He walked into the quiet bookshop, stood in the doorway a moment. The room was softly lit, bright sun from the open door was at his back and cast a shadow across his face. He paused and looked around slowly, picked up a small paperback from a table, read the back cover. He nodded at the woman seated at the desk in back and pretended to browse.
She was watching him, something about him caught her attention. She noticed his hair cut, the sharp lines of his nose and chin. His dark coat hung loosely around his knees, his shirt, also dark, was the color of tide pools. His thick boots seemed out of place.
He walked toward the desk, she looked up and smiled. “Good morning. Welcome to Armchair Books,” she said. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
“Thank you.” He stood there for a long moment.
“You look familiar to me,” she said. Do we know each other?”
“We haven’t met, but we look somewhat alike, don’t we? That may be it.”
“Yes. Maybe that.”
“You’re Caroline?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Peter. I’m .... I am your … brother.”
“Excuse me?
“ My name is Peter Roughwood. I am your brother.”
“Sorry,” she shook her head, smiling, “you’ve made a mistake. I have two brothers, and I am pretty sure neither one of them is you.”
“Yes,” he laughed. “I know it sounds strange.”
“How is it you know my name?”
“My father told me …. our father told me.”
“I don’t have a father.”
“You do, you just haven’t met him.”
“No. My father died when I was a baby, 34 years ago. He’s dead.”
“He’s not dead, Caroline. He’s alive. He’s living in Portland, and he wants to see you.”
Peter took a small envelope from his coat pocket, and handed her an old photograph — a man, holding a baby. “This is my father, Paul Roughwood and his daughter,” he said. He turned the photo over, and it was inscribed in faded blue ink, ‘Paul and Caroline 1991’. “That’s you there in his arms.”
She studied the face. Her father? The father who was absent her entire life? The father that she’d needed? Caroline Roughwood looked up at this earnest young man and had no words.
After all the years, it was simply too late. Her dead father could not be resurrected, and she no longer cared.
Stjepan Hauser and Luka Sûlić
Portrait of Man in Black by Alvar Cawén, 1915, Finland
Portrait of Woman in Red by Konrad Mägi, 1923, Estonia
This is so powerful and honest. I imagine many people would react the same way if they were in her shoes. An excellent and compact story, Sharron!
I loved your description of his clothes, the line "color of tide pools" especially. What a way to meet a sibling. Public and vulnerable. Such intimate information deserves privacy, although in that tiny bookstores, it was probably where her heart and feeling of safety reside. I can fully understand her reaction, too. What do man expect when they abandon their children? I can see her tearing up the envelope and handing it back to him. "Here's my answer for your father," said through clenched teeth.
And to have that evocative cello music along with this story was the perfect choice. Watching the rapture build up in those two men makes me wonder what it's like to literary feel the music vibrating against one's body from this large instrument. The music is very emotional, but the cello must emphasize it by each stroke of the bow. Powerful.