"Wait just a few minutes," Walter said, his voice serious as he held his hand up. I paused and then put my phone away. "I didn't go to all that dramatic trouble to have you walk out of here without hearing me out."
I gave him a small, wry smile, but nodded my head. "Okay. Fine then."
For a moment, Walter didn't say anything. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. "When I was lying at the bottom of the stairs, you know what I kept thinking?" I shook my head. "I kept thinking, please don't let me leave this world without telling that boy how I feel about him."
"Walter—" I said, running my hand through my hair, emotion rising in my chest. I'd never discussed feelings with Walter.
"We had a son," he said, clearing his throat as his voice broke subtly on the word son.
I tilted my head. "What? You never said—"
"No, it's difficult for us to speak of Henry. We lost him when he was just a baby. Charlotte, she . . . grieved terribly, as did I."
"I'm sorry, Walter," I said hoarsely. He nodded. I’d seen that sadness in his eyes before today. I’d seen that face every time my father had dished out his punishments—most of them cold and all of them hurtful. All this time, Walter had cared so deeply about how I'd been treated, and I’d never known of his and Charlotte’s loss.
"We couldn't have more children after that. Being there, in the home where we'd had him, became unbearable. And so," he took a deep breath, "we decided to come here, to America, to begin a new life. We started working for your family and we found a bit of happiness again. And then, one day, a knock came at the door and there you were. Despite the way Ford and Jessica Hawthorn reacted, to Charlotte and me, to us, you were our gift, and you have been every day since. Not a day has gone by when we haven't been proud of you. I want you to know that."
"Walter—" My voice broke.
"We couldn't always be there, and we couldn't always intervene, because we feared your father would send us away and we'd be no good to you at all, but we did all we could to let you know . . . that you weren't alone—not then, and not now. Not ever. We only withheld the true motive of your father’s bequest because we love you and tried to bear that terrible burden for you as long as we could. We didn't do it out of dishonesty. We did it out of love. I hope you can come to understand."
I sat back in the chair, allowing his words to flow through my heart. Of course I'd always known—Walter and Charlotte were more my parents than my actual father and stepmother had ever been. But . . . what if Walter and Charlotte were wrong and he wasn't? "What if he was right about me, Walter?" I choked, voicing my deepest, darkest fear.
"Your father?"
"Yes," I whispered harshly. "All of them."
"Is that what you think? That Charlotte and I were wrong about you, but Ford Hawthorn was right? Your mother? Jessica?"
"I . . ." I pictured Walter in his old-fashioned black swimsuit teaching me to swim, saw him leading me through the maze as we counted steps and learned turns, saw Charlotte wringing her hands when she knew I was hurting, thought about all the wise advice she'd imparted to me through the years, all the love she'd readily given.
"Perhaps," Walter said, "you're also asking because you wonder which category your wife belongs in.”
Walter had always known everything, before I ever told him. I don’t know why I thought this situation would be any different. "I . . . yes. I just, I don’t know if I can trust her."
He regarded me for several moments. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose you never actually have to find out if you never truly take the risk. I suppose you could haunt the halls of Hawthorn Vineyard like a ghost, clanking around in chains of your own making and scaring little children at the windows."
I let out a small laugh that ended on a sigh.
"Do you know why I call you sir? Why I've always called you sir?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"As a reminder that you're worthy of respect, and you always have been."
"Thank you, Walter," I said, choked with gratitude for his presence in my life.