“And let her bully you into it?” I knew how I’d have felt about that. My stubborn ass hated to be pushed into anything.
“Pride should not have come before my daughter.”
There it was.
“Nor the love of a job.”
“But it did.”
“I wrote to you,” he blurted out, expression almost desperate. “Real letters,” he huffed with unamused laughter. “It was alien to me to do something like that, but I needed a connection with you, and she wouldn’t even give me your email address.”
“Couldn’t you have hacked me or something?” I half-heartedly joked.
“I could have reached out to you without your mum’s knowledge, yes. But I didn’t want to do it that way, no matter how desperate I was. I didn’t want you to know you were caught in a war between us.”
Shocked, I shook my head. “I didn’t get any letters.”
“Your mother returned them unopened. I wrote until you were nineteen, and I sent you birthday and Christmas presents. And Regan too.”
“We never got them.” My hands curled into fists on my lap. Was this true?
“No, I know. I kept hoping Stacey would see I was sincere about wanting to see you and that she’d give the letters, the gifts, to you. She never did. But she’d return them with her own letters, updating me on your life. She sent me photographs, bits and pieces of work you’d done at school. Copies of your high school and graduation certificates, a photo of you at your graduation from the academy. The last photo she sent was four years ago, on your twenty-fourth birthday. You were in a bar somewhere, big, giant yellow cake in front of you, a guy covered in tattoos had his arms around you.”
Oh my God. She had sent him photos. “Axel. My ex-boyfriend. He was a musician. We had a birthday dinner at my favorite Irish pub. The whole family. Regan too.”
“I still have everything,” Mac said. “My letters and your mother’s. In my cottage. You can have them.”
Something hot and furious built inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me about them sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want you to think I was using them to put the blame on Stacey. She and I are both at fault. I didn’t even think I would tell you about them because I didn’t want to harm your relationship with your mother, but that was before I knew your relationship with her isn’t perfect.”
“No relationship is perfect.” I pushed up out of the chair, needing to walk, restless rage surging through me. “But this is worse than I imagined. She lied to me? I … I have to see the letters.” I had to know if it was true.
Mac cautiously got out of his chair and crossed the room to the bedside table. He rummaged through its drawer, grabbed something, and then made his way back to me. He held out the key in his hand. “The key to my house. The letters, mine and your mum’s, are in a box under my bed.”
I stared at the key. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone into his house without him. But searching under his bed? “Your privacy …”
“I’ve nothing to hide. Take it.”
I did, the metal warm from Mac’s hand.
We stared warily at one another.
Then he whispered, “I can’t undo the damage I’ve done, as much as I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could. My only excuse is that I truly believed you were better off without me. And I’m so sorry for how wrong I was.”
I didn’t think I had any tears left, but they slipped down my cheeks now. “I want to move on. I do. I just don’t know how to let go of the past.”
“Then read the letters. If, after that, you can’t, I won’t hold it against you, Robyn. No matter what you decide to do, I will love you. I will always love you, wee birdie.”
18
Robyn
It was still raining when I pulled away from Mac’s cottage that night. Wearied, I drove ploddingly out of the village, my windshield wipers squeaking with every stroke. It was annoying. I’d have to get them fixed if I decided to stay longer.
I glanced down at the large container filled with letters and gifts I’d found exactly where Mac said I would. My staying would all depend on what I discovered in there. The fact that it existed made my head hurt. I’d come here to figure out my issues with Mac, not to create issues with my mom.
Focusing on the road that led to the outskirts of Ardnoch and my trailer, part of me wished I’d stayed in Mac’s cozy, two-bedroom cottage. I hadn’t wanted to stick around long because it felt weird and wrong to be in his house without him again. Last time when I’d retrieved his office key card, I’d just done a quick sweep of the place. This time, I studied it. While there was a definite masculine edge to the interior, it was comfortable and inviting. The front door led into the sitting room, with the staircase against the wall, directly opposite the entrance. A wood-burner sat in the corner of the living room, and Mac had dark, worn leather sofas, one pointed toward the fire, the other toward the huge television mounted in the middle of the wall. There were tartan cushions and
