Page 123 of One Time in Paris
Like they were back in the 1800s.
Isla had wanted to crawl under the rug and stay there.
Thankfully, Dad did her the favor of not going further into the topic for now and pulled into his circular driveway several minutes later. As a young girl, the first time he’d brought her to the stone and clapboard Georgian estate was when she’d realized her father was a wealthy man—she thought he’d bought the White House.
The glaring difference between this and the teeny three-bedroom beach house where she lived with Mum was enormous. Two hugely different worlds that could never really be reconciled. Mum’s whole house could fit in Dad’s foyer.
Yet Isla hadalwaysbeen more at home on the beach.
Dad parked out front, then came around and held the door open for her. She had to give him credit there—her father was a gentleman. A well-mannered Englishman who’d never forgotten his roots.
“We’ll just leave your luggage in the car,” he said as they went toward the side door he always used instead of the front.
The smell ofcleanhit her from the glass storm door, and Isla smiled, blinking at the bright whiteeverything.Diana used color sparingly—unlike Mum, who’d hand-painted a mural in the living room at home. But the house was beautiful, light cascading into the high ceiling rooms of the first floor, walls designed with extensive custom millwork, vases of sweetly scented white peonies on the tables.
Lunch was already set at the breakfast nook table. Probably Dad’s effort to be casual—as one could be with expensive service ware. “Here we are,” Dad said, holding the chair for her.
Isla sat, automatically pulling her napkin onto her lap as Dad sat across from her. “I have to admit, I feel a bit intimidated,” Isla said with an arch of her brow. “Lunch at a bistro—easy enough. Lunch at home while Diana’s out with some mystery hanging over the whole affair? You’re not planning on giving me bad news, are you? I’m not sure I can handle anything difficult right now, Dad.”
Dad chuckled, then stood once again. He went over to a nearby cabinet and opened it, then took out a box labeled “Frank” in his handwriting.
“I don’t want to keep you in suspense.” Dad slid the box onto the table beside her, then sat. “I dug this out of the attic for you. Thought you might want it.”
Isla furrowed her brow then opened the lid. A neat stack of pictures and papers were inside, and she scooped some up, peering closer at them.
Of her and Callum as children.
And the Camden boys.
Isla’s mouth went dry as she flipped through the pictures, her heart beating painfully. Callum and Quinn standing in bathing suits in front of a pool on a trip they must have taken somewhere.
Aiden carrying Isla piggyback over a lawn.
Her heart squeezed hard, and she set the pictures down, then glanced through the papers hand-drawn on white printer paper with the labored, unskilled crayon efforts of a child. Stick figures with circles for eyes and wobbly smiling lines. Of six children, standing on a green crayon field, rainbows and clouds in the sky.
“Is that...?”
“You and the Camden boys, of course. And Callum.”
She flipped to the next one. Just two figures in this one.
Her and a boy.
She didn’t have to guess who it was—the way he was drawn taller than her, even in crayon. The A above his head gave it away. She traced the wobbly line of his hand holding hers, her thumb brushing faintly across the crayon.
God, was it really always him?
The thought came and went like a heartbeat, too fast to chase.
“You always did like Aiden Camden, you know,” Dad said gently. “Your mum and I used to joke about it. He was a few years older than you, so you’d follow him around a good deal, but he was patient with your antics. Much more so than Callum was, to be honest. We thought you might be keen on him.”
Isla swallowed hard. She didn’t remember having a crush on Aiden as a girl, but then again, after Mum and Dad’s divorce, she’d only seen him on an occasional summer’s day. Hardly with the regularity that they had been used to when she and Callum had lived in England as children.
Reaching for the glass of water set in front of her, Isla sipped it, then returned the pictures and drawings to the box. She covered them with the lid, fingertips shaking. “Thanks, Dad, but it might be safer if you keep these for now—while I’m traveling.”
Dad’s mouth drew to a line. “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?”
She shook her head, forcing a smile. “No, that’s not it.”
