Page 21 of The Stipulation
The vast room feels almost comforting after the sterile interactions at the funeral, the strangers with cold eyes and faint smiles. I glance at the king-sized bed and realize that I haven’t yet properly acknowledged that this incredible luxury as my new reality because I keep thinking that it’ll soon be over. I know Gavin said he wants me to stay for the reading of the will, but if that’s as efficient as the funeral, I don’t think that’s going to be too far into the future. Then I’ll go back home, and this whole surreal visit will become just a sad, unfulfilled memory. If only my dad had lived just a few hours more…
But he didn’t.
I shed my black dress, hanging it up carefully, and search for something casual and comfortable. I settle on a soft grey sweater, stretchy jeans and my light pink fluffy slippers. Sitting cross legged on the couch, I pull the throw over my lap and pick up my Kindle, hoping it will act as something to anchor me, something familiar, a tether to the world I actually know. The printed words do their thing. They pull me in, and I lose myself in them for a while, the chaos of my life muted in a fantasy world.
The silence is broken by the sudden, sharp trill of the landline phone ringing. I set my Kindle aside and reach over to lift the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Miss Button? This is Marjorie, from the household staff,” comes the precise, professional voice on the other end. “Mr. Hampstead is on the line for you.”
Gavin. My stomach tightens. Hearing from him always has that effect, because it always seems to be another bombshell dropped in my lap. But it’s not like he’d call me just for a chat, so this is probably important.
“Yes, thank you, please put him through.”
There’s a faint click on the line, then Gavin’s calm, measured voice fills my ear.
“Miss Button, it’s Gavin Hampstead. The results are in from the DNA test. Joseph Manswell was your father.”
The words echo in the room like a tolling bell. I sit back on the couch, blinking, trying to let it sink in. The test confirms what I’d already begun to see as the truth, what I’ve already been tentatively accepting from the moment Gavin convinced me to get on a plane and fly out here. I have no idea what the appropriate response is to this.
“Ok,” I say. “Umm … thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary,” Gavin replies. His voice is neutral, yet there’s a subtle gravity beneath it. “The results are absolute. You are indeed his daughter. And as such, you are expected to attend the reading of his will tomorrow. A car will pick you up at two o’clock to bring you to my offices.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the weight of the words settles inside me. The DNA test didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know deep down, and yet it has the power to change everything. I feel that tight coil of anger creep up inside of me again. Not at Gavin, not at the test, but at the lies, at the years of concealment, at the world my mother built around me that never included this truth.
“Thank you, Gavin,” I say finally. “I’ll be there.”
“Miss Button, I suggest you get some rest, as tomorrow will be significant. I will see you then.”
I say goodbye and slowly place the receiver back in its cradle. I sit for a moment, just staring into space, processing this latest news. The anger doesn’t fade. It sits in my chest, a tight knot, and I know I have to call my mother, have to have this out with her once more. I need to get to the truth of the matter.
I get my cell phone from my purse, and a little tremor of anticipation goes through me as I unlock the screen and call my mother. I have to know why. Why did she deprive me of a father when she knew how deeply I craved one?
“Jo?” My mum’s tone is sharp. She’s already on edge, already defensive. That only annoys me more. It’s not her who gets to be angry about this. “Are you back home?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still wrapped up in all of this New York nonsense.”
“Mum,” I say, keeping my voice measured. “The DNA test came back. You can stop the lies now. I know.”
“You know nothing,” she snaps. Then she speaks again, softer, with an almost whispered edge. “Why did you need to go there and bring all of this up again?”
“Because I was looking for my father. And someone said Joseph Manswell might be him,” I say, the words tasting strange on my tongue. “And now I know for certain.”
There’s a pause. Then she sighs. “Jo, I didn’t tell you because he wasn’t a good man. He was cruel to me, and I was scared that it would carry on to you. I just wanted to protect you. From him, from his psychopathy.”
I stare at the wall opposite me, feeling a hollow ache bloom in my chest. “He was a psychopath? What did he do to you?”
“I’m going to subject myself to that pain by reliving it all again. Suffice for you to know that I did it to protect you.”
I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Protect me? Protect me by lying to me for twenty-six years? Protect me by keeping me away from my father’s life, from knowing my own history, from meeting him even once? From letting me decide for myself?”
“I did it for your own good,” she repeats stubbornly.
“Mum,” I say, my voice tight. “You lied long after I was old enough to accept that my father might not be a good person. You should have given me the chance to find out for myself.”
