The Beau & the Beast

30 - Guilt

My feet stepped over the threshold to the place that had been my home for most of my childhood.

I was thrown back to memories of jam-filled sandwiches in the back seat of an old Citroën, where I did my homework to the background sound of French news, tools against sheet metal and Dad's muttering.

The smell of engine oil hung heavily in the room, the light was dim except for a pair of flashing, half-broken fluorescent lamps and a spotlight that shone straight down into an open hood.

There he stood, my father.  A fat old man in blue, a little too tight work trousers and a gray oil-stained t-shirt. He hung over the bumper so that his stomach took support against the radiator.

He was breathing heavily as he worked, and it was clear that he was struggling with his age-related ailments.

His arms worked frantically trying to unscrew a tight-fitting bolt, and I could not help but smile at the countless swear words that left his lips in a steady stream.

"Give me the socket wrench there!"  He muttered to Conor, who stepped forward next to me and stood closest to the car, while the old man waved at the toolbox.

Conor's questioning gaze wandered from the waving hand to the drawer, which was crammed with various tools, but his hands remained pressed into his jeans pockets.

"He doesn't speak French Dad," I grinned, walking past Conor with a smile, looking for what he needed.  But instead of giving him the tool, I went straight to the hood and took over for him.

The bolt he had been struggling with for so long was easily spun up with my vampire strength, and I sincerely hoped that my father would not start asking questions.

"Well, then you can translate boy," he laughed and pulled me into his arms and kissed my cheeks, one at a time, "you have grown!"

A wonderful warmth spread inside and I smiled tenderly at the little man with the gray hair and the alert eyes.

There was no doubt that I had the looks of my mother, in every way.  But my father was the one who'd struggled as a single parent to give me a good upbringing and did his best to raise me ever since the day my mother passed away.

And even though I had always enjoyed being in the garage with him, he often reminded me that I had fit in better elsewhere and constantly teased me about my fascination with books and foreign worlds.

"Maurice," he introduced himself and extended his fist to the wolf, who undoubtedly shook it, despite various oil stains and workshop dirt.

"Conor," he replied with a polite smile before my father reached up and hurriedly placed a light kiss on both his cheeks.

"Welcome to France," he laughed heartily, amused by the wolf's slightly puzzled reaction and I hurried to explain that we always greeted each other like that.

Conor nodded slightly at my explanation and looked around the room before our eyes met, "looks like he could use a hand?"

"Probably," I replied with a shrug and put my hair up in a bun on my head and rolled up my sleeves on the white shirt before switching to French, "Take a break Dad, we're hungry and I've been longing for your food for years."

A relieved sigh escaped the old man and I saw how he grimaced as he stretched his back, but it was soon changed into a wide smile, "thank you boys, I'm lagging behind a bit," he apologized and looked around the workshop with a deep frown on his forehead.