"I sincerely hope I'm interrupting." She had brought a tray with her.
"Mother." Lifting his head, he gave her a charming smile that looked both apologetic and annoyed at the same time. "I thought you were in bed."
"I decided to come up and see what my darling boy is doing that has him barely coming home." She swept into the room, carrying a cloud of her signature scent, wine red silk robe billowing. She had yet to perform her nightly ritual of brushing her luxuriant waist length hair and creaming her delicate skin. This was much more important, she mused.
"I had Antoine save you some dessert. Your favorite, lemon meringue."
"That hasn't been my favorite since I was thirteen." Reluctantly putting away the manuscript, he rose and joined her at the sofa in front of the rosewood table.
"Nonetheless." She gave him a searching look as she poured wine into two glasses. "Have you eaten?"
"I grabbed something at Luigi's." Taking the glass, he leaned back, stretched his legs out and gave her a mildly annoyed look. "I'm thirty years old. You have to stop thinking about taking care of me."
She fussed with the napkins Antoine had the foresight to include. "A mother never stops caring about her child, not even when he or she is a hundred years old."
"I'm not a project." There was enough bitterness to have her lifting tapered brows.
"I never said you were."
He hesitated, the words hanging between them, fragile as spun glass. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable but rather filled with the weight of understanding that only years could bring. She settled beside him with a gentle sigh, her presence both a comfort and a gentle reminder of all the things left unspoken.
"I know all of you tiptoe around me as if afraid I will shatter like glass." He pointed out. "I'm fine."
She studied the face that looked so much like hers. "That's because we love you." She gestured towards the desk piled with manuscripts and files. "You're determined to prove yourself. Interesting read?"
He glanced over at the manuscript that had absorbed his attention. "Immensely. I found it hidden in the 'not worthy of attention' pile. It's a period piece. A cross between Bridgerton and The Notebook." He stretched his legs out.
"People adore a well written love story and that is shaping up to be one. I've contacted a producer friend of mine and he's agreed to take a look and see if it's interesting enough to turn into a screenplay." He paused. "The author is a school teacher, an unassuming looking woman, with a dumpy figure and a tidy bun."
"She's written two more stories. I gave them a cursory look, and they are just as good. She might be changing careers."
His mother stared at him in amazement. "You're really serious about this."
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked mildly. "I acted for a spell and for the time I was in front of the camera, I liked it. But not enough to make it into a career. I spent my life undecided what I really wanted to do, but now, I think I've found my niche."
Determination burned into his eyes. "And I intend to stick to it. Going through those manuscripts, the day to day grind of the publishing house, has steadied me." He met her eyes. "And God knows I needed steadying. This is working, mother." He reached out to take her hand. "I don't want you to worry about me."
"It's my job as a mother to do just that. It sounds as if you're about to have a project that will take up a lot of your time." She squeezed his hand. "Just don't get too caught up and forgetto have fun. For instance, the function on Saturday. You're required to be there."
He grimaced, not sure he was ready to face public scrutiny yet.
"Is there any way I can get out of going?"
Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek fondly. "Not a chance. I already had your tux sent to the dry cleaners. It's formal wear." She finished her wine and rose gracefully. "I love you."
His expression softened. "Don't I know it. Good night, mother."
He watched her leave, the gentle click of her heels fading down the hall before the quiet settled in. The warmth of her presence lingered, wrapping him in a familiar cocoon of love and expectation.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, grateful for her unwavering support despite his occasional resistance to it.
Putting away the half-finished glass of wine, he pushed to his feet and went back to the manuscript.
*****
Abigail sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her daughter. As usual, the pink elephant was tucked under her arm, her head resting on the long curly trunk. She had adamantly refused to turn in for the night, making all sorts of excuses and arguing that she was a big four year old and not a baby.
She had also cleverly enlisted her grandfather's help to get her point across.
