The best feature of Jax and Tara's mountain cabin was the front porch. It was red cedar, just like the rest of the cabin, and it wrapped around the front of the house. In the time Victor had spent there, he'd grown to adore it. He could see the each Teller's spirit dwelling there—the rainbow colored rocking chairs were all Tara. The good doctor would want something beautiful outside, a perfect complement to the cabin's country exterior. The butterfly wind chimes on either side of the steps—that was the twins. Delylah had mentioned their mutual love of the fluttery insects many times.
Victor sat heavily in the lone black rocker—Jax's chair. The perfectly laid paver stones were Thomas and Abel. It had been a gift from the boys for Jax and Tara's twentieth anniversary just two and a half years ago. Long before Hannah's disappearance, just after his wedding, Abel had proudly recounted the weekend they'd worked together. Thomas had travelled from South Carolina to help his brother. It took lots of concrete and stone, and more than their fair share of Guinness, but they managed to finish it. Victor marveled at how professional it looked. It was actually quite lovely.
Victor began to rock as he waited. As much as he hated to admit it, he was nervous about James' pending arrival. The gentle rocking of the chair against the perfectly weathered cedar boards calmed him; it soothed the savage beating of his heart within his chest. He closed his eyes as a soft summer breeze tickled his face. The scent of honeysuckle and pine was distinctly Appalachian, and as he inhaled, Victor finally realized how much he missed his Southern roots.
The sound of gravel crunching caused Victor to open his eyes, and it was then that he saw James' charcoal Volvo SUV trek carefully up the driveway. A wry smile crossed Victor's lips as he watched his father meander towards the house. James was the epitome of cautiousness as he skirted gaps in the gravel.
You're no Jax Teller, Victor thought as his father slowed the Volvo to a stop. He watched as James stepped out. A long, perfectly dressed leg emerged, followed by the remainder of his body. Clad in a ruby red button-down and black slacks, he looked ever the consummate professional. It was a far cry from Abel and Hannah's wedding. The shiner Victor inflicted upon his father was long gone, but the memory was fresh. Today, James Sinclair looked good—almost human, in fact—but Victor knew better. As James walked over Abel and Thomas' stonework, he pulled his designer sunglasses off and stared at his only son.
Dr. Sinclair appeared to be a far cry from the bastard that fled Abel and Hannah's wedding. The bruises Victor had rendered across his father's face were gone now, and they'd healed well. There wasn't a trace of that angry day left on James' face. There were no remnants of the altercation. Victor didn't know whether to be happy or upset about it.
"You're looking much better," James said in greeting. He climbed the steps and stood next to his son. Typically, Victor would stand, out of respect, but today, his ass was firmly planted in the seat. To get respect, you have to earn it, Victor thought.
"Thanks," Victor replied.
"May I sit?" James asked. Victor looked up at his father. He was surprised that James would ask permission of him for anything.
"I'm not stopping you," Victor stated, gesturing to Tara's brilliant blue rocker. James sat carefully, and within seconds, he was rocking, just as Victor was.
They sat in silence for a while, content to let the mountain scenery talk for them. The Appalachians were an amazing sight as they rose to meet the sapphire blue sky. Not a single cloud restricted the view. The trees were shades of emerald, sage, and pine, and they were stunning to behold.
"Dr. Kaufman does amazing work, doesn't he?" James' voice broke the silence. Victor didn't even look in his direction.
"He does," Victor replied. "I guess I should thank you for sending him in to help. It probably wasn't easy, calling a friend from Atlanta to work on your estranged, rebel son."
"You looked awful, Victor," James countered. "Your mother got to you first, before I did. She insisted that I come down and evaluate you myself."
"You—you were there?" Victor asked, shocked. He didn't even realize that, or remember it, for that matter. How did he see me? When? His brain struggled to remember the details he'd obviously forgotten. "Did Delylah know?"
"She didn't see me," James explained. "I assume she knew I was there, but we were never in the room together. I mean—it's obvious that I saw you, right? How else would Dr. Kaufman be called in? He's the best surgeon on the East Coast. With all the occipital bone and nerve damage, he was the only option, in my mind."
