After the mysterious death of her father, Violet, a determined young woman, moves to London to uncover the truth behind his death.
Living in a small apartment in Camden struggling to cope with her grief and guilt over unfinished credits from her la...
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"parts of me remind me of you." -unknown
My alarm rings beside me, I swing my arm shutting it off. I decided to wake up at 5 in the morning even though my meeting, if you could even call it that; with Florence begins at 9 am. Rubbing my tired eyes, I find my way to the kitchen. Mia still very loudly snoring in her room.
Every year I bake a small cupcake for Mia on her birthday since it's the only thing that doesn't overwhelm her.
Me and Mia have always alternated when it came to cooking but I'm the only one with any sort of baking knowledge, not that I do it often anyway. As I cracked an egg in the bowl in front of me all I could think about were the years before my father's death.
My mother was the one who taught me how to bake, and my dad was the one who cooked. Since my grandma on my mom's side never taught my mom how to cook, my dad had to teach her. Of course, he never minded since he loved whenever we cooked or baked as a family.
They both taught me so much, after losing my dad I lost my mom. Not physically but she wasn't the same after his death. I lost both of my parents. Not only am I trying to survive without my dad but I'm grieving someone that's still alive.
I pop the tray with the batter in the oven, holding the star necklace that hangs around my neck. Taking a needed deep breath I look at the clock in front of me, reading 6:00. Was I that deep in thought?
Knowing the cupcake wouldn't come out any time soon, I made my way back to my room. I sat at my computer, logging in.
Clicking safari, searching "Regel Greens Golf Club", after the day I saw that place for the first time and I got that uneasy feeling, I haven't been able to push it down.
Some articles appear on some awards the owner named "Thomas Kingston" had won. His name doesn't sound familiar at all which isn't a surprise since I've never been good with names either way. The original website didn't have that many photos and nothing important is popping up. I might have just seen this place in a commercial or on the news.
I slouch back into my chair, well that was a dead end. I slide my desk open, grab my journal, and skim through the pages. I've written everything I've found out or figured out about my father since I started school here.
Since he died when I was six, the only things I can remember clearly were the amazing stories he'd make up or write before bed that he'd tell me about or when he would talk stars with me.
He was a writer but wrote under a pen name, Ben Wilson. He had chosen Wilson to honor his mother's maiden name who was also a writer but never fulfilled her dreams of ever publishing.
The memories have just become foggy since then, his sense of warmth and love still linger and sometimes I feel like he's here with me. But the truth always makes its way back.
