He did not honk. He got out and approached the door, just as she’d taught him to do from a young age.
An excellent sign.
He knocked.
She waited a few seconds before opening the door. “Hello, darling.” Since he’d let her hug him the last time, she took the liberty of another brief hug. Then she swept up her coat and purse and they walked to his 1950s Mercedes. It had doors that opened upward like wings. She lowered into the passenger side—very gracefully for her age seeing as how the car was just inches from the earth—and they were off.
Today, he wore a navy sweater with a short zipper at the front beneath a beige corduroy jacket that fit him beautifully. Dark jeans. He’d trimmed his hair since she’d seen him last.
He could have made a living as a male model had he not become a driver. In fact, hehadbeen invited to model for dozens and dozens of brands but had only taken one up on the offer. Omega watches. She had his Omega ads preserved in a binder that also contained hundreds of articles about him.
Her oldest son had been gilded by angels from the start. The first time she’d looked into the beautiful face of her pale-haired newborn, her life had changed forever. He’d made her a mother, and she’d loved him ferociously. It hadn’t mattered that he had not been the long-awaited, well-planned child of committed parents, like many firstborns. He, and later Jude, were the two very best gifts of her life.
Her boys were a study in contrasts and similarities.
Even as a baby, Jeremiah had instinctively understood how to gain everyone’s favor. He’d been endearing and confident. A natural-born leader. He’d managed to get what he wanted from her and Felix while somehow making them feel that what he wanted was exactly, coincidentally, the very same thing they wanted to give him. When Jude arrived, Jeremiah had dealt with his little brother the way a CEO deals with a promising new hire.
Jude had been a kindhearted baby, but a little on the suspicious, introverted side. Observant. The quieter of the two. The rule follower. The dutiful one who, when asked to go upstairs and make his bed, would go upstairs and make his bed.
Jeremiah was the son who’d stepped into the limelight. Jude was the one who’d stepped away from it.
Jeremiah had the face of a race car driver. Jude, she’d thought since the day he’d written a brilliant poem in kindergarten, had the face of a writer.
She had the report cards and glowing comments from Jude’s English teachers to prove just how excellent he’d been at writing all through school. For years, she’d fancied that he’d become a bestselling novelist or nonfiction author. He’d aced college and when he’d decided to go to law school afterward, she’d amended her projections and begun to picture him as a judge who wrote verdicts instead of novels. But right when he could have transitioned into a plum private practice job, he’d made the baffling decision to go into the FBI.
She didn’t have a doubt, of course, that he was outstanding at his role. It’s just that working for the FBI wasn’t a very high-paying job and didn’t come with as much positive feedback as he deserved.
Both of her sons had passionate, loyal hearts. Both were smart. Both had a great sense of humor. Both honorable. Both good to her and the rest of the family.
To this day, she could picture with precision Jeremiah and Jude, ages four and two, standing on a strip of beach in Groomsport’s harbor. Holding hands, the boys jumped over each incoming rush of tide while the summer sun glinted in their fair hair.
Tears misted her eyes. She earnestly missed those little boys, who’d lavished her with love and trust. The cruelest trick of motherhood was that your children exhausted you when they were small . . . which hindered your ability to appreciate them at that age as much as you should. She deeply appreciated them at that agenow. But now those little boys were gone. They’d grown into capable, headstrong adults who didn’t require much from her. She’d grown into the one who required things of them—their presence, communication, and fondness.
“Can you tell me about your family?” Jeremiah asked, his words bringing her back to the present.
“Certainly. My parents are named Patrick and Mary and they still live in the same house where I grew up. Fun fact—Felix is also from an Irish-American family and his parents arealsonamed Patrick and Mary. You have grandparents on both sides with the exact same names.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Additionally, your father has three siblings named Mike, Elizabeth, and Jack. Believe it or not, I also have siblings named Mike, Elizabeth, and Jack.”
“What?”
“Whenever we talk about them, we say ‘Aunt Elizabeth O’Sullivan.’ Or ‘Uncle Mike Camden’ to avoid confusion.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, Felix’s Patrick, Mary, Mike, Elizabeth, and Jack are nothing like my people of the same names. Felix’s family is very . . . upper crust.”
“And your family?”
“They’re loud and down to earth.”
He shot a skeptical glance across the interior of the car. “You don’t seem down to earth.”
She laughed. “Well . . . Iwasmarried to your father for sixteen years and we did live in the lap of luxury.” Jeremiah wasn’t in a position to judge because he wasn’t exactly the poster boy for normalcy. He was born into the Camden line, a world championship race car driver, and far richer than she.
“Will I meet your Patrick, Mary, Mike, Elizabeth, and Jack today?” he asked.