Victor was at a loss for words. For a moment, his father actually seemed like a real father. It was a strange feeling. Again, silence reigned over them. Victor wondered what his life would've been like had James cared more—We wouldn't be sitting here, so goddamned awkward. We'd be like a father and son should be—like Jax and Thomas and Abel. For a moment, the younger Sinclair's heart ached for what might've been.
"It's beautiful out here," James attempted conversation. It was quite sad, really, the way the two men interacted. If Tara was there, bearing witness to this disheartening situation, she would have found a way to get them to bond. But Tara wasn't there. She was at Valley Memorial Hospital, holding Abel's hand, willing him to awaken.
"It is," Victor agreed as he continued to stare at the gorgeous landscape.
"That's why your mother picked this place to finally settle down," James said. "She wanted a good school system for you, a safe place for little Hannah. The breathtaking views were just a bonus. You can't get this kind of beauty where we were."
"Where we were?" Victor repeated. "I thought we were always—"
"Here? In Silver Spring?" James asked. He shot an incredulous look in his son's direction. "You don't remember anything?"
"Not before Hannah," Victor honestly replied. It was true. His earliest memories were of the house they'd always had in Silver Spring. He'd thought the family had always been there. That's what it felt like, anyway. Victor's mind was blown, and for some reason his heart started to thud within his chest. He didn't know if it was fear or confusion that caused the physical reaction, but he hated the sensation of it.
"I didn't even realize that," James whispered. "I just always thought—"
"You just assumed I remembered everything?" Victor countered. "Fortunately, for me, my brain has chosen to block huge pieces of my life out."
"Fortunately?" James queried.
"I don't think you'd be sitting here if my memory wasn't selective," Victor answered. "If I remembered half the shit you did to me, you'd probably be dead."
James visibly stiffened. The older man knew his son's statement was a true one. He'd been an incredible bastard to Victor. It was a necessary evil. James closed his eyes and swallowed heavily.
"Do ye hae any idea what ye've done?" The sound of a harsh Irish brogue haunted the corners of his mind, even now. It didn't matter that twenty-two years had passed. The flashback was so vivid and so real, chills raced up and down his spine as he struggled to maintain his composure. James opened his eyes, suspended in memories. Suddenly, he was standing in the middle of an Irish flat. A strange chaos filled the air, even though everyone was seated and quiet.
"Yes," James responded to the question. "I fell in love."
"Love?!" The word was an explosion. "What the hell do ye know about love?"
James turned in the direction of the voice. No matter how many times James relived the memory, the sight of his father-in-law rendered him speechless. Declan Brogan was a formidable opponent, and his dark eyes threatened to eat his soul. Even though James feared the old man, there was no doubt that he'd earned the privilege that only came with being one of the Irish Kings, the ruling council of the True IRA.
"I know it's not here," James drawled. "Your ice queen daughter is an example of that."
There was no roar of outrage, no scream of fury; the only sound in the room was Declan quickly divesting himself of his comfortable seat. Lunging forward, he was a flash of power as he spanned the room and grabbed James' throat. His deep brown eyes were murderous as he stared his son-in-law down.
"Tread lightly, ye bastard," Declan cautioned. "I'll split ye balls to brain if ye keep talkin."
James' dark eyes clashed with his father-in-law's. Insults galore rested on the tip of his tongue, but he kept them to himself.
"Papa, please! Don't kill him!" Sarah's voice rang in the air. "Please! He's Victor's father!"
If Declan Brogan had an Achilles heel, it was his daughter. She was his only child; she was his only link to the past. Her mother had been murdered in a rogue car bombing, and for the majority of her life, she'd been Declan's only connection to life outside of the terrorist organization. Hearing the anguish in Sarah's voice, Declan relinquished his hold on James' throat and went back to his chair.
"He doesn't deserve to have that boy," Declan proclaimed. "And he sure as hell doesn't deserve you, not after consorting with that whore."
She's not a whore! James' mind bellowed. He was smart to keep his mouth shut. I love her!
"Whether he deserves it or not," Sarah replied. "He still has a son. Victor is innocent. Please don't punish your grandson by killing his father."
