He glanced at me for several beats and then looked back to the road. A small smile played on his lips, but he didn't say anything.
When we arrived back in Napa, it was just after noon. Grayson took our bags out of his truck and started for the house. "I'm going to put these in the foyer. Why don't you come down to the winemaking facility with me and see what you've invested in." He shot a charming smile over his shoulder, squinting into the sunshine, and my stomach flipped.
"Okay." I'd lived here for weeks now and had never been invited inside that mysterious building where Grayson seemed to work constantly. I was eager to find out what was inside.
He was back outside thirty seconds later, saying it appeared Charlotte and Walter were out and they must have taken Sugie with them. I walked with him down the hill, past the lush smell of roses and small white flowers that smelled sweet and woody. I inhaled deeply, sighing. "It smells so good right here."
"Roses and hawthorn flowers," he said, his expression grim. "My stepmother planted them years ago when she was pregnant with Shane. Charlotte told her the rose symbolizes balance—the flower is the beauty and the contrasting thorns are a reminder that love can be painful. The hawthorn flowers are obviously for our name. They're the last things she ever planted here."
"Oh, why?" I asked, thinking about the rose pin Charlotte had let me borrow on my wedding day.
"Because she was planting the day my mother—the woman my father cheated on her with—showed up to drop me on their doorstep. She never ceased telling me that the fragrance of these flowers reminded her of the worst day of her life: the day she'd discovered she’d been betrayed, and that every time she looked at me she’d be reminded of that fact."
My heart froze and then thrummed painfully in my chest. "Oh," I breathed, taking his hand and squeezing it as we walked. "That's . . . I'm so sorry. How cruel."
You must favor your mother, I'd said. Yes, to everyone's dismay, he'd answered. Oh, Grayson. Now I understood his bitterness, and also his . . . deep loneliness.
He smiled over at me grimly. "She actually tried to have them ripped out several times, but they just wouldn't go away. Kind of like me, she’d said." He smiled again, as if unaffected. It must have wounded him deep inside his heart, though. Impossible that it hadn't. I squeezed his hand again and moved closer as we walked, offering the comfort of my presence if he wanted it. The thought of the beautiful man walking next to me being unwanted and unloved by anyone made my heart ache. But at the same time, I couldn't help but feel honored. He was such a private person, and usually so reserved. And yet he'd shared something deeply personal with me.
"My stepmother was involved in so many charities in Napa, I could barely keep track. I think she was mostly in it for the ladies' luncheons." He chuckled, but it held little amusement.
I looked up, studying his profile, understanding suddenly that initially, he had judged me to be like her. "I guess there are different types of generosity. I'm sorry your stepmother couldn't find the generosity of heart to show more kindness to a little boy who wasn't hers."
He looked over at me, the expression on his face almost shocked. "It's all in the past, I guess." No, I didn't think it was.
Hesitantly, not knowing how far he would open up to me, I asked, "Will you tell me about your mother?"
"My mother?" His brows knit together. "Truthfully, I don't know much about her other than she was a ballet dancer. She was a member of the New York City Ballet when she met my father. They had a one-night stand. She got pregnant. Because of her pregnancy she was asked to leave the company. She had trouble supporting me, blamed me for the ruin of her career, her body, and decided she couldn't look at me anymore. She dropped me here with my father and left. I never heard from her again."