Page 132 of When Hearts Ignite

“Thank you for giving birth to a wonderful son,” she says as she stares at me, her dazzling eyes shining with tears.

My kind-hearted Grace. My wish upon a shooting star.

Chuckling under my breath, I get up and Jess and Emily follow suit, and we walk to our parents and envelop them into a group hug.

Let bygones be bygones and tomorrow be a fresh start.

Moisture shine in our eyes once more, but this time, they’re…

Tears of happiness.

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.

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