"That's not your decision," Declan declared. "Your husband made that decision the minute he climbed into bed with Jimmy O's little slut."
"She's not a slut," James retaliated. His mouth was a firm, hard line.
"Ask Chibs Telford about her, then," Declan said. A wolfish grin split his face as James grimaced in fury. "She had no problem jumping back and forth between O'Phelan and Telford—and now, she's moved on to you. And you just let that happen."
A scream of rage bubbled in his belly. It swelled and ached terribly, until he had no choice but to release it. As his cries swelled and escaped his throat, he saw nothing but red—and his fury wouldn't be satisfied until he killed every motherfucker in the room.
The sound of twinkling bells shattered James' reverie. He blinked suddenly, and the Irish flat was gone. Declan Brogan had disappeared. Sarah stopped screaming. James was back on Jax and Tara's front porch. The Appalachians were back in sight.
He glanced around, and he saw Victor answer his phone. His son immediately stopped rocking. James couldn't help but turn and observe.
"I don't—I don't understand, Jax." Victor's voice was a mix of confusion and wonder. James watched as he slowly stood and began to carefully pace. Victor didn't speak, but James could hear the sound of Jax's rumbling voice. There was the occasional yeah or uh-huh, but other than that, Victor was the one doing the listening. By the time he hung up the phone, he'd uttered barely five syllables throughout the conversation.
"What happened?" James asked. His curiosity was piqued even as his mind raced with fucked up memories. Victor turned and faced his father. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he stared at his father.
"That was Jax," Victor began. "He called to—" His voice caught again.
"Called to what?" James questioned.
"To let me know that-that they-that they found the girls," Victor wept. A torrential downpour of tears flowed from his eyes. The tears and the sobs were so powerful that Victor couldn't catch his breath. He braced himself on the porch railing and allowed the tears to fall. There was no point in stopping them, not now.
James, thinking the absolute worst, went to Victor's side. He wasn't sure if he should embrace him. He opted to touch the kid's shoulder instead.
"Victor?" James' voice rose above the sobs. "Victor—are they-?" He couldn't bear to finish the sentence. He couldn't imagine Hannah dead. After her kidnapping, it was the one outcome he couldn't handle. It was absolutely non-negotiable. They can't be dead, please no—
Victor's eyes looked up to meet his. The agony that resided within them was almost too much. As tears filled James' eyes, he fought the sensation of dread that blossomed within his chest. Fuck no, please no…
"They're alive, Dad," Victor breathed. "They found them alive."
Relief washed over James. Unable to help himself, he sank to the porch and sat there for a moment, shell-shocked.
"They're alive?" James asked. Victor nodded.
"Alive—Ophelia, Hannah, the baby-all alive."
"My God," James sighed. "I can't fucking believe it."
"Me either," Victor replied. "I really did think the worst. God help me, I did."
"I did too," James admitted. "I did too."
The two men sat next to one another, amazed and completely confused. Another breeze wound around them, and Tara's rainbow chairs began to rock on their own. It was then that James looked at Victor—at his battered skull and his tear-streaked face—and he remembered just how much he truly loved him.
God, I wish I'd been better. If I could go back, I'd change everything. His throat ached with tears. I wouldn't listened to Declan or your mother. I wouldn't have lived in fear of what Declan would do.
"You wanna go see them?" James asked. Victor glanced at him. He had no idea how to respond. He'd never seen James like this—disheveled, wary, exhausted, old. But it didn't make a difference now; James was Hannah's father. Regardless of their history, Victor knew that he needed to see his daughter—and he also knew he wouldn't go without him.
"Yeah, I'll go," Victor decided. With a slight, sad smile, James stood. Reaching a hand out to his son, he was surprised when Victor grabbed it and used it for leverage so he could stand as well. Victor walked away, heading towards the car. James hesitated, watching as Victor ambled slowly towards the car.
I don't know what's weirder—James thought. Victor calling me Dad or Hannah being found alive. As he followed his son, he realized it didn't matter—both were astounding. He smiled with the thought. It's just fucking incredible. I guess miracles really do happen, after all.