If the ghost of his father lingered in these halls, he gave no answer. Just as well.
Beckett walked out of the room and this time Samara followed without protesting. He’d left the container with his father’s ashes in the entranceway, so he retrieved it and headed for the back of the house. It would have been just as easy to go around the outside, but he wanted to say good-bye in his own way. He’d fight for Thistledown Villa. It was too important not to fight for. But he didn’t want to miss his chance to say good-bye all the same.
When his great-great-grandfather had struck oil and gotten rich, the first thing he’d done was have this absurdly massive house built. Three wings, fifteen bedrooms, five stairwells, a ballroom, two libraries, half a dozen other rooms for everything from entertaining to hiding from the family. And for what? The legacy the man had obviously envisioned where a busy family occupied this space…it never came to pass.
After cancer took Beckett’s mother, he and his father were the only ones who lived there on a daily basis, and the staff was sufficiently terrified of his father that they weren’t willing to respond to any overtures of friendship from Beckett. It was as if his father had extended welcome to his mother, but after she was gone, Nathaniel couldn’t stand anyone who wasn’t King or staff setting foot in these hallowed halls. Beckett took perverse pleasure out of bringing his friends here, of forcing laughter and chaos into the halls his father wanted silent.
Yet another way he and Nathaniel never saw eye-to-eye.
He took the door from the kitchen into the greenhouse. “My grandfather had these gardens built as a wedding gift to my grandmother.” Paths wound through the thick foliage, and there were little signs announcing the various types of tropical flowers planted along them.
“That’s one way to woo a woman.”
He slowed so she should catch up, and they walked together. “She was the daughter of a pastor, and the man hated my grandfather—probably with good reason—and forbade them to marry. They ran off to Europe, and while they were there, they visited the Palacio de Cristal in Madrid. She fell in love, and so he built this.”
Samara reached out and ran her finger along a brilliant orange flower. “That’s a beautiful story. It’s too bad he was such a horrible father.”
Beckett couldn’t argue that, so he didn’t bother. His grandfather was ultimately the reason why Lydia split from the family. There was probably a time right after the decision to name Beckett’s father as the heir when things could have been repaired. But they hadn’t been. Pride kept everyone to their own sides and so Kingdom Corp was born, and Thistledown Villa was banned to Lydia and any children she’d have. Pride is one thing every single one of the Kings have in common.
He opened the back door for Samara and they walked out onto the fields that were pictured in Lydia’s office. He glanced at Samara’s shoes. “It might be better if you stay here. The ground is pretty soft right now.” Her heels would sink right into the dirt.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
The question seemed straightforward enough on the surface. Truth be told, Beckett didn’t want to do this by himself. He might never have been on the same page as his father, but in his heart of hearts he’d hoped that one day they’d figure their shit out and admit that if they had nothing else in common, they had a love for his mother. He’d never get that chance now.
But he didn’t explain that to Samara for the same reason he didn’t tell her about the baby book in his room. He shook his head. “I got it.”
Beckett could feel her gaze on him as he walked out into the field. It was too early in the year for the wildflowers to be in full bloom, but that was fitting in its own way. He stopped in the same spot where his father used to come stand after it rained. The same spot where the picture in his pocket had been taken.
“I hope it was worth it,” he said quietly. “I hope all the backbiting and bullshit and cruelty was worth it.” I hope you end up with her. He couldn’t say it, though. No matter how much his father may have loved his mother, it didn’t make Nathaniel King a better man. He’d had a choice after she died, and he’d gone down the path that was destined to set him and Beckett forever at odds. “Good-bye, old man.” He took the top off the container and scattered the ashes into the wind.
Chapter Four
Samara pulled up in front of her childhood home, her heart heavy. Friday dinners were for her amma. The tiny two-bedroom house was clean and tidy on the inside, but anyone walking by could see the peeling paint and desperate need for a new roof. The obviously well-loved yard did nothing to elevate the first impression most people got as they walked past it on the street. Samara had offered to pay for the fixes, but her mother had shot her down so sternly that she hadn’t had the courage to offer again.
The building was about as far from Thistledown Villa as it could be and still be termed a house. Before today, that might have filled her with shame—and guilt for feeling shame—but after watching the raw memories play out over Beckett’s face, she was reminded forcibly just how lucky she was. Samara may never have met her father, but her amma’s love ensured that she’d never felt the lack. This little house might not be picture perfect or have been
