Page 18 of Nico
He shuffled over to the kitchen, hands still streaked with remnants of clay, and poured himself the last dregs from the coffeepot. The bitter taste was a small comfort, grounding him after the hours lost in creation. As he sipped, he glanced back at the piece on the table, the satisfaction of a job well done mingling with a quiet hunger. Maybe he'd make a sandwich, or just stand there a while longer, letting the music and the sense of accomplishment linger a bit more before stepping back into the demands of the world outside his studio.
He should call Sadie. Let her know he was still alive. Walking out of the room, he went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, noticing to his surprise that it was well stocked. Someone - the new housekeeper his mother had hired - had gone shopping, which meant he would not starve to death. He was just taking out the stuff to make a huge sandwich, when his phone rang. He had left it on the kitchen counter.
Grabbing it with the hope that it was Sadie, he hid his disappointment when it turned out to be his mother.
"I'm in the middle of—"
"You're needed at the main house immediately."
"Mother, I'm—"
"Now, Nico. It's extremely important."
Before he could say anything else, she hung up. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he was sorely tempted to ignore the command, because hell! That's what it was. He was goddamn thirty-five years old and did not need his mother to be summoning him as if he was a child. Staring at the items he had taken from the fridge to make a sandwich, he decided to leave them on the counter. Whatever it was that was so important, he would go over there and be right back.
He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, resigned. With a final glance at his unfinished sandwich, Nico grabbed a clean shirt from the back of a chair and slipped into it with practiced ease. Whatever was waiting for him at the main house, he doubtedit would be anything he wanted to deal with, but there was no ignoring his mother when she used that voice. Reluctantly, he slipped on his shoes, pocketed his phone, and headed out the door. The lingering aroma of coffee and the echo of Mozart trailed after him as he made his way up the gravel path toward the looming house on the hill.
He had grown up here, he thought as he loped along the winding pathway that led to the manor. The grounds were immaculate as usual, with two gardeners snipping away at dead leaves and watering plants. It was fall and the air was crisp and clean, with leaves carpeting the ground in a dazzling array of colors.
Lifting a hand in acknowledgement to the men working the grounds, he moved past the magnificent fountain, spewing crystal clear water and past the clump of his mother's stunning rose gardens. An arbor was to the right, with vines clinging to the intricate latticework. A stream whispered over smooth stones in the background and the treehouse he had played in when he was a boy was still high in the bosom of a towering oak tree.
Bounding up the steps, he pushed open the smooth and glossy mahogany double doors that led to an elegant foyer. It was as quiet as a church, and he wondered what his mother was doing home at this time of day. A uniformed maid hurried up the curved staircase, carrying fresh linens folded in both hands.Water silk wallpapers, polished board floors with chandeliers dripping from a carved ceiling, and various expensive paintings covered the walls. Some of which he had painted.
The housekeeper, Henrietta Campbell, looking tidy and neat in her trim black dress and keys hanging from her waist, came forward with a smile. The woman had been with the family since before he was born and ran the household with a rod of iron.
"Mr. Nico." She beamed. Even though she had seen him sometime last week, the woman greeted him as if it had been ages since his last visit.
"Henry, how's it going?" Bending from his lofty height, he kissed the weathered cheek and inhaled the familiar scent of fresh apples and lemon grass.
"It's good to see you." Her smile faded as she stared at him. He had always been her favorite and she wanted to give him a heads up for what he was about to face, but it was not her place. Squeezing his hand, she stepped back. "Your mother is in the blue drawing room."
His brows lifted. "Anything I should know?"
She cleared her throat and shook her head. "She asked that you go right in."
Nico watched with a puzzled frown as she hurried towards the opposite direction.
Squaring his shoulders, Nico crossed the gleaming floor toward the blue drawing room. The echo of his footsteps mingled with the faint ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant clatter of china from the kitchen. He paused outside the closed door, took a steadying breath, and knocked softly.
"Come in," came his mother's voice, poised, every syllable clipped with expectation.
Pushing the door open, he stepped into a room washed in morning light. Azure drapes framed tall windows, casting a gentle glow on the antique settee and the delicate porcelain vases arranged on the mantle. His mother stood near thewindow, her posture regal, her gaze fixed on the gardens below. She turned as he entered, her expression unreadable.
"Nico, thank you for coming so promptly." Her tone was formal, but her eyes searched his face for something. Reassurance or resolve.
He closed the door behind him, feeling the old house settle around them. "Of course, Mom. What's going on?"
"We have company." She gestured with one elegant hand to the woman and child seated on the royal blue loveseat.
Recognition speared through him as he stared at the petite blonde with the liquid brown eyes. And was taken back to two years ago.
"Brigette?" He gave her a puzzled look. "What're you doing here?"
"I—"
"We should have a seat." His mother interrupted. "And have some refreshments." She started to ring the bell when he shook his head.
"I'm not in the mood for anything."
