As we stepped into the room, he whispered, “I’ve got you, love.”
And just like that, with four tiny words, I knew everything would be all right. My feet picked up and my heart along with it.
I wasn’t sure what I expected to find, but a cheerful lounge dressed in pale yellow and blue and smelling of sugar and cinnamon wasn’t it. It was so at odds with the drab house I’d lived in as a child, it was jarring. She looked so much more at home in this place than she ever had in our old house, and I realised it was because this place reflectedher, something she’d never had the opportunity to show when I’d been young. I was meeting a part of her I’d never known, and it was a strange feeling.
There’d never been enough money to make our old house look more than it was—a three-bedroom low-income fixer-upper that had never been fixed. My father had handled all the finances, which meant most was squandered on booze, gambling, and other women. My mother received just enough to keep us fed and presentable, provided my dad didn’t blow it all before he got home on payday. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but taking a quick look around at the room, it struck me that my mother actually possessed a good eye, if a little too country for me.
A cream leather sofa lined with pale blue cushions took up one wall. On the opposite wall sat two matching chairs, one holding Chloe, positioned either side of the bay window that faced the drive. Between the sofa and chairs, a sizeable light oak coffee table held neat piles of cooking and garden magazines, a box of Kleenex, and a large vase of flowers that looked like they’d come from the garden out front.
At one end of the coffee table, a large slate hearth framed a quietly burning gas fire, and a small marmalade cat was stretched on a mat in front, enjoying the heat. The wall opposite the fire sported a closed door to who knew where, and the rest was given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, every one of them overflowing. I knew without looking that Mads would approve. He’d already be checking the genres and titles to get a feel for the woman who sat quietly watching us, an unreadable expression on her face.
It occurred to me, it would’ve been nice to grow up in this house and with this woman who’d made it feel so homely. But that hadn’t been my destiny, and the reminder cut deep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK
Chloe’s gazelingered on my face like she was drinking me in, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I always knew you’d be a handsome one. It’s good to see you, Nick. I’m grateful to have this time with you, regardless of what happens after. Thank you.” She leaned forward and offered me a slender hand.
I stared at it for a long moment. A gardener’s hand, I decided. Short nails with a brownish stain to the fingertips. When Mads’ knuckle in my back broke my musing, I clasped my hand around hers and hated the way my heart ate up the touch like a starving man. “I’m not sure how I feel yet,” I answered honestly. “Just so you know.”
Chloe hummed in understanding, held my gaze a moment longer, then glanced over my shoulder to Mads. “And you must be Madigan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Mads didn’t hesitate. “And you.” He took her hand and shook it gently.
“And this lush is Teddy.” Chloe smiled at the cat who pricked an ear at the mention of his name.
As did I, remembering another cat called Teddy. A demon who’d terrorised the neighbourhood for three years before disappearing one day when I was about six.
Chloe caught my eye and confirmed my thinking. “This one’s not as feisty as the one we had, but there were too many similarities to ignore. He appeared on my front porch one day about eight years ago and never left. I like to think it wasn’t by chance.”
An uncomfortable thought occurred to me and I asked, “Was Dad responsible for our Teddy going missing?”
Chloe shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He never said anything, and I knew not to push it. My guess would be yes. Yours too, I think. Please, take a seat.” She waved us to the sofa. “I’m sorry for not greeting you at the door, but my legs aren’t what they used to be. Besides, you had a look about you like you might change your mind at any moment and make a run for it.”
Mads snorted and I shot him a glare, which he ignored. But he sat close to me on the sofa, his thigh pressed hard against mine, his hand resting on my leg like he knew I needed his touch just to breathe at that point. And perhaps he was making his own statement as I’d done outside, letting Chloe know she had him to answer to if this didn’t go well.
If Chloe had an opinion on our open affection, she kept it to herself. “Do you mind if we just take a minute before we start, please?” she asked. “It’s been a while.”
I almost smiled. “Sure.”
The small room fell into comfortable silence as Chloe’s achingly familiar grey eyes travelled my face, taking me in, clocking the differences age had made while trying to find the boy hidden inside the grown man.
I knew what she was doing because I was doing the same, grateful for a chance to study this new version of my mother. Chloe 2.0. Resetting the memory. Updating the file with newinformation. Trying to reconcile the two. Trying to remember the woman who’d been my safe refuge for eight years before she simply walked out of my life.
The short silver hair suited her, although the style looked overdue for a cut. It was so different from the thick brown hair she’d sported when I was a child. I remembered how it caught the sun and bounced on her shoulders when she laughed.
And there were other changes. She wasn’t the same stick-thin exhausted woman I’d known, either. This older version had a little more meat on her bones, and it suited her. She looked... bedded in, like her life had finally become her own at some point and she’d taken the reins and run with it.
The idea almost made me smile, because in that way we were alike. Both of us were the product of a mean-hearted man who hadn’t given a shit about us. We’d escaped in different ways and changed our paths. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.
She sat stiffly in her chair, her hands trembling slightly in her lap, the only indication she gave that she might be as nervous as me. She looked every one of her seventy-three years in a way that spoke of the struggles she’d experienced and the marks they’d left on her body and soul. Worry lines creased her brow above tortoiseshell glasses, and more webbed the corners of her mouth, deep folds cutting up to her nose, the cheeks above heavier than they’d been. It hadn’t all been sunshine and roses for her after she left.
But there were smile lines there as well, and her eyes no longer carried that constant sharp edge of fear that I’d known so well in my childhood. My mother had found joy at some point in her life. Maybe even love.
Like I had.
The idea felt surprisingly okay.
