The Accidentals(18)

But I’m not ready to out myself as a music nerd, not to a man who hasn’t said a single thing about his music to me. “How was New Orleans?” I try. On my new phone, I’ve already scoped out the music festival where he played over the weekend. His Instagram account has new photographs on it, one of him with his arm around a legendary blues guitar player, and one of a po’ boy sandwich. Hashtag: ILoveNOLA.

“It was hot,” he grumbles. “With mosquitoes the size of your head.”

So the concert was outdoors? I swallow back the question. I don’t want to sound like a fan girl. And he never brings up his job. Or his life. The silence makes me feel as if he’s still trying to figure out if I’m worthy of his inner circle.

The phone in his pocket begins to do its angry buzzing thing again, and he plucks it out to glance at the screen. “Aw, Christ,” he curses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I have to take this one.” He holds the phone to his ear. What he says next makes something go wrong in my stomach.

“Hey, Dad.”

Wow.

In the first place, I’ve never said those words to anybody. And…my grandfather is on the phone? It had occurred to me before that I might have a living grandparent or two. But since Richards is a common name, Google didn’t help when I tried searching.

“You saw that headline, huh?” My father chuckles. “Dad, there’s nothing wrong with my hand. If I were having surgery, I’d tell you.” He steps off the path and into the scrubby trees nearby.

He obviously wants privacy, so I hang back a little. But I can still hear him.

“Dad, listen. There’s nothing wrong with me. That was just an excuse to free up my calendar. I’ve got some things to deal with, and I can’t really talk about it right now.” My father looks over his shoulder, catching me snooping. “Tell Mom I’m fine. I’ll call her soon.” He drifts farther ahead. “I’m fine, I swear. Could you please convince Mom? And I’ll tell you the whole tale as soon as I can.”

He ends the call and then turns around with an expression I can’t read. “You have grandparents,” he says in a quiet voice. “They’re going to want to meet you. There’s, um…” He looks out across the fake lake, where an egret is flying past, its long legs trailing in the air. “There’s too much going on right now. But we’ll make that happen sometime soon.”

I felt a little unsteady on my feet just imagining it. And I realize something. “They don’t know about me,” I blurt out. His own parents don’t know he has a kid?

Frederick pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers and gives his head a slow shake.

“Wow.” I can’t keep the dismay out of my voice. I’m his deepest, darkest secret. We just stand there for a moment, staring at each other. A golf cart passes us, with two guys inside laughing together.

Do not cry, I order myself as I turn around. I can’t look at him right now. I’ve always felt invisible to him. I’m used to being ignored. But hiding me from his parents feels bigger than that. Like he’s ashamed. Of me.

Breathing carefully through my nose, I walk slowly back toward the hotel. He falls into step with me. Grandparents. I don’t have any of those. My mom’s mother died when I was four, and I barely remember her. Mom’s father had passed before I was born.

Wondering what they might look like, I risk a glance at Frederick. His jaw is set, his mouth in a grim line. If ever there was a moment he regretted coming to Florida to meet me, this is it.

When I think I can speak, I ask a question. It’s not the biggest one in my heart, but it’s a start. “Why did you lie about your hand?”

“Because canceling concerts makes people angry. I needed a good reason.”

“And I’m not a good reason?”

He stops walking. “Of course you’re the reason. But I just submitted a petition for custody. If both our faces end up on the US Weekly website, I don’t think it helps my case.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly.

We walk the rest of the way back to the hotel in silence. As we enter the lobby, Frederick casts a grumpy look toward the hotel restaurant. “What if we got takeout food tonight? I sent Carlos to UPS for a package.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Frederick pushes the elevator button. I follow him up to the fourth floor and down a corridor. Are we going to his room? That’s a little too much togetherness if he’s in such a dark mood.

But when he opens the door, the place is palatial. There’s a big living and dining room, and a kitchen area that looks like nobody has ever cooked anything there. The bedroom is through a doorway at the other end of the room.

“There’s a balcony,” Frederick grunts. “If you want a quiet place for homework.”

I hightail it out there with my English take-home exam, leaving the door ajar. I take a seat in one of the two patio chairs pulled up to a glass table.

As I sit, thinking about how to answer an essay question about Kafka’s Metamorphosis, I hear a knock on Frederick’s hotel room door.

“Hey! You found it! This is what I need tonight. Let’s see if she survived.” I swivel around to watch him take a big box from Carlos and carry it over to the gleaming dining table. Carlos hands him a pocket knife, and Frederick slits the tape on the box.