Chapter 11 - THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF
The flight to Portland, Maine, was a blur.
I rented a car and drove two hours up the rugged, freezing coastline.
Emma sat in the passenger seat, quietly looking at the silver locket I had given her to hold.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” she asked, her breath fogging the cold window.
“I don't know,” I admitted. “It’s been almost forty-five years.”
The address on the letters was for a property in a small, isolated fishing village called Camden Cove.
We arrived just as the sun was setting, casting a bruised purple light over the angry, churning Atlantic Ocean.
The house was exactly as the letters described.
A beautiful, weathered Victorian home perched on a rocky cliff, looking out over the endless water. It looked well-cared for. Smoke was rising from the stone chimney.
My heart pounded violently against my ribs as I parked the car.
What if he rejected me? What if he had his own family now?
I gripped the steering wheel, paralyzing fear washing over me.
“I can't do this,” I whispered.
Emma reached over and squeezed my hand. The same way she had squeezed my hand at the gala.
“You survived Dad, Mom. You can survive this. Grandma wouldn't have kept the letters if she didn't want you to know.”
I took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped out of the car.
The biting wind whipped my coat around my legs as we walked up the wooden porch steps.
I knocked on the heavy oak door.
A minute passed. Then, the sound of footsteps.
The door opened.
Standing there was an older man, late seventies, with silver hair and a thick wool sweater.
He had piercing blue eyes.
My eyes.
He looked at me, confusion knitting his brow.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
I couldn't speak. I just stood there, tears instantly freezing on my cheeks.
I reached into my pocket with shaking hands and pulled out the unpunched train ticket.
I held it out to him.
The old man looked at the ticket.
Then, he looked at my face.
The color drained from his cheeks. His hand came up to his mouth, his eyes widening in absolute, earth-shattering shock.
“Margaret?” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“I’m Catherine,” I choked out. “Margaret was my mother.”
Julian stumbled backward, grabbing the doorframe for support.
“My god,” he breathed, tears instantly flooding his eyes. “You have her smile. You have her exact smile.”
He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for a DNA test. He knew.
He reached out and pulled me into a crushing, desperate hug.
I buried my face in his shoulder, sobbing for the mother I had lost, and the father I had just found.
He pulled back, wiping his eyes, and looked at Emma.
“And this beautiful girl must be my granddaughter.”
Emma smiled shyly. “Hi.”
“Come in, come in out of the cold,” Julian ushered us inside.
The house was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and old books.
But as I walked into the living room, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The walls were covered in framed photographs.
Not of a new family.
Of my mother.
Candid photos of her laughing, sewing, walking in the park.
And in the center of the room, displayed on a beautiful vintage dress form, was a wedding gown.
It was unfinished. The lace was pinned, the silk partially sewn.
It was the exact same ivory lace my mother had used for my veil.
Julian followed my gaze.
“She was making it for our wedding,” he said softly. “Before she went back to Milwaukee.”
I turned to him, the question burning in my chest.
“Why didn't she stay? Why did she leave you and marry Richard?”
Julian walked over to a small mahogany table and picked up a framed piece of paper.
May you like
It was a medical document.
“Because I was dying, Catherine.”
