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But with those words, he gives it away. It must be Hayes. It makes so much sense. He’s just unwittingly given me the answer to the scoop I came down here to chase. This story would be explosive. Except, of course now, I can’t write it. I just promised Remi and I would never ever violate his privacy like that.
Now, I just have to make sure no one else finds out, I’ll tell Jules there’s no story. Go back to New York and hunt down something else to help me clinch that job. I fall backwards in my seat.
“I know, it’s totally crazy, right?”
“Yeah. Totally…” I trail off as another question hits me. “So where’s your dad? Is he still with Gigi? Did he move to Italy with her?”
“No, he didn’t. But I don’t know where he is. Gigi says he left the house to head to town for work, but he never showed up there and he never came home. She was pregnant with… their kid. She had the baby, went to Italy and planned on taking this secret with her to the grave.”
“Holy shit,” I exclaim louder than I intended and give him an apologetic wince.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound excited. It’s just crazy.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy. So crazy that I’ve decided I don’t want anything to do with any of them.”
“So, that’s why you went to see her in the hospital?”
“No. I went because Hayes is my friend. She got shot, almost died. Then he led me into a room and left me there so she could tell me something he’d known for weeks.” He grinds his fist into his palm. “Just thinking about that day makes my blood pressure spike. I’m so fucking pissed at everyone, Kal.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I say; I feel totally helpless.
“My whole life is a fucking lie. My mother robbed me of really knowing who my father is. My grandfather, who I thought was my best friend, let me believe my father was dead while he played the grieving father. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d fucking kill him.”
I put a hand on his chest to stop him from talking. “Wait. So, are you saying your father’s not dead?”
“No. I’m not saying that. But, I have no proof that he is either. I’ve been here for months now. No one remembers him or Gigi. Ms. Jameson, who cooks for me thinks she remembers Gigi, but not him. I came out here expecting to find answers easily and there’s just nothing.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I’m like the missing person specialist. I know we haven’t spoken in eight years—”
“Eight years, six months and twenty-one days, but who’s counting?” he adds with a dry chuckle. “And the last time I saw you, I told you I couldn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Um, these are sort of extenuating circumstances, don’t you think?” I chide him.
He looks at me hard and long, his expression stony. “Honestly, Kal. I just wanted to be alone. Wanted to not be Remington Wilde. To see who I was if I wasn’t Lucas’ son. They built this legend around him and then pushed me to live up to it. It wasn’t even real. I threw myself into my work to build something worthy of the name I was given. And now, it’s like it all means nothing. So, I came here hoping to just have some fucking peace of mind.”
He closes his eyes and I feel a huge wave of sympathy for him. But I know if I express it, it’ll just annoy him.
“So, did you find it? Your peace of mind?” I ask after a few minutes.
“No. But it’s been good to cut off the world and just… be.”
I look around the rustic but chicly decorated cottage. It’s got every modern convenience, but it’s furnished to be comfortable rather than stylish. Two huge brown leather couches make a corner around a fireplace that stands in the middle of the room.
“So, this was their house?”
“Yeah. They bought it and the farm when they walked away from their families in Houston. Gigi pays the taxes on it every year. Has it renovated regularly. She said she’d planned on telling me one day. And that almost dying made her realize it was time.”
He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and smooths his fingers over the worn edges of it. He’s got the nicest hands. Long, broad fingers, square, wide fingernails, and intricately veined. Strong, sure hands that seemed to know things about my body that no one else does.
“This is the letter. He planned on finding a way to see us again. He said my mother and my grandfather wouldn’t agree to let him see us.”
“Can I read it?” I ask and he hands it over without looking up.
I unfold it carefully, it’s worn and even though he’s folded it nicely, I can tell it’s been balled up more than once.
Dear Remi,
One day I hope you’ll understand that your freedom is worth more than anything.
