Page 57 of Match Point

“Thank you, Grace. Thank you for everything. I’m glad somebody has my back,” she said, unable to resist looking at Leo when she said it. Immature, yes. Not to mention petulant. But holy hell, it was hard not to fall back into bad habits. Sorcha shut the lid, and handed the laptop to Leo, avoiding his gaze.

He clasped the hand that held the laptop and she reluctantly met his eyes. Sadness closed her throat and she swallowed the rush of emotion. He was a complex man, one she thought she knew but in hindsight, he was still a mystery.

“I have your back, Sorcha. My leaving has nothing to do with you. With us.” The soft tone of his voice increased the ache of emptiness in her chest.

“I know you’re under orders, I get that, but there is no us as you pointed out. I’m a big girl, I’ll get over it.” I pray I can get over you. She removed her hand feeling the loss immediately. Had things been different, she’d weave her fingers with his and bring him in for a kiss, and more. He hadn’t wanted more from her. He’d judged her without asking her what she desired. But would she be willing to give up her dreams to live his? It wasn’t fair to either of them.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

Chapter Forty-Five

Leo wiped his hand down the front of his jeans and tapped his foot on the floor of the cab. The humidity caused his shirt to cling to his back. He was headed to a town an hour away from San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico. The further from the city they went, the more rural it became. Devastation from the hurricane that had ravaged the island was everywhere. Trees had fallen, houses with no roofs were the norm, not the exception. And his mother was living here.

His cabbie pulled up to a row of houses in various states of disrepair. The man put the car in park in front of a house painted a faded blue, white stucco showing through the stripped paint. “Here we are,” the cabbie said in Spanish.

“Wait for me.” Leo answered back, paying the man before he took his rucksack and exited. He wasn’t sure of his reception since neither he nor the PI he’d hired had contacted her. He’d been afraid she’d bolt, an odd fear to have about his own mother, but then she’d never tried to find him.

Tamping down old resentments, he ignored the oppressive heat and climbed the three steps to the front door. He raised his hand to knock, his heart racing. What waited on the other side would alter his life once more.

He waited for a long moment, but there was no sound from inside. Frowning, he knocked again.

Nothing.

Either she wasn’t home, or she’d abandoned the house like so many other people.

Disappointment weighted his shoulders. A woman from the house next door peeked her head out. Curious brown eyes met his and his heart nearly stopped. She was older, lines etched around her mouth and eyes, but he’d recognize her in his sleep.

Swallowing, he clenched the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder. “You’re Consuela Ferrara.”

“No, it’s DeJong, I haven’t been Ferrara since—“Her mouth dropped open and she clasped a hand to her chest. Falling against the door jamb, she clutched at a rosary necklace, tears welling in her eyes. “Leo?”

Don’t break down. He nodded, unable to say more. His mother stood ten feet from him. Small and petite, her once black hair was threaded with silver and braided down her back. She’d worn it that way since he could remember.

His mother dropped her hold on the necklace and pulled a cane from behind the open door. She leaned on it for support, her left arm resting at an odd angle by her side. Had she suffered a stroke or was she hurt in another way? She’d been sent back to a violent country; God knew what had happened to her. Swallowing a surge of anger, he hopped off the porch. “Yes, it’s me.” Your son. The boy you left behind and never tried to find. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Her knuckles whitened on the cane handle and she shook her head. “No, you didn’t. Please come in. It’s rather warm out here and I can’t stand for long.”

“Of course.” He waited for her enter the house before he followed. The house was dark under the blue tarp that served as a roof. Small but clean, the room had an abandoned air about it. A fan circulated air and the gentle hum of a generator could be heard from the back room. “I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.” Damn, he was repeating himself.

“It is never a bad time for family,” she said. Her voice shook, whether from her shock at seeing him or from her condition, he couldn’t tell. She sat in a wheelchair and indicated he should take the seat across from her, a wingback wicker chair that had seen better days.

Placing his backpack on the broken tiled floor, he did as she asked.

“You look so much like your father, but you have my mouth,” she said, putting a knuckle to the corner of her eye and wiping away the moisture.

“Yeah.” He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, linking his fingers. Silence rested heavy between them, the words he’d rehearsed stuck in his throat. He’d been waiting for this moment for years, and now he had no clue where to start. “How long have you lived in Puerto Rico?” A US territory. Was she a US citizen, or living here illegally as she had in the States?

“My husband’s a doctor and he’s here for the humanitarian crisis. There are a lot of people in need of help here. The living conditions for many are abhorrent.”

“You don’t have a roof,” he said, pointing to the tarp.

She smiled, but one corner of her mouth drooped. “Believe it or not, there are others worse off than us.”

“Why are you in a wheelchair?” Why had he asked such a personal question? Because she was his mother. He had the right to ask that and a million other questions, the most pressing one the hardest.

“I have multiple sclerosis. I started having symptoms before your father died. When they deported me back to Nicaragua, I couldn’t get treatment until a group of doctors came for the earthquake. That’s where I met my husband. He’s Dutch.”

From what he could recall about the disease, MS was an autoimmune disorder that disabled the people who had it. “You married again. That explains why I couldn’t find you in Nicaragua. I thought you’d… I hired someone to look for you as soon as I had the money.”

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