Ready or Not (Ready #4)(68)
His thick Southern drawl melted me like butter.
“Does he sound like Michael McConaughey?” Noah asked.
My hand flew up to my mouth in an attempt to hide the giggles.
“It’s Matthew, and oh, yes, he does—better actually,” I answered smoothly after I recovered from my snickering.
Jackson’s eyebrow lifted as he gave me a cocky grin. “You ready to go fraternize with the rich people for an afternoon?”
“So excited,” I answered.
He held out an arm, and I took it. We headed for the car, and it felt like we were making our way to the other side of the world. I was going back to a place I hadn’t been to in years—my parents’ house.
Everything looked the same, yet it didn’t.
The same weathered fence still stood proud and tall, surrounding the old house from intruders. As we got the go-ahead and were let inside the iron gate, I still felt that tiny flutter of awe as we approached the house I used to live in as a child.
It really was breathtaking. Built in the 1800s, it had been completely renovated and remodeled to its former glory, still maintaining the historical integrity without looking worn-out or tired. Walking through this house was like talking a step back in time, minus all the Jags and Mercedes parked out in front.
We pulled up behind another car, and I laughed as Jackson nearly jumped out of his seat when an attendant opened his door.
“I thought you were a fancy lawyer.” I watched him drop his keys into the other man’s hand.
He walked around to take my hand. “A fancy lawyer who parks his own car,” he corrected.
“Sexy.”
Noah joined us from the backseat, and the three of us approached the front door. As I lifted the heavy brass knocker, I suddenly felt like Dorothy with her band of misfits, approaching Emerald City’s gates. Would we be turned away or welcomed with opened arms?
A bearded man did indeed answer the door, but he was not covered in green, and no color-changing horses were in sight as we stepped through the double doors.
I looked around at the house where I’d grown up, taking in the slight changes and upgrades. The floors had recently been polished, no longer carrying the heavy grooves and dents of the years. A couple of new pieces of furniture sat in the formal living room next to a grand piano I remembered from my youth.
A few people milled around the interior of the house, pointing at various pieces of sculptures or paintings, but the majority of the guests had made their way outside, which was where we were also headed.
Jackson said nothing as we made our way to the back garden. He just clutched my hand as he rubbed my thumb with his own, silently supporting me, while I tried to keep the ghosts of the past at bay. I knew my parents were making an effort to make up for all the heartache and pain, but that didn’t keep the hurt from surfacing. The sudden reappearance of my parents’ affection couldn’t erase eight years of loneliness in an instant, and as I wandered through the house that had once brought me so much joy, those truths became abundantly clear.
Jackson leaned over with a small smile. “One day at a time, remember?” he whispered in my ear.
“Is that your milkshake wisdom of the day?” I grinned back.
“Something like that. Did it work? Or do I need to run out and grab the Oreos and ice cream?”
We reached the double doors leading to the grand garden my mother was so proud of when I paused. I kissed his cheek fondly. “It was perfect. Let’s go fraternize.”
“Do I have to hold my pinkie up when I drink?” Noah asked, somehow managing to make me giggle at just the right time.
“Be a rebel,” I answered, looking over at him with a smirk. “Pinkies down.”
He gave me a sheepish grin as Jackson opened the massive glass door, and we stepped out onto the patio. Everything was exquisitely decorated down to the twinkling lights and the floral arrangements that probably cost more than my car.
All of this—the lavish party and huge expense was just an elaborate effort to raise money, so my father’s team could spend it on additional campaign functions to collect even more cash. My head started to spin from just thinking about it.
“Olivia!” my father’s exuberant voice called out through the crowd.
Dressed in a tailored jacket and slacks, he looked exactly as I remembered him standing on that stage all those years ago while watching him deliver his victory speech. A man of the people, he was dressed for business and ready for action.
Before, he used to come home and shed the monkey suit, as he’d called it. He’d trade the stiff slacks for a pair of worn jeans, so he could chase me and play with me in the backyard among my mother’s flower and herbs garden. Those were the days when he had still been mine.
After becoming a man of the people, he wouldn’t take off the suit much, not even when he’d returned home late at night. He’d disappear into his office, shutting the door to take conference calls. I’d see him loosen his tie and shed his jacket, but the jeans had been forgotten, like many things—including me.
My mother would be more sympathetic to it or perhaps she’d learned to adjust better than I ever had. I was young and in need of a father, and I’d lacked the maturity to understand what was happening.
I shook my head, trying to clear out the sad memories, and I focused on the man who was coming toward me. This man was attempting to make amends, and I should at least give him the opportunity to do so. He was my father after all. A little bit of that man who had worn the jeans and told me fairy tales at night must be in there somewhere.