Chapter 3 - The Cottage on Oak Street
The water taxi ride back to the Charleston waterfront was a blur of dark salt water and cold wind.
Maya sat on the vinyl bench at the back of the boat, staring down at her bare, shivering hands. The catering manager had fired her on the spot before the boat even touched the wooden pilings of the pier, throwing a fifty-dollar bill at her face and telling her never to apply for a shift with their agency again.
She didn't care about the job. She didn't even care about the lost wages.
All she could see was Claire Alden’s face. All she could hear was Grant Alden asking for her grandmother’s name.
By eleven o'clock that night, Maya was stepping off the public bus near the edge of the historic district, walking briskly down a dimly lit street lined with moss-draped live oaks.
At the end of the narrow lane stood her grandmother’s house. It was a tiny, hundred-year-old wooden cottage with peeling white paint, a sagging front porch, and a yellow porch light buzzing softly in the damp southern air. It stood in stark, brutal contrast to the sleek, multimillion-dollar yacht floating in the harbor.
Maya pushed the squeaky iron gate open and walked up the front steps.
Inside, the house smelled of old books, sweet tea, and dried lavender.
In the small living room, lit only by a single reading lamp, sat Helen Reed. She was seventy-two years old, her silver hair braided neatly over one shoulder, wearing a faded knitted cardigan over a cotton nightgown. She was rocking gently in her old wooden chair, an old photo album resting open on her lap.
“Maya?” Helen called out, her soft, gravelly voice full of gentle concern as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re home early, sweetheart. I thought the catering shift went until midnight.”
Maya closed the front door behind her, locking the bolt. She stood in the narrow entryway, her heart beating fast.
“Gran,” Maya said, her voice trembling.
Helen turned her head, her smile fading the moment she saw the pale, distraught look on her granddaughter’s face. She set the photo album down on the side table and stood up slowly, using her wooden cane for balance. “What happened? Did someone hurt you at work?”
“Gran,” Maya repeated, taking a step into the living room. “Who was my father?”
Helen went completely still.
In nineteen years, Maya had asked that question a hundred times. Every single time, Helen had given the same quiet, sad answer: Your father was a passing stranger, Maya. A man your mother met while working at a resort in Florida. He left before she even knew she was pregnant. He doesn't matter.
Maya had accepted that story her entire life. It was a simple story, a common story.
“Maya, we’ve talked about this,” Helen said softly, taking a slow step forward. “Why are you bringing this up in the middle of the night?”
“I worked on a yacht tonight, Gran,” Maya said, her voice rising as tears finally spilled over her lashes. “A private yacht owned by the Alden family.”
Helen froze. Her knuckles turned white around the handle of her wooden cane.
“I met a girl on that boat,” Maya continued, stepping closer to her grandmother. “Her name is Claire Alden. She’s eighteen years old. She has my eyes, Gran. She has the exact same amber ring. She has the exact same birthmark under her lip. And when her father walked out on deck—when Grant Alden saw my face and heard your name—he looked like he had seen a ghost.”
Helen’s cane slipped from her hand, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
She reached out blindly, gripping the back of the rocking chair to keep herself from falling. Her face turned as pale as the white paint peeling off the porch outside.
“Gran...” Maya whispered, realizing the truth instantly from her grandmother’s reaction. “Oh my God. He’s my father, isn't he?”
May you like
Helen dropped heavily back into the rocking chair, her old hands covering her face as deep, painful sobs shook her thin shoulders.
“He isn't just your father, Maya,” Helen wept, her voice breaking into pieces. “He was your mother’s husband.”
