Page 69

My pulse flutters in my veins, nervousness threading its insidious waves inside me as I stare at the large, sprawling mansion on Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side.

Everyone knows of the Anderson Estate, one of the rare standalone estates in the expensive land of the exclusive neighborhood, a stone’s throw away from Columbia University and my temporary apartment in Morningside Heights.

With its white marble exterior, terracotta roof, copper cornices oxidized into the beautiful pale green of the Statue of Liberty, and two spires atop the distinct towers of the two wings, the impressive building is impossible to miss.

I have passed by it to and from work and have admired the perfectly manicured landscapes and the stately appearance of the building, albeit a bit too Gothic for my taste.

It’s well known the affluent Anderson family has lived there for generations, with the house always occupied by the oldest living male and his immediate family.

I just never realized my hunt for my birth father would lead me here, mere blocks away from where I already live.

Taylor wanted to go with me this morning, but I told her I wanted to meet him first, to verify if he is indeed our father, before she meets him.

Deep down, I’m afraid of his reception toward us and if it’s negative, I don’t want to subject her to it.

I swallow the pins and needles in my throat as I make my way up the steps after the guards let me in at the gate. The door swings open before I press the bell and an old, regal man with white hair and kind eyes peers down at me. He looks ancient, like the building.

A butler. My father has a butler .

I stifle a snort and smile at the man, who says, “Welcome to the Anderson Estate, Ms. Peyton. I’m Morris, the butler. Mr. Anderson is expecting you in the back gardens. Allow me to show you the way.”

He leads me inside the house, past an elegant marble foyer with a towering floral arrangement atop a round table, through a door leading to a long corridor that would be dim if it weren’t lit up by elegant sconces.

My heels tap on the hardwood floors as I keep my pace with him, my heart lodging in my throat as nervousness slithers through me at finally meeting the person I’ve been missing my entire life.

As much as our lives were happy with Mom and we weren’t lacking, there has always been this clawing hunger inside me to know who my father is and who broke my mom’s heart and made her the person she was before she passed away.

And now, I’m apparently moments away from meeting him in person.

I’ve read about him in school—the Anderson family is practically a case study in and of itself with the patriarch, Linus Anderson, and his eldest son, Maxwell, both equally famous for their reclusive personalities.

They rarely, if ever, show their faces to the media.

There may be one or two photos out there of them at the Christmas ball at The Orchid, the only time paparazzi are allowed inside those doors, but even those photos are their side profile or are blurry.

The family is shrouded in mystery, but they are powerful as they own half of New York City.

Morris pushes open the French doors at the end of the corridor and makes a right at a tall hedge which resembles the entrance of a maze, and it’s then I see him.

The man himself.

His nostrils flare and his mouth parts as he stands.

He’s a good-looking man for his age, what looks to be mid-sixties or so.

The first thing I notice about him is his slate-color eyes.

Beautiful and large. The same shape and color as Taylor’s eyes.

His hair is mostly gray but streaked with the dark hair I’ve seen on the Anderson siblings when I pass by them at The Orchid .

His shoulders straighten as his gaze bores into mine, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.

My heart skips a beat as I realize, while I look nothing like him, the way he stands tall and how he seems to miss nothing in his gaze reminds me so much of myself.

His brows pinch and he swallows, the shock from his face bleeding into sadness, and he rolls his lips inward and lets out a sigh.

“Grace.” His voice is rumbly and rusty. “You’re the spitting image of your mother.”

His words are solemn and his hands tremble at his sides.

My mind flits to the inscription in the purse my mom treasured until her passing. The number of stars in the skies pales in comparison to my regard for you.

As I stare at my father and see his slate eyes darkening, and his hands fisted and white-knuckled, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed, an ache appearing behind my rib cage.

There was love. Soul crushing love. Standing mere feet in front of my father, I can see that as clear as day.

“S-Sir.” I don’t know what to call him. Father would be too presumptuous. Mr. Anderson would be ridiculous.

He gestures to the chair in front of him, and I take a seat as he follows suit. A middle-aged lady with kind eyes walks over and pours tea into my cup and disappears again.

My fingers tremble as I bring the cup to my lips, taking a tentative sip of the citrus infused tea my mom loved. I glance up in shock, finding his eyes softening.

“Lisbeth’s favorite.”

I don’t reply, my voice suddenly rendered mute. The birds chirp in the background as butterflies flit around on this comfortable day. Summer is drawing to a close and fall is making an appearance as the leaves show a telltale orange tinge at the edges.

He tugs the lapels of his casual gray suit and blows out an exhale.

His voice is rough but cultured. “Thank you for reaching out to me. I never knew where she went after she left here and I didn’t know she was pregnant with your sister then.

I could’ve had her tracked and found, but it didn’t seem right when I was the one who forced her away. ”

“Why did you?” The million-dollar question which has haunted me throughout my childhood, never too far away from my thoughts.

Pain laced his voice and his eyes stare into the distance as if reminiscing about bygone days. “You see, Grace, as you’re one of us now, I can share this with you.”

He stares at me and swallows, his face serious. “You see, our family is inflicted with a curse.”

“A curse?” I sit up, my brows hiked to my forehead, disbelief drenching my voice.

He chuckles mirthlessly. “It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. The firstborn male in our family cannot marry for love because once they do, they doom their wives to a painful death.”

I gape at him, my hand clutching my teacup.

What on earth? My mind drifts to the times when we barely had enough money to pay the rent, when our cupboards were empty and we’d pretend not to be hungry.

Then there was the heartbreak in her eyes whenever we mentioned our father and the way she’d lovingly caress the beautiful purse he got her.

Outrage, which has been tethered so deep down inside me, threatens to unleash.

They broke up because of a curse? This makes no sense.

My incredulity and anger must be showing because he continues, “Grace, I know you don’t believe me and you have the right to be upset.

Someday, you’ll know the entire story and you’ll understand.

But it’s very true. It’s why there’s a distinct lack of females in the Anderson family, except for dear Lana, that is. ”

“What does this have anything to do with Mom and us?”

Father lets out a wistful sigh, so full of regret. “Your mother and I met when she was performing on Broadway. Our family, naturally, had a private box there, and I had a fondness for the theater. She’d outshine the main starlets on stage, much to everyone’s chagrin. ”

His lips twitch up in a smile before continuing, “And I’m sure you know how beautiful she was, inside and out. My first wife died at that point and before then, I was like you, thinking this curse business was ridiculous, but when your one true love keels over in front of you, perspectives change.”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of his tea.

“I didn’t want to fall in love again. It was too dangerous.

It also felt impossible for lightning to strike twice.

But then, your mom came barreling in and it was impossible not to love her.

She was one of a kind. I thought if I didn’t marry her, perhaps we could carry on, out of sight of my other children and relatives, living in our own little world of happiness.

Perhaps that’d be enough. At that point, we had you.

She was adamant unless I make an honest woman out of her, she wouldn’t put my name on your birth certificate.

Even so, you were our brightest star in the sky, and for a short while, we were happy. I thought I beat fate.”

Father pauses and takes a deep breath. “But alas, she wanted more. She didn’t want to be a kept woman in the dark.

She wanted her happily-ever-after with her prince and to live with him in his castle, sitting next to him at the dining table, waking up next to him in bed, as she rightfully should want.

And after what happened to my late wife, I couldn’t risk that happening to her, and after so many arguments and fights, she had enough and gave me an ultimatum. ”

“You had to marry her or let her go,” I whisper, because I know that’s what I would do. That’s what my mom would ask for. And she deserved to be more than someone’s hidden mistress.

He nods. “It pained me, nearly broke me, but I had to make a choice.”