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Fred tried to talk to me, right after the revelation but I held up one hand. “Not now,” I said, my teeth gritted so I didn’t say something I regretted. Usually, my stepfather loves to defend himself, but he retreated.
Leaning my elbows on my knees, I wring my hands. She lied to me. My stepfather tried to buy her off, to will our daughter out of existence, and she knew and she didn’t say anything. She let me meet Olive, made love to me, all while keeping this information from me.
I’m not sure if this is anger I feel or deep, deep hurt. Maybe a combo of both.
“May I sit down?” a crinkly female voice asks. When I look up, there’s a woman who looks vaguely familiar, wearing turquoise-rimmed glasses with a gold chain attached. Her hand braces on the railing of the gazebo as her arm shakes.
“Please,” I say, and I offer my arm for support. The woman sits down across from where I was sitting.
“You’re a nice boy, thank you,” she says. She looks up at me, her fuchsia-painted lips curling to a smile. “So, you’re Olive Finch’s father.”
My mouth dries up, and I cough against my hand. I didn’t know it was common knowledge yet. “Yes, ma’am. And you are?”
“Miriam Oliver.” She holds out a wrinkled hand, and I take it. Her hand is soft and small in mine.
“Max Sawyer,” I say.
“Max, that’s a nice name.” The woman shifts on the bench. “My, this bench is as uncomfortable as I remember.”
“May I help you with something?” I ask.
The old woman doesn’t skip a beat. “You know, I’m a fifth-generation Goldheart resident. My ancestors founded this town. I’ve lived here a long time. Same as my husband. I’ve known Kit Finch since she was a baby.”
Kit Finch is Emily’s mom. I lean closer.
“That was your father and mother, correct? The ones I saw with you outside Gold Roast just now?”
“Stepfather. He’s my stepfather,” I correct.
Miriam shifts again, pressing her palms into the seat to help her move. “That makes sense. You’re way too handsome to come from that.”
I laugh because I’ve heard similar sentiments since Fred came into our life.
“Back to the Finches. I’ve watched those kids grow up, and while the family has never really liked me, I always kept my eye on them. Made sure no one hurt them. That’s why when your stepfather came to talk to Emily ten years ago, I kept close, just in case.”
Leaning closer, I stare at the ground. “Mrs. Oliver, this is none of your bus—”
She interrupts me. “Emily was always the smart one. Everyone says her older brother Reid is the smart one, but I disagree. It’s a heated topic amongst my friends.”
A little messed up, but okay.
“Emily graduated valedictorian, you know. She got a full-ride to USC. She was going to make something of herself.”
Regret still lingers in my bones. I knew this, but it twists my nerves to hear it from a third party. Reminds me again that I ruined Emily’s life and my stepfather rubbed salt into the wound.
“Then she met you. I saw you two once, ten years ago or so. I’ve never seen her so happy. She didn’t look like that when she achieved what she achieved. That girl was always chasing something to make herself feel important. However, she wasn’t truly happy until she got to have some fun.”
A smile creeps through my cheeks. “Miriam, I…”
She cuts me off. “I heard that conversation between your stepfather and Emily. Your stepfather strong-armed that poor girl. I saw it. It’s not Emily’s fault. You need to take up any issue you have with her with the man who raised you. He’s the villain in all of this.”
I nod. “She figured it out sooner than this and didn’t tell me.”
“So what?” Miriam asks. “Emily is a smart cookie. She knew this would crush whatever relationship you had with your stepfather. Frankly, it should’ve been him to tell you what he did. Because he kept you from making your own decisions and whether you wanted to be in their lives or not. And trust me, I’ve watched it from afar, and it’s a beautiful life, the one she created for herself and your daughter. Emily turned lemons into lemonade, cookies, and pie. That little girl is odd, but she is a bright little thing and will be something one day. At the very least, she’ll be happy. Strange but happy.”
“Hey, you’re talking about my kid,” I say, straightening my spine.
Miriam holds up her hands. “I mean no offense. Sometimes I say the wrong thing.” She braces herself to stand up. She walks to the staircase to leave the gazebo and turns back. She slips a folded piece of paper into my hands. “There’s my number if you need anything. I put my email as well.”
