They exchange a quick glance, and Anna juts her chin out.
‘Your father had a health scare, not too long ago. It has required us to rethink our lifestyle.’
‘What kind of health scare?’ I ask tentatively.
Graham watches me and his gaze softens. ‘Nothing to worry about. A minor stroke.’
Dad hasn’t dropped his attitude, but he is biting his tongue for once.
‘Your grandfather has recovered well,’ Anna explains, addressing me, ‘but there’s no guarantee that it won’t happen again. It puts things into perspective. We’ll be taking things slower from now on. Less work, less travel.’
‘Less alcohol and red meat,’ Graham scoffs, and it’s clear what he thinks of that.
‘More time spent with family,’ Anna adds, sounding hopeful, ‘which means you. If you’ll have us.’
I feel three pairs of eyes on me. It’s a lot, not going to lie. I’m still digesting that I have grandparents. Though we shareDNA, I don’t know these people. It’s obvious that there’s history between them and my dad, and not the good kind. With so much ego around this table, such big personalities vying for space, I’m having a hard time staying upright in my seat. But what I’m sure of, despite the fact that I’ve known him for less than an hour, is that I don’t want to lose my grandfather. I’ve only just found him.
‘I’d like that,’ I say. Anna rewards me with a smile so bright it requires its own warning sign, and Graham seems to grow in his chair, tension ebbing from his body. Could it be that they’re . . . relieved? Maybe I’m not the only one who’s intimidated by this out-of-body experience of a family lunch.
I catch Dad’s gaze. I almost expect him to be mad at my decision, but he only tilts his head in acceptance.
‘Marvellous,’ Anna exclaims, still beaming. ‘Shall we set a date for lunch at the cafe, then? And we haven’t even mentioned the Christmas Gala!’
‘Not so fast,’ Dad says, making her smile flicker. ‘Lombard is our home, not yours.’ Graham makes to speak but Dad holds up a hand to cut him off. ‘I’m not saying this to spite you, but because it’s true. You hate peace and quiet. You’ll get bored. You always do.’ His eyes harden, from hurt or disappointment, I can’t tell. ‘Luca is your grandson, and I’m done taking that away from you. But he’s my son first. If you want to get to know him, then only by my rules. You will have to commit. No excuses, no games, no lies, no bribery, no tricks or schemes or last-minute cancellations and absolutely no make-up gifts to try to distract from any of your mistakes. For once, you’ll have to be responsible and show up.’
Have to admit it, my dad’s a sassy one.
‘Why, we feel flattered,’ Graham deadpans.
‘Yes, I’m a regular Lady Macbeth,’ Anna adds.
I see where he gets it from.
‘You have your chance and I’d hate to see you blow it,’ Dad says, which prompts a snort from Graham. ‘I mean it. You mess up, and it’s Luca who gets hurt. So don’t.’
‘Does Luca get a say in this?’ Graham asks.
‘Of course he does. I can’t and won’t stop him. He’s a good judge of character, as you’ll soon find out.’
As much as I appreciate the endorsement, I’m growing tired of being talked about like I’m not listening to every word they say.
To my relief and joy, the kitchen staff are back, and this time they have cake. Notacake, as in one, but cakes, as in Black Forest gateau, almond tarts, apple pie and a meringue masterpiece that resembles a peacock taking flight. Modesty clearly isn’t a word that Brandenburgs use lightly, or ever. Even Dad is too busy eating to complain, which makes the rest of lunch a civil affair – not counting the moment that Graham criticises Dad for the coffee stains on his shirt, prompting Dad to drop his fork and eat with his fingers. The man is a werewolf, and his parents are the full moon, depriving him of both sanity and manners. It’s only when we’re on the road back home that he becomes his old self again. He’s quiet, but he keeps giving me the side-eye.
I have this odd feeling, like I’ve been sucked into a parallel universe only to be spat back out again an hour later. Returning to familiar ground feels off, because Lombard is still its usual self, but I’m not sure I can say the same aboutme. Still, once I spot the lighthouse that watches over the squat rooftops of my hometown, it’s a little easier to breathe again.
‘What?’ I ask, unnerved by Dad’s looks.
‘Would you have liked to be born a Brandenburg?’ he asks. It throws me off, because of course I have been asking myself this, but I didn’t realise he’d clocked me.
‘I don’t know, Dad,’ I admit. Would I have liked my life as a Brandenburg as much as I like my life as a Dean? It’s possible, but then, Dad hated carrying the name.
‘Would you ever change it? You could, you know? I did.’ He says this quickly, stumbling over the words, and I realise he’s scared of my answer.
‘I never had a reason to dislike my surname, Dad. Still don’t. And I like sharing a name with Mum. It connects us, even when she’s away, if that makes sense.’
‘It does,’ he says.
‘I’m not going to change my name, whatever happens,’ I tell him.
