As much as I wanted to lend Weatherly a hand with her shower, I knew I needed to check on Mom. I haven’t seen her since late last night.
The caretaker’s quarters is basically a tiny cottage located at the rear of the property, right at the edge of the oldest of the Chiara vines. Its dark, aged brick matches that of the main house, only this structure is about one-sixteenth the size. Although the inside is quaint and functional, consisting of a small kitchen, a sitting room and a good-sized master bed and bath, the wide porch off the back is my favorite part. It overlooks the fields, something that I used to hate, but have since grown to appreciate.
When I was a kid, the sitting room was actually my room, but after I left for the military Mom converted it back to its original state and gave my bed to a needy family she knew in town. That’s why I was staying in the guest cabin when I first got back after Dad died. Not that I would’ve been comfortable sleeping in the room next to my mother. Not with a social life that’s as . . . active as mine has always been.
It actually worked out perfectly since Mom got sick. She has a place that she can relax in peace and quiet. I have privacy. Well, I had privacy. It wasn’t until the cabin started renting again that it became a problem. Luckily, since the owners are rarely here, William didn’t have a problem with me taking up residence in one of the spare rooms in the main house. It’s when he got a complaint about the plumbing that I suggested we remodel. He was agreeable. For the most part, I don’t think he gives a shit about this place as long as the wine’s good and it continues making him some money.
I knock on Mom’s door before I enter the kitchen. It smells like garlic, which leads me to believe she made herself some lunch. Although I’ve been having the kitchen staff bring her meals as well, I’m glad that she felt like cooking and that she felt like eating. “Mom?”
No answer, so I go peek in her bedroom door to see if she’s sleeping. It’s empty. If she’s not there, she’s out on the porch. It’s one of her favorite places, too.
I find her knitting a blanket that she’s been working on for a year, it seems. She’s humming to herself and I notice that her color looks pretty good today. Less . . . yellowed. My heart twists a little in my chest.
I went on dozens of missions, did things that will haunt me to my dying day, but watching my mother die a slow death in front of me is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, ever had to see. Although her color looks better today, her end will still be the same. It will come, and it will come painfully. And it kills me that there’s nothing I can do to change that. That’s why, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make sure she can at least spend her last days in the only home she’s known for half her life.
“You have to be the slowest knitter in the history of the world,” I tease, bending to kiss her cheek before I take the rocking chair beside hers.
“This is a labor of love. It can’t be rushed.”
“A labor of love? Who’s it for?”
She reaches over to pat my cheek. “Who else but my boy?”
I eye the soft pastel colors. “You do realize that I’m twenty-seven, not seven, right?”
“Maybe you won’t be the one using it.”
“Well, if you’re making it for me, who else would be using it?”
“Maybe you’ll have a baby to wrap it around one day.”
An image of Weatherly rubbing a belly rounded with the child she’s carrying—my child—rolls swiftly through my mind and I smile.
“Okay, I can see that.”
Mom puts down her knitting and fixes her pale blue eyes on me. “Is it Weatherly?”
“Is what Weatherly?”
“The one you just imagined.”
“Who says I imag—”
“Ah-ta-ta. Answer me.”
She always knew when I was lying.
“What if it is?” I ask good-naturedly.
I thought we were still playing until she reaches over and curls her fingers urgently around mine. She squeezes them so tightly, her hand trembles.
“Don’t you make decisions that will affect the rest of your life because of me. Don’t marry her just to get this place.”
“How do you know—”
“I know you tried to buy this place. I know he turned you down. Now I see you running around with Weatherly, and I’m hearing things. I can put two and two together.”
I frown. “That doesn’t mean—”
“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but I know you, son. I know how you love—with your whole heart. You won’t listen to reason. Won’t let anything stop you. Won’t let anyone get in your way. But I don’t want you doing things like that for me. If you marry that girl, marry her because you love her, not because you love me.”