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“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Willow,” he says. “Mr. Baker has been preparing for your arrival for weeks.”
I turn my icy stare onto my father, and his smile falters at the expression on my face.
“So, while I was attending Mom’s funeral—which you didn’t even bother to come to—you were here, happily planning our new lives together?”
“Willow, honey—”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me. You haven’t earned that right.”
His mouth snaps shut, and I turn my head to stare out the window at the dull, flat landscape.
The rest of the car ride passes in silence. When we reach the outskirts of Olininburg, the flatlands give way to austere Soviet-era housing blocks, a sea of concrete against a gray sky.
There’s nothing welcoming about it. Even people walking the streets seem to hate it here.
We pass over a bridge, where a river lined by trees separates the haves from the have-nots. In fact, I’d say we passed into a different country if I didn’t know any better.
When I imagined the quintessential European town, it looked something like this. Nineteenth-century German townhomes line each side of the street, with flowerpots adorning the tidy front stoops. The car navigates through a roundabout surrounding a massive, ornate fountain.
People on this side of the river carry themselves a different way. They don’t look beat down and weary.
The car pulls up to the curb in front of a residence, which is the corner property at the end of a long row of Tudor-style cottages. My father is the first out of the car. I grab my purse and follow his lead, and Ivan unloads my suitcase onto the sidewalk.
“We’ll take it from here,” my dad tells him. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ivan bows his head toward my father before giving me a friendly smile, then disappears into the town car.
My dad reaches for my suitcase and rolls it through the short iron gate marking the edge of the property. The lawn is immaculate with evenly cut grass and bright, flowering shrubs. It strikes me as more of a suburban family home than a bachelor pad.
“I had an extra set of keys made,” he says, slipping his own into the door. “I’ve left them on the kitchen table for you.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting my father’s home to look like, but I thought it would feel more familiar. Like there would be masculine touches of him throughout the house. Instead, it’s decorated with country-style furniture in shades of pastel and floral. Artwork depicting various pastoral scenes hang from the walls, and a citrusy aroma lingers in the air. It’s cozy and lived-in.
I’m in a stranger’s house, and it strikes me how little I know my father at all.
“Would you like the tour?” he asks.
“No. I just want to be left alone.” Traveling for two days through multiple airports has made me grungy and jet-lagged.
“I’ll show you to your room, then.”
He leads me up a narrow staircase to the second floor. At the top of the stairs sits a wooden console table with photo frames on display—most of them of me.
It’s strange to see my beaming face in these foreign surroundings. My photographs look out of place here.
“My room is at the end there.” He nods down a narrow hallway. “Your room is here, next to Galina’s.”
“Who’s Galina?” I ask.
“She’s the housekeeper.”
“And she lives here?”
“Yes. She’s nice. I’m sure you’ll get along with her.”
He rolls the suitcase across the hardwood floors and through the door into my bedroom. I didn’t expect much more than a spare guestroom, since my dad only had three weeks’ notice of my arrival, leaving him little time to prepare for a teenage girl.
But the bedroom is decorated with feminine, French furnishings in shades of pastel pink and cream. A makeup table sits in the corner with a cushioned stool, and the bed has gauzy linen hanging from the ceiling as a headboard. Flowers sit in a vase on the nightstand, and when I touch them, the velvety petals are fresh and delicate. I expected them to be fake.
