Page 43 of Shatter Me

Her gaze catches mine, lighter and more open. "They felt right. Special."

The tenderness in her voice when she mentions her grandmother catches me off guard. I find myself curious, wanting to know more.

"Tell me about her." I take another drink of wine, watching Tash's face soften.

"She was extraordinary. Lived through the London Blitz and worked as a nurse. Met my grandfather at a dance hall—he was Canadian military." Tash traces the rim of her wine glass. "After the war, they moved to New York. She worked at the Met until she was seventy."

"Ah. So that's where you get it from." The passion for art, the steel beneath the grace.

"She taught me everything. How to tell a real Monet from a forgery and spot brushwork techniques." A small laugh escapes her. "She'd drag me to every museum, every gallery opening. My father's family—the Blackwoods—they've been Boston aristocracy since the Revolution. When Dad married Mom, it caused a scandal."

"Scandal?" I prompt, intrigued by this glimpse behind the polished facade.

"The Blackwoods expected Dad to marry someone from their circle. Another old money family with the right connections and pedigree." Tash's expression turns wry. "Instead, he fell in love with my mother, whose family had new money—shipping and manufacturing wealth that exploded during the war, but no historical pedigree. My Blackwood grandparents considered it almost as bad as marrying a commoner. They never fully accepted her."

"That must have been difficult for your mother."

"It was. But she had her own mother—Gran—who was remarkably cultured despite her humble beginnings. Gran worked as a nurse during the London Blitz where she met my maternal grandfather, an American businessman supplying the Allied forces. After the war, they moved to New York where his family's manufacturing empire was headquartered." Her eyes take on a distant look. "Gran's passion was art, and through my grandfather's connections and donations to the Met, she secured a position as a docent, eventually working her way up to a curatorial assistant position."

"The Blackwoods were always too busy with their society functions, but Gran..." Tash pauses, emotion flickering across her face. "She made time."

Something shifts in my chest. I recognize that look—the weight of expectations, of never quite measuring up to what family demands.

"Your parents didn't approve of your career choice?"

"The Blackwood name opens doors, but it comes with expectations. They wanted me to marry well, host charity galas, be the perfect society wife." Her mouth twists. "Dad lost a lot of our family fortune in bad investments. They thought I could restore our position through marriage—finally make the Blackwood name 'respectable' again after Dad's unfortunate choice in wife."

"Instead, you chose to work."

"When my maternal grandfather passed, he left a trust specifically for my education and independence—Gran's idea, of course. She knew what it was like to be trapped by circumstances." Her fingers brush the emerald earrings again. "These were Gran's. My grandfather gave them to her after she was promoted at the Met. She said they reminded her that beauty and knowledge belong to everyone, not just the wealthy."

I study her face, seeing layers I hadn't noticed before. The determination beneath the polish. The passion behind the poise. For the first time, I underestimated just how deep those waters run.

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was." Tash meets my gaze. "She would have seen right through you, you know."

"I don't doubt it." I smile, genuine this time. "I think I would have liked her."

The warmth in her eyes makes me want to tell her everything. It's a dangerous feeling.

"What about your parents?" Tash asks, leaning forward. "You never mention them."

Ice fills my veins, replacing the pleasant buzz from the wine. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass.

"There's not much to tell." I keep my voice neutral, but memories flash through my mind of blood on marble floors and my mother's screams.

"Come on." She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "Your mother must have been remarkable to raise four such... interesting sons."

I pull my hand back, adjusting my cufflinks. "She died when I was young."

"I'm sorry." Her genuine sympathy makes this harder. “And your father?"

"Car accident." The memories of that accident still haunt me, as I was in the car with my mom. I watched her die. "It was a long time ago."

Tash studies my face. I can see her curator's mind at work, cataloging the micro-expressions I can't quite hide.

"You don't like talking about them."

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