Grant fiddled with his gold cuff links as he stood facing the back door, the solid oak separating him from the unpleasant conversation awaiting him on the other side.
He shouldn’t be here.
The wedding would start any minute. But Jack’s words about resolving conflict followed him like a stubborn shadow, niggling at the back of his mind.
With a deep breath, he stepped onto the porch, flinching as the door slammed shut behind him.
His mother turned from her kneeling position at the edge of the garden, and as Grant approached, he observed her red, puffy features.
At first, it looked like she’d spent several hours crying. Then he noticed the rash covering her neck and arms.
“You got poison oak?” he asked, though he could hardly believe it. While the poisonous plant was pervasive, his mother meticulously kept anything remotely resembling the leafy pest from attacking her pristine flower beds. She must have been particularly distracted to have come in contact with her bare skin.
Surprise flickered in her pinched eyes. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the wedding?” As she spoke, the inflamed flesh around her mouth cracked.
Grant cringed. Each word must be torture.
“I wanted to talk, but I can see you’re in a lot of pain. I’ll come back later, when you’re feeling better.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” Harriet winced as she carefully rose to her feet, causing Grant to suspect the rash had spread to her legs as well. “I have something for you.”
As she crept toward the house, Grant could hardly stand to see the discomfort evident in every step she took.
“Mom, whatever it is, don’t worry about it right now.”
She waved her hand in dismissal before disappearing inside.
While he waited, Grant glanced around the backyard, searching for a shrub with the telltale clusters of three leaves, usually bright green this time of year. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand how she’d become infected. His mother was always methodical; carelessness wasn’t in her nature. He wondered if their quarrel had somehow contributed to her inattentiveness.
Grant shifted his weight, conflicted between his concern over her present condition and his anger at what she’d done. Anger that felt completely justified.
But deserved or not, he couldn’t live with the bitterness. Not only had it slowly deteriorated his relationship with his father, but it had eaten away at his soul for years. In some ways, his unforgiving spirit had been more infectious—and damaging—than his mother’s poison oak. He needed to confront the issue. But he wasn’t sure how….
When she returned, she held something clasped in her hands, now clad in thick oven mitts. “I put these on first, just in case…” Her gaze dropped to her raw, itchy skin.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Dragging his teeth across his bottom lip, Grant drew in a breath. His chest tightened, making it difficult to exhale. “Listen, Mom. This may not be the best time, but we need to talk.” He resisted the urge to back down, meeting her swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I know what you did to Eliza. To me. To your own grandson, for that matter. And it’s—”
“Wait. Please.” Her tone earnest, Harriet splayed her hands, revealing the mysterious object.
Grant inhaled sharply, his gaze darting to her face.
His mother’s dry, cracked lips trembled. “I’m so sorry, son. And I know this doesn’t… I don’t deserve…” Her voice broke as a small sob escaped. “This belongs to… Eliza.”
Startled, Grant blinked. She’d said Eliza’s name. No sneer. No grimace, as though the letters arranged in that particular order provoked an involuntary gag reflex. She hadn’t even called herthat girl.
Grant’s features softened as he drew his attention back to the item in her hand.
Wrapping his fingers around the smooth velvet, he knew exactly what it was.
And what it meant.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
While mending their relationship would take time, Grant held out hope.
That maybe… just maybe…
They couldallbe a family one day.
