Page 64 of The Client
24
RHYS
It takesa moment to fully process what Izabela has done for me.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I throw it over the arm of the couch and run a hand over my face. She’d looked pretty shocked when I left the dining room. I hadn’t meant to stomp out like that, but she caught me off guard with the cake and the sign. It was a knee-jerk reaction.
Mrs. Dunham had made me a birthday cake once, shortly after I hired her. The cake was tall and layered, with pristine white buttercream. It had instantly reminded me of a wedding cake. Needless to say, I’d never touched it. She seemed to understand that it upset me, because she never made the attempt again.
Aside from that, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had a special treat on my birthday. Ever since the night Celine crushed my heart, even my own mother has known that it’s best to tread lightly on this day. In fact, she goes out of her way to plan a weekend brunch for us each year that specifically doesnotfall on the actual date of my birth. Which is partly why I’m so floored by Izabela’s gesture. Nobody else has dared. I’m genuinely…touched.
Not to mention, that cake looked damn good. The smells of sugar and butter crisped into golden pastry that has permeated the house has me practically drooling. I can’t remember the last time I had a homemade cake, baked from scratch, rather than some overpriced, fussy confection from a bakery that’s all style and no substance.
When I go back into the dining room, Izabela is gone. I study the banner that’s hanging over the sideboard, attached to the wall with blue painter’s tape. It says Happy Birthday Rhys, of course, each word on its own curved swag, but what’s remarkable about the thing is the obvious care that went into each carefully shaped letter, each triangle of paper that’s been cut with decorative edges. This must have taken her hours to make. I look over at the table and realize that the cake is gone. But I can hear water running from the kitchen, so I go in there next.
Izabela is doing dishes when I enter. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t turn around, even as I pull out a stool and sit at the island. I know she hears me, but she’s probably worried about my reaction considering how I walked out on her a few minutes ago. Taking a deep breath, I look at the cake sitting on the island, the candles on top still waiting to be lit. She deserves an explanation. And an apology.
“My father and I share a birthday,” I begin.
I hear the water turn off, and Izabela turns around and wipes her wet hands on the too-big apron that she must have borrowed from my cook. It looks cute on her, all oversized like it is, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I gesture to the stool across from me. She reluctantly sits down.
“If my dad was any other dad, it would be safe to assume that we’ve always celebrated the day together,” I go on, “but…he’s not really the sharing type. He likes everybody to make a big fuss over him, so as a kid, I tended to get overlooked on our birthday. Eventually, I just stopped thinking of it as my day at all. Even when my mom would get excited and try to plan parties for me, I’d talk her out of it. I never wanted anyone to treat it like a big deal. It was my dad’s thing, you know?”
She nods, her eyes down. “I understand. I’m sorry for presuming—”
“No. Don’t apologize. I’m glad you presumed.”
Reaching across the table, her warm hand slips over mine. I almost pull away, but the feel of her touching me is so good that I can’t make myself break the contact.
“I’ve spent so much time avoiding this day that I forgot how nice it can be to just…stop.”
“I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through with your father, Rhys. He doesn’t deserve a son like you. I hope you know that.”
Our gazes catch. It feels like she’s looking right into my soul.
Obviously, there’s more I’m not telling her. The gory details of the night three years ago when I lost Celine forever. But looking back, I realize that the real heartbreak of that birthday wasn’t getting dumped by my girlfriend. It was the irrefutable evidence that my father didn’t love me. In his eyes, I was just another competitor. Not a son.
“Well,” I say, taking back my hand. “Thank you. Truly. For the banner, and…I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cake like this. What kind is it? It looks delicious.”
“It’s a Polish recipe. Akarpatka.It’s actually my sister’s favorite. I thought—” she glances shyly at me from beneath her lashes. “I thought, I want to give you something happy from my family, because we have enough to share.”
My chest feels warm as she continues, glossing over the magnitude of the gift she’s just given me. “Anyways, I have to make it for my sister every year or she throws a fit. No other cake will do. When she’s having a bad day, I bring it to her in bed.”
Her smile falters and she drops her gaze again.
“A bad day?”
“Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. It’s better and then it’s worse. And when it’s worse, ithurts.” It hurts her too, I can hear it in her voice. To see her sister in pain, and to be far away.
“You miss her,” I say. “Her name is Eva, right?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Eva. I miss her very much.”
“I remember you talking about her at my mom’s. Is that who you were…” I hesitate, not wanting to overstep, but then ask anyway because the question has been nagging at me. “Who you were on the phone with, that day you were so upset?”
She looks back up at me, and I see the tears starting to gather in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”
