Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94513 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I’d been prepared for this. Reaching into the front pocket of my jeans, I pulled out the tissue pack I’d stuck in there and handed Mom one. She took it, giving me a grateful smile, and dabbed at her eyes.
“Always the provider,” she said.
I felt Halo’s gaze on me, and I almost smiled. Almost. I knew what she was thinking, and that label was not one she’d put on me. I doubted there was a positive word she would connect with me.
“I have tea and some scones set up in the sunroom,” she told Halo. “Several caffeine-free options for you. I can have croissants brought in as well. Just tell me your preference.”
The wide-eyed look on Halo’s face should have given Mom the hint that the girl had no idea. She wouldn’t know what the fuck a scone was. I’d told them she came from a lower-income household, but Mom had never known anything other than the one-percenter life. I doubted she understood what that meant exactly.
“Scones are hard-ass biscuit-cookie things,” I told Halo. “I’d ask for the croissants.”
She blinked those long lashes of hers as she stared up at me.
My mother laughed. “They are no such thing, but I will have the croissants sent in too. Are you joining us, son?”
I knew she didn’t want me here. She wanted to pepper Halo with her probing questions. And I sure as fuck didn’t want to sit and listen to her talk.
“No, I’m going to the stables.”
Mom nodded her head, but didn’t look at me. Her full attention was on Halo.
I hadn’t expected her reaction to this news last night. I’d thought she and my father would be upset. Mom had lit up with the first real stirring of life in her eyes since losing Crosby, and that fact alone was why Dad was letting her have this.
Linc and I had been prepared to defend the decision to keep Halo at my house and under family protection at least while she was pregnant, then help set her up in a nice, safe place to live when the baby came. That had not been necessary. The only wailing last night had been from Saylor. Thankfully, her father had taken her and left. Gathe had gone to get her when Oz called to tell him.
I listened to my mother prattle on about the different tea options as I walked away. At least the girl was good for something. Making my mom happy. She owed her that after being the cause of her son’s death.
Fifteen
Halo
Peppermint tea was delicious, and Bane had been wrong about the scones. The blueberry one was my favorite. Especially with the creamy butter stuff on them. I was finally starting to relax some.
Grissele Cash would be as intimidating as her older son if she wasn’t so nice. Not only was she the image of elegance, but she held herself so regally that I felt frumpy in her presence. Her obvious joy about my pregnancy was the first response to my unborn child that was positive.
“Tell me about your parents,” she said in a gentle tone, as if she already knew something.
I was sure Bane had clued them in already. She had asked me how I’d met Crosby and listened avidly while I replayed the story that I had told Than this morning.
“Um, my parents … well …” I didn’t want to disappoint this woman. The idea that my baby would have a grandparent who loved it so much made my heart swell. “My mom died when I was three months old. My dad remarried shortly after, needing help with an infant, and my stepmother raised me.” That, hopefully, was enough.
Her expression seemed pained. “And your stepmother moved out, Bane said, and then your father left too?”
I nodded, twisting the linen napkin in my lap. Was she going to also make the assumption I’d done something terribly wrong to make my family desert me? If I had another reason, I would explain it, but I didn’t. They simply did not care, and I had done all I could to make them care my entire life.
I decided I had one truth that wasn’t anything I wanted to share with someone, but perhaps it would ease her mind, discovering that the mother of her son’s child wasn’t full of awful, hidden traits.
“My mom had postpartum. It was bad, and she, uh … well, she ended her life.” I looked down at my tea and reached for the handle, although I wasn’t going to take a drink, unable to make eye contact as I said this aloud for the first time since hearing it myself. “My dad blames me. I look like her, and he hates me for it. Seeing me is painful for him.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed, and then her hand reached across the table and covered mine. “That’s a horrible thing to put on a child. Postpartum isn’t anyone’s fault. But if it were, then it would have been your father’s for not seeing it and getting her the help she needed.”