Chapter 7
Finding Julian took one phone call.
That angered me.
Twenty-six years of family mythology.
One phone call.
He answered.
Older voice.
Same impatience.
“Who is this?”
I said:
“Roland.”
Silence.
Then:
“About time.”
I laughed.
Couldn’t help it.
He did too.
Strange.
Painful.
Ordinary.
We did not reconcile in three minutes.
Good.
He asked why now.
I told him about Eleanor.
Vivienne.
Camellia.
The archive.
Long silence.
Then:
“Dad finally told you?”
“No.”
“Of course.”
Still himself.
He lived outside Santa Barbara.
Built furniture.
Married once.
Divorced.
One daughter.
No Ashcroft involvement.
No interest in returning.
That stung.
Then I corrected myself.
His life did not exist to complete mine.
“Can I see you?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Maybe.”
Good.
Not yes because blood demanded it.
Choice.
We spoke forty minutes.
Not about inheritance.
Not Mafia.
Weather.
Back pain.
His daughter.
My mother.
Then he asked:
“Did Helena keep the sketches?”
“Yes.”
“No. Eleanor’s.”
I understood.
He cared about the artist too.
“Most.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Tell her daughter Eleanor was the only adult in that house who ever drew me like I wasn’t already guilty.”
I wrote that down.
May you like
For Mavis.
Some messages deserve accuracy.
