“Yaya, he?—”
“Loves you, Kelly. He’s your father. Your blood. And he loves you.” Yaya smoothed the silver wisps of hair that had fallen into her face and tucked them back into the loose bun on her head. “But you know who didn’t love you? Your mother.”
Brock’s blood ran cold.
No one ever mentioned his mother.
Ever.
“I bet you haven’t thought of her in years, have you?” Yaya sniffed, tugging her sweater tight. “And for good reason. She was an awful, terrible woman.”
The overflowing swell of anger slowly cooled to confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“And you wouldn’t, because I swore to your father I’d never mention her. Not to anyone. And especially not to you.” Yaya tottered forward and cupped his cheeks with her warm, fragile hands. “But I can’t stand by and watch the two of you grow further apart over foolish pride and tempered resentment.”
Brock searched his grandmother’s face, but all of his thoughts were a scattered mess of bewilderment.
He didn’t know anything about his mother. No one ever spoke of her. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her face, and thinking about it now, he wasn’t even certain if he knew hername. Very little seemed to be known about her, either that, or it was well hidden. When he was young, he’d tried to ask about her, but his questions were always shut down, so eventually he just stopped asking. It was as though she’d never existed.
One moment in particular stood out for him, though. He was sixteen, maybe seventeen, and his father was leaving. Again. Except this time, Brock had threatened to find his mother and go live with her because surely she would love him more than Aidan did. Brock would never forget the way his father looked at him, as though he’d crushed his soul completely.
But then he was gone again, and it was nothing more than another bad memory.
“What does my mother have to do with any of this?” Curious now, Brock tried to search his grandmother’s eyes. But they were full of past secrets, most of which she’d never reveal.
“It’s not my story to tell.” Yaya smiled, but it was sad. Haunting, almost. Hopeless. “You need to talk to your father.”
Brock raked a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t even know how to reach him.”
“His number hasn’t changed, Kelly.”
The barb struck home, the sting only worsened by the cold truth. His father may not have made much of an effort, but Brock hadn’t either.
“Your idea for the beach house sounds lovely. It’s just icing on the cake that you’re working with Juliette Laurent. She was always my favorite.” Yaya’s voice turned wistful, and she settled back down into a chair at the table, her shoulders dropping with an invisible weight. “I won’t sell the beach house, not yet, but you have to make an effort to reconcile. You and your father both do.”
Brock stiffened, then relented. It was the least he could do for his grandmother.
“Okay, Yaya. I’ll try.” Cordial speaking terms were better than nothing, but there was one thing he needed to hear from his father first. An apology. “I’ve got some business to take care of, so I should probably get going.”
Yaya nodded and offered a small tired smile. He thanked her for the cookies and the coffee, which was now lukewarm, gave her a peck on her weathered cheek, and walked out into the bitter January cold.
His thoughts were all over the place, but mostly his mind was trying to search the darkest, furthest corners of his past, of forgotten childhood traumas. There had to be something—a spark, an image, a flash of anything to shove everything Yaya said into some kind of relative perspective. But there was nothing. No blurry face or traces of perfume. No recollection, no vaguely familiar voice. Not even a scrap of pieced-together memories.
His breath puffed out in a cloud around him, and he started his truck to warm the engine. There were too many questions and not enough answers. The process of attempting to untangle them caused a dull ache to form at the back of his head.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Anders. It rang multiple times before cutting to voicemail. Knowing Anders, he was probably working.
Something Brock should be doing.
Something he wanted to do. To keep his mind busy. Keep his hands busy. Keep his thoughts from hovering over him like a dark cloud of depression.
He left Yaya’s house and headed for Mystic Florals. The claw-foot tub was being installed in Gigi’s apartment today, and that would give him something to focus on. If he was lucky, Juliette would still be out, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about her either.
Brock set out to distract himself by doing the one thing he knew he could control, the one constant in his life, while he tried desperately to ignore the way everything around him was slowly beginning to unravel.
CHAPTER 11
The workshop of Mystic Florals was overflowing with wedding flowers.
