Page 3 of Blossoms of the Heart
That was all, because coming here didn’t do anything for me. It didn’t get my house back. It didn’t add or take anything away from my life.
It was just me showing my rage.
But really, I still had nothing and it felt like I was starting from scratch again.
* * *
The minute my doorbell rang that evening, I knew it was my father. He would have heard all about what happened today and come to get my version of the story.
Mom wouldn’t have come.
She was close with Jason and his parents, travelling in the same uptight circles. She and his mother met weekly at the country club to discuss the latest fundraisers.
Mom adored Jason, it was she who introduced us and practically forced him on me.
She’d never had a bad thing to say about him even though she knew all that he’d done. Even when she knew about his unsavory habits and that the man cheated on me every chance he got. She was still his number one fan.
Mom and my older sister Emma were like the same person. So the only support I received was from dad.
“Phoebe.” The first thing he did was give me a hug, which I melted into and tried not to cry.
No more tears. Not for Jason or anything to do with him.
No more tears.
“I bought ice cream,” Dad said when I released him. He lifted a little bag I hadn’t seen before.
Ice cream was our comfort food.
“Thank you. I needed that.”
“Come on, tell me what really happened.” He raised his brows, signaling he’d heard some bizarre version of what had taken place.
Although I had to admit I had acted bizarre and completely out of character.
Maybe Jason did tell the truth.
We went into the garden where I offloaded what happened. Dad listened and didn’t comment until I was done.
“I’m sorry. I knew how much you wanted to buy the lake house. I have a proposal for you, though, that you may like.” He smiled.
“What? What could that be?”
“Work.” His bright blue eyes, which mirrored my own, twinkled.
I was a sad case. Work was the most exciting thing in my life.
I was exactly like him— John Walker the expert linguist and doctor in archeology. My father, who to me was my very own Indiana Jones. I followed in Dad’s footsteps and got my doctorate in archeology. But, I took the linguistics a little further because I had a special skill set for reading very dead languages.
My one claim to having some form of purpose in this life. I could shop and dress like I was ready for the runway, but I’d sooner swap that to go exploring in some cave with Dad or climb Mount Kilimanjaro just for the fun of it.
Dad and I worked together, and these days, I mostly travelled to various dig sites and sometimes did presentations at universities. I’d studied at Yale so they always had me there, which was nice.
Work was a welcomed break from the reality. We just hadn’t had any real adventures in years.
“Work sounds like heaven.” I smiled.
“I know and I worry that you’re turning into the workaholic I used to be.”
