Page 62 of Proof

I hadn’t planned to visit my grandmother, but I really hadn’t known what else to do. The fact was that there was a chance that someone in the Ashby family could have been responsible for shooting JJ and framing me. My grandmother wouldn’t know anything about it, of course, but she’d be the only way I could ingratiate myself back into the family so I could look for evidence.

In truth, it was a weak excuse because I was looking forward to seeing the woman who’d raised me for so long, but I wasn’t certain if she would be happy to see me.

Patricia Ashby was a gleaming diamond among an assortment of fake, cheap costume jewelry. When I’d been a little boy, my grandmother had always been the one Ashby who’d carried herself with grace and dignity. She’d used her status, wealth, and the Ashby name to give back to those who’d needed it most. I’d never heard her say an unkind word about my grandfather or father even though I’d overheard stories from my grandmother’s staff about how overbearing both men had been.

As I’d grown up, my grandfather had always treated me well, but after he’d died, my grandmother had finally told me the truth about the emotional and sometimes even physical abuse she’d endured at his hands. That was when I’d learned about the harsh realities of the world—that people, even the ones who claimed to love us the most, hid behind masks.

My grandfather had worn one of those masks and I’d never seen it. After learning the truth about what kind of man he’d really been, the memories of the times I’d spent with him at the cabin had become tainted with betrayal. I hadn’t returned to the place until I’d taken JJ there.

It didn’t take long to find my grandmother in the huge garden because she was only fifty feet or so from the entrance to the massive collection of flowers and greenery. There’d always been a gardener whose sole job had been to maintain the garden, but my grandmother had often taken it upon herself to root through the dirt to plant bulbs and trim back the prickly vines of her favorite flowers.

Roses.

That was what she was doing when I opened the black iron gate near the entrance of the garden. Instead of kneeling on theground, she was seated on a small stool with a cart of some kind on her other side. I figured it was for remnants of the rosebushes she was cutting off.

Oddly enough, the rose garden had been one of the few things that had been off-limits to me as a child. I hadn’t really understood why, but I hadn’t dared ask my grandmother that. Like most kids, the curiosity had become too much one day, so I’d followed her into the garden. I’d gotten caught, of course, but I hadn’t expected more than a lecture similar to the quiet but firm ones I’d always gotten when I’d done something wrong. The trip to the garden had been different. I’d never seen my grandmother as angry as she’d been that day. I hadn’t even recognized her. Her fury had been that out of control. It was the first and only time she’d ever struck me. She’d never apologized for what she’d done but that had only left me feeling more guilty. I’d been so afraid of losing her, I’d never once disobeyed her after that.

I remained by the entrance to the garden and let out a discreet cough. It took another one to get her attention. When she looked up, she had to cover her eyes to shield the sun so she could see me. Something inside of me broke open when she put her hand over her mouth and began sobbing.

“Cassius,” she whimpered as she tried to stand.

Despite my natural inclination to stay out of the garden, her reaction had me hurrying to her and gathering her in my arms. I wasn’t sure if the lengthy embrace was more for her or for me. She sobbed against my shoulder, and I clung to her like she was the only lifeline I had left in the world. She was still slim and fragile, so I made sure not to put too much pressure on her body.

“Cassius,” she repeated as she leaned back and framed my face with her hands. “It’s really you,” she said in disbelief.

“It’s really me,” I responded as I let her look me over. I’d been fit before I’d joined the military, but years of training hadmade me stronger. Even in prison, I’d kept up my boot camp workouts, both to stay in shape and to keep my sanity.

“You should have told me you were coming,” my grandmother chided gently as she stepped back but continued to hold my hands. “My poor, sweet boy,” she said just before she broke into another fit of sobs.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me, Mother Ashby,” I explained. Although I’d been calling my grandmother Mother Ashby because that’s what she’d told me to call her from the time I’d started talking, saying it now as a grown man sounded strange to my own ears. My grandmother had told me countless stories of my actual mother and how much she’d loved me, and yet my grandmother had given herself the title of mother. A title no one else had ever called her. As a child, I hadn’t questioned it because she, for all intents and purposes,hadbeen my mother. Being framed for murder had taught me to never stop asking questions until I had the answer.

“Oh, my darling little rose,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice was crackly and breathless. “Renly!”

“Yes, mum,” Renly said from behind us. He was standing less than twenty feet away.

“Why didn’t you tell me my little rose was here?” she groused as she linked one of her arms with mine. I’d never been overly fond of her nickname for me, but the rest of the family had taken full advantage of it. My father, in particular, had never missed a chance to throw some taunting version of the flower nickname at me, even when I’d been in my teens.

“My apologies, mum,” Renly responded. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”

My grandmother shooed him off with a wave of her hand. When I’d been a child, she never would have simply waved someone away. Whenever my grandfather had been absent, hereyes had always done the talking for her, and on the rare occasion when she’d used her voice to reprimand someone, her words had been spoken cooly and quietly. I hadn’t been entirely immune to her disinterest and steely silences. I suspected she would have been able to bring even the most powerful of men to their knees with her sharp tongue and cutting looks.

My grandmother also hadn’t looked anything like the ones I’d seen on TV commercials: the sweet, elderly women who held a plate of fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies for all the excited kids waiting around them.

My grandmother had been too refined to make something as unimportant as cookies, and based on her upbringing, I doubted she even knew how to cook. She employed people to do things like that for her. Mother Ashby was proper, dignified, and always presented herself with grace and class. The woman walking slowly next to me was a stranger. My grandmother wore a simple, long white cotton gown that was smudged with dirt. Her normally neatly styled hair was loosely braided and had numerous flyaway strands sticking to her damp neck.

“I’m so glad you made it home safely from that awful place,” Mother Ashby said as she leaned against me. “When your father told me you’d decided to stay in the army instead of coming home, I’d been certain I’d never see you again.”

“The army?” I asked. My grandmother knew I was a Marine and that my last tour had ended shortly before I’d been arrested.

Before my arrest, she’d praised me for my accomplishments despite the fact that she’d never wanted me to enlist in the military in the first place. It hadn’t been only because of the danger I’d be in, but she’d hoped I would learn to run the family business alongside my father and eventually take over the reins of the Ashby empire, just like all the Ashby men who’d come before me.

“Oh yes,” my grandmother said with a slight nod. She relied on my support to step up the single stair that led into the house. I suspected we were headed for the solarium. It wasn’t a large room, but it was lined with the more delicate kinds of roses and had a sweeping view of the outdoor rose gardens. Just like the garden, she’d never let me join her in the room because it had been her “quiet place.”

As we walked, my grandmother prattled on about how proud and scared she’d been while I’d been in the military, but she never once mentioned my time in prison.

Was she just waiting until we were sitting down to berate me for the cloud of shame I’d brought down upon the Ashby name? Would that be when she’d tell me how disappointed she was in me? That she no longer wanted me to be her grandson?

The whole thing made no sense. I’d shamed the Ashby name in the worst way possible but instead of refusing to see me or, worse, allowing me to witness her disappointment, she’d cried when she’d seen me in her garden. Hugs weren’t something she’d ever freely given out, not even to me when I’d been a little boy. And hadn’t Renly announced my arrival to my grandmother once the guard at the gate, Owen, had notified him I was there?

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