Strange. . . looking at my father, he wasn’t babbling, sitting there with a foolish grin or chewing his mustache. He wasn’t acting like he always did at my parents’ manor. His fingersmoved deftly, and he looked relaxed. Strange, it was almost like he was a different person over there. He was wearing a big knitted sweater that I’d never seen him wear before, but suddenly it looked a bit familiar.
Indi had made him that, hadn’t she? For a birthday or Christmas, maybe?
My mother hated it and I had just assumed Dad did too, because he never wore it.
But now I saw him wearing it happily.
I frowned, feeling an uneasy sinking sensation in my gut.
The two of them sat there. Unbothered, unfussed, enjoying themselves.
Had I been looking at my father all wrong?
Indi had always told me I was too hard on him, but I had dismissed her concerns.
Dad was a fool, a man who couldn’t do anything right, an embarrassing babbler, someone Mom and I dragged through life with our much stronger intellects.
Wasn’t he?
Abruptly, I got up and walked out the door and onto the sidewalk. Indi wouldn’t like me messing up her garden.
Then I knocked on the door, my heart in my throat.
There was no reason either of them would want to see me, but I knocked anyway.
My palms felt sweaty and I kept swallowing convulsively.
It was such shame and dishonor when Indi came to the door and seeing me made the light drain out of her face and those full pink lips turn down.
“What do you want now?” she asked abruptly. “Finn is not exactly fond of you, you know. If he catches you here, he’ll kick your ass.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry if my letter made anything uncomfortable for you. But I’m not sorry for what I said.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said breezily, a lovely smile flashing across her face. Those little freckles on her nose crinkled up adorably. “I enjoyed seeing you get your ass kicked, Ambrose.”
Then she turned and went back inside, but she didn’t slam the door in my face so I followed her.
My dad was amiable, happy to see me, made a comment about the train, which allowed me to respond awkwardly.
I remembered how I’d always complained about my mom dumping him on us and felt grossly ashamed.
I had never heard him talk like this—the difference was night and day.
Indi with her sweet and accepting personality had allowed him to blossom, to talk about things he was interested in and show off his mechanical abilities. And as a result he was more relaxed, less jumpy and giggly.
He wasn’t who I thought he was at all, and I sat stiffly on the couch, barely putting a word in with their light, easy banter.
“Thanks for helping me set this up,” she said with delight. “It’s something I always did growing up with my dad but I could never figure out how to set this complicated track up.”
Indi had lost her parents years ago and I realized with a jolt my dad had been making sure Indi got to recreate something meaningful to her.
“He would have been proud of you,” my father said. “You’re a clever girl. Barely needed my help at all. Now I’ll go find some batteries and let’s see how this old devil can run.”
Dad hurried out the door and I was left in the room with Indi.
She sat there cross-legged like an angel, her little belly poking out that I would have died to be able to touch, her long auburn hair tied up so that little curls escaped all over her face.
Never once had I ever done anything but brush her off when she opened the paper to the astrology section. Or asked her about the boxes of model train sets in our attic.
