with mine. This cannot be a coincidence.
Rafe’s hand, which was rubbing circles on the small of my back, stills instantly. Our eyes meet, and I know he’s had the same thought as me. He’s remembered the painting from the museum in Philadelphia. The one I couldn’t take my eyes off of.
This is it. It has to be. This is where my father meant for us to come.
