Stockholm Hero by RJ Griffith

Author:RJ Griffith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: christian Fiction
Publisher: Pelican Book Group
Published: 2017-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

9

Gravel crunched beneath the car tires as it pulled back down the lane.

Why am I doing this? Amy forced her hand to push the bell and shoved down feelings of trepidation over her father’s first impression of her. She nudged her toe against the mat at the door and chased away the idea of running after the cab and flying home. Her sneaker had the beginnings of a hole, her bag bulged next to her feet. The cab continued down the driveway. She snatched up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and bolted down the stairs.

“Miss?”

Amy turned back toward the towering man in a suit, feeling embarrassment warm her face. “Hi, I’m Amy Bath. I have an appointment with Mr. Lundahl,” she croaked.

“Yes. Please come in.” He opened the door wide and waited for her to climb up the stairs. “May I take your…er…things?”

“No, thanks.” Amy shouldered the bag a little higher.

“Mr. Lundahl wishes for you to wait in the library. Please follow me.”

Amy shed her shoes at the door and placed a pair of house slippers from the rack onto her feet. They were much too large, and she had to shuffle across the smooth flooring to keep up with the butler. This house could engulf my high-school.

Paintings adorned the walls, mostly oil.

The feel of the knife slicing through the heavy paint as she worked the colors into an even blend and spread against the blank canvas made her muscles clench. The deep, thick, smell of drying paint drifted against the earliest memories of her mother. Painting always felt like coming home, to watch the colors blend and become a scene captured for all time. If only she’d stuck with her art instead of abandoning the canvases unfinished, like all her other projects.

“You can wait here. Mr. Lundahl will be in shortly.”

“Thank you.” Amy sank onto a low, white couch. It seemed a bit modern for the rest of the house. Several of the paintings that clung to the closest wall jostled her memory. Amy rose from the couch and moved closer. She recognized the long, fluid brush strokes blooming from the center of the canvas. The artist’s scrawl, in the lower right-hand corner confirmed her suspicions. Mom hasn’t worked in oil for over twenty years. I’ve never even seen a print of this painting. Another thought weaseled its way into her mind. What if he knew about me all along…what if he doesn’t want me?

“That is one of my favorite paintings. Do you like it? A woman I once knew painted it for me a very long time ago.” The man in the doorway stood tall. Time had not yet bent his frame, and he possessed handsomeness within his stern features.

“Hello.” Amy scuffed across the floor and stretched out her hand. “My name is Amy Bath. My mother is Abigail Bath.” Her mouth went dry. “I’m your daughter.”

His grip slackened and their hands parted.

“I have no daughter.” He placed his hands behind his back and walked across the room.

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