Page 79 of When You Are Mine

“Asher was her second chance. He was her soul mate. He knew the first time he saw her that she was the one.”

“Where’d he see her?” Walsh asked, surprised that he was just now hearing this story.

“Lay back.” Kristeene motioned for him to stretch out beside her tired, narrowed body. “I’ll tell you all about it. Nowthisis a real love story.”

* * *

The next morning, Walsh greeted Carmen, the older Hispanic woman Unc had brought in to help with cleaning a few times a week. She was taking down the Christmas decorations, humming as she worked with great efficiency. Walsh glanced up the stairs toward his mother’s room. With her end so obviously near, Walsh felt like he was treading water: not moving forward, not moving back, and barely keeping his head above water. Waiting to swim, afraid he would sink.

Restless, Walsh occupied his hands with the mechanics of making his mother’s favorite jasmine orange tea. The familiar aroma wafted through the kitchen, bringing back memories from his childhood. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved her tea. Breakfast every morning in their New York City brownstone. A cup on her nightstand at night, a good book propped on her knees. His father in bed beside her, wrinkling his nose in feigned distaste.

Was he twisting history when he remembered his parents as a happy couple? In love, exchanging lingering glances over the breakfast table? Of course, he remembered the enmity at the end, the war zone their home became after his father’s infidelity. Never had he admired his mother more than when she’d traveled the ugly road of divorce with so much grace.

He closed his eyes briefly, gripping the marble counter. The reality of her pending death set in arthritically, inflaming and stiffening his emotions. The calming notes of the tea mixed with the stench of fear emanating from inside him. He clamped his lips against his tamped-down terror, turning them down at the corners to foreshadow his sorrow.

Fix your face.

He could hear his mother’s imperative even now, calling to him from distant memories.

Don’t pout. You’re a young man, and young men do not pout. Especially not Walsh men.

Technically, he was a Bennett, but he had known what she meant.

He arranged his mother’s tray, even adding a white rose he plucked from the huge arrangement in the foyer. The sight of his father walking up the driveway almost made Walsh drop the tray, tea, rose, and all. Walsh set the tray down and strode toward the door, hoping to get it open before the doorbell rang. Just in case his mother was sleeping upstairs.

Wash couldn’t help but note how much alike they were physically. It was like looking into a mirror, years down the road. Would he hold himself so stiffly? Would his gait remain as confident and sure, more like a prowl? It was the deeper-than-skin similarities that frightened him. The unfettered, selfish ambition of Martin Bennett. The ruthless disregard for anyone standing in the path of what he desired.

“Dad.”

“Walsh.” His father answered him with a level stare across the threshold.

“What are you doing here?” Walsh was afraid he already knew.

“I’m here…I’m here to see your mother.” Martin came as close to stuttering as Walsh had ever heard. “You should’ve called me.”

“You asked me to keep you apprised of her condition.” Walsh wasn’t sure what his father expected other than a call notifying him she had passed. His parents hadn’t had an amicable relationship after their bitter divorce. “And you were in Hong Kong.”

“Claire got a hold of me.” Martin flexed a muscle in his lean jaw. “Your uncle James called.”

“Uncle James?” A frown knotted Walsh’s forehead. “Really? Dad, am I missing something?”

“No, I just want to…I want to see your mother before—” Martin smashed the sentence before he finished.

Walsh had never seen his father any less than perfectly composed. Arrogantly striding through the luxuriously appointed offices of Bennett Enterprises with a line of employees/minions trailing behind him, yes. Commanding a boardroom full of executives like they were royal subjects, yes. Charming a thousand people at a business convention, yes.

Discomposed? Never.

“Where’s your uncle James?” Martin cut into Walsh’s bewildered thoughts.

“In his study.” Walsh nodded toward Uncle James’s lair. “Look, I was on my way up to take Mom some tea. If you come up, come quietly just in case she’s asleep.”

His father watched him for an extra moment before turning on his heel toward Unc’s study. Walsh climbed the stairs, still turning it all over in his head, once again balancing the tray. At the top of the stairs he drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for the sight of his mother, so different than how he had always known her. Vibrant. Glowing. Unassailable.

Walsh nudged the door open centimeters at a time with his shoulder. The sight of the small figure huddled beneath the down comforter dragged out all the ugly emotions he’d been wrestling. Depthless fear and pain clawed their way up through his belly like from the bottom of a dark well, up through his constricted air passages, asphyxiating him.

The bright paisley scarf tied around her head peeped out from beneath the bed covers. His eyes roamed the still-beautiful face. The strong bones jutted proudly from beneath the skin pulled so tautly over them. He knew beneath the covers she was almost skeletal, but somehow, even in a fitful sleep, even ravaged by this voracious cancer eating the very life from her, she still managed to radiate strength.

He noticed her bare feet peeking out from beneath the comforter and remembered her cashmere slippers. He could at least slip those on her feet. Placing the tray down beside the bed, he slipped into a closet the size of most people’s bedrooms and looked around for the slippers. For a moment he just absorbed the lavishness of the wardrobe. Pants, shoes, dresses, suits, hats, scarves, jewelry—all of the very highest quality. She loved to give, but she loved to have, too. And without any sense of guilt. How could someone who gave so much feel guilty for what she had?

---