Page 32 of The Best of Times
“And please make it clear to Jacasta, Aron’s wedding invitation is far less precarious than hers. Just in case things were to get shaky.”
Aron stifled a grin. Trust Granny not to leave anything to chance.
“I know very well how you feel about her and I dare say that I don’t blame you,” his father said. “I’ve always been very clear it’s not a view that I share.”
Aron smiled. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Dad. I’m a bit suspicious. You can’t blame me. I’m still gay old me. Probably more so now I’ve been influenced by New York. She made it perfectly clear that would never work for her. I can’t see how this stalemate is going to change.”
His dad held his hands up. “This request came from her. I’m as amazed as you. I promise you, son, I will not allow any unpleasantness. You can trust me even if you don’t trust her.”
The earnest expression with which has father had delivered those words meant Aron needed no more convincing. He owed it to his dad to make whatever headway they could. Maybe his mother had seen a pride parade and realised the error of her ways.
Fat chance.
“Okay then,” he said. “Let’s see what she wants.”
Granny nodded. She would be more curious than he was. Perhaps he owed it to her as well. As bodyguards went, she was the best. His mother wouldn’t dare cause trouble while Granny’s evil eye remained firmly fixed on her.
It still hurt him deeply that he even needed protection from the woman who gave him life. Yet, she’d given him that gift with a whole load of strings.
And he’d failed her.
His therapist had told him it was the other way around. Yet, he’d never fully believed it. At least he had an appointment booked for the day after he got back to New York.
A wise move evidently.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aron was enjoying a rare moment of downtime. It had been nonstop since he’d got off the plane. He was back in the sunroom, taking in the view of Granny’s pristine garden. Aron had many happy memories of playing with action figures out there.
Today, it was yet another grey day in London. Most of the shrubs had been cut down for winter. Granny did as much of the gardening herself as possible. However, she’d always employed a gardener for the heavy stuff.
Aron had had a crush on one of them. As a spotty teenager, he wouldn’t have known what to do if the feeling had been reciprocated.Even so, Bill had been so dreamy and the subject of many daydreams for a hormone-ruled Aron.
What ever happened to him?Probably married with a hundred kids now.
Unfortunately, due to Granny’s precise demands, gardeners didn’t usually last more than one summer.So Bill had joined the long list of the rejected and had been replaced by a portly retiree who tried to persuade Granny to cover the whole garden with concrete slabs. He’d called it brutalist and she’d called him a cab. And so the dance went on.
His phone rang, cutting through his reminiscing.
Aron groaned. Granny had gone to a nail appointment. Surely she hadn’t had another bright idea in that time?
He grabbed his mobile and frowned. It was an unknown number. An unknown UK number. Terror gripped him.
Is it Mum?
It would be typical of her to want to get the first word in before they met. As tempted as he was to let it go to voicemail, that would be seen as obstructive. He refused to play into her hands like that.
Instead he pressed Answer.
“Hello.”
“Could I speak to Aron Wimpole, please?”
It wasn’t his absent parent. This woman had a cut-glass English accent. Not like his mother’s broad accent, which betrayed her Welsh roots.No matter how many elocution lessons she’d taken when first moving to London.
“This is Aron Wimpole.”
“Oh, hello, Aron, my name is Jane Nelson.”
