It was almost a half-mile drive up the path to the entrance of his parents’ huge mansion. He’d always preferred hisgrandparents’ ranch-style home, which while still large, was less ostentatious than his parents’ massive Tudor. He wiped his hands on his shorts and rang the bell. To his surprise, it wasn’t Amalia the housekeeper answering the door, but his father. Having not laid eyes on him since he was twenty-two, Colson shouldn’t have been shocked at how he’d aged. For some reason, he’d expected the great Hamilton Delacourt to have remained untouched by the passing years, like inThe Picture of Dorian Gray. God knew he had enough skeletons to hide in the attic. Instead, he’d turned gray, his skin a collection of lines, like the weathered clapboard on the house they owned on Nantucket, a product of years spent on the Sound.
“Well. To what do we owe the great honor of a visit from the prodigal son?”
“Nice to see you too, Dad.”
Colson’s gaze was direct, meeting his father’s blue eyes. They flashed and after scanning him from head to toe, dismissed him with undisguised contempt.
“I see nothing’s changed.” He gave Colson his back and walked away.
Colson followed, considering it a win when his father didn’t ask him to leave.
“Not true, Dad. Since I left, I’ve had two number oneNew York Timesbest-selling books. And I’m working on another. I’m a successful author.”
“Obviously, that didn’t translate into you dressing like one. Or is unwashed vagrant the in look these days?”
Flushed with anger and frustrated with the conversation, Colson chose not to engage. “Where’s Mom?”
“Probably in her room. Why?”
His parents hadn’t shared a bedroom for as long as he could remember. “Because I want to see how she’s feeling. Never mind. I don’t need your permission to go speak to my mother.”
“She’s fine. Dramatic as always.”
He left his father and ran up the wide staircase. At his knock, his mother answered.
“Come in.”
Pale as an angel, she lay in bed, thinner and frailer than he’d ever seen her.
“Mom?”
A faint curve of her lips greeted him. “I was right. The only way to get you to come see me is to say I’m dying.”
He perched on the end of a wooden chair by the side of her bed. “Are you?”
She lifted a bony shoulder. “Who knows? The doctor said my heart is weak. Are you surprised?” Her blue eyes glowed fiercely, the only spot of color on her white face. “My only child broke it and left me.”
“You’re kidding. Leftyou?” His head spun at how she’d twisted the narrative to make his banishment from the family about her. “I didn’t leave, remember? I was kicked out, told I didn’t belong. You both told me you didn’t accept who I am. How could I stay?”
“Yet you lived at your grandparents’ house.”
“Because they loved me. When they went into assisted living, they told me I could stay in their home as long as I wanted. That it was my home too.”
“I often wondered if you’d given them a sob story about having no place to live after you left, and that’s why they gave you the house in their will.” A meticulously styled brow arched high. “As well as all their possessions. Normally, that would go totheir next of kin.” She sniffed. “It’s not like you’re going to need any of your grandmother’s jewelry for a future wife.”
It wasn’t surprising that his mother showed no emotion concerning her parents. Or anyone else except herself. Grace Delacourt was the most self-centered woman he’d ever met. Colson believed some intrinsic part of her that would’ve allowed her to love was missing. He contrasted her with Millie, who’d showed him more kindness than his mother ever had.
“Next of kin. Meaning you.” Colson’s laugh was bitter as he swept his arm out in front of him. “Because you have so little. You’re almost destitute. I can tell.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm. I’m not supposed to have stress.”
He bowed his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. He truly didn’t wish her ill will.
“Did you come alone?” Her hands played with the edges of the comforter.
“Yes, why?”
“I wondered, that’s all.”
