Trey

by Christie Ridgway

  “I heard that.” Trey dropped into his chair and reached for a slice of bacon, biting into it with relish. “Where did you get actual American bacon?”

  “And maple syrup from our beloved Maine,” Claire said, nudging the bottle closer to him. “I’ve been here all summer. I have my sources.”

  “I’ve been here only a few days and I miss bacon more than I can say.” He began piling food onto his plate.

  “Even with crêpes as your new favorite go-to?” Mia asked.

  He looked at her and they shared a moment, both of them remembering the many stops they’d made all over the city for the treats he found irresistible. “That place in the 5th arrondissement,” he murmured. “How aren’t there lines around the block?”

  Claire cleared her throat. “It sounds as if you two have had some adventures,” she said, “at least of the culinary sort.”

  Their gazes broke. Mia took the platter of eggs Trey passed. He applied himself to pouring syrup onto his waffle.

  They ate their meal with little further interruption. When Claire made a move to clear the table, her son put his hand on her arm. “I’ll do it. Stay right where you are, Mom.”

  She pulled in a breath. “I like hearing you say that word, Trey.”

  “I…” He closed his eyes, then sat back in his own chair. “Should we talk?”

  “I’m not running away anymore,” she said. “From anything. No more avoidance. I decided that two days ago.”

  “Mom—”

  “I’m prepared for questions, comments, rants, even more silence. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. But I want you to be assured I’ll always be here to talk. That’s why I lured you out with bacon and maple syrup. To make sure you know that.”

  A long stretch of silence passed. Mia’s heart squeezed as the older woman just looked at her son, her spine straightening. “You have something to say, I can see it. Go ahead, honey, I can take it.”

  Trey ran both hands through his hair and sighed. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours doing some research and some thinking. I can’t pretend I’m okay and that the truth’s irrelevant. But I acknowledge that secrecy was advised during that time and that following what the experts told you wasn’t an unnatural decision.”

  “It was a terrible decision,” Claire murmured. “I see that now.”

  “Now being the operative word.” Trey sighed again. “I’m thirty-four and I’m old enough to know that what we see today as the right way to handle situations such as this, what seems to make the most sense now, wasn’t considered the right way then.”

  Claire blinked at the obvious moisture in her eyes. She reached a hand toward her son. “If I could only communicate how very much we wanted you. Please believe me.”

  He clasped her fingers in his. “I do believe you, Mom. But I still have this…big hole in me, though. I’m not sure what I’ll fill it with. I was Graham Wallace Blackthorne the Third and I’m not anymore.”

  Mia saw the older woman was gamely trying to hold onto her composure. “You’re our Trey,” she whispered. “You’ll always be our Trey.”

  “I’m yours, Mom,” he said, nodding. “I know that.”

  “Okay.” She sucked in a breath. “That’s good. But you have to know I’m so sorry we hurt you this way.”

  He nodded, then let go of her hand to stand. “Speaking of apologies,” he said, the plates clattering as he gathered them up. “I have something to say about last May,” he said. “About the party on your birthday.”

  Claire grimaced. “I shouldn’t have mentioned a secret that night. I was angry at your father and it came tumbling out. It wasn’t the time or place or even the real reason I was angry.”

  Trey nodded again. “You were angry because we turned your celebratory evening into an opportunity to work. We invited the McKinneys and their presence and talk of the buy-out had no business in that place. I’m sorry for my part in that.”

  She made another face. “But I shouldn’t have stomped out like a thirteen-year-old running away from home. Not my most dignified moment. Though I felt like I’d been on hold forever, anticipating when all the deals would be finally done and Graham would hand over the reins of Blackthorne so I could have my time—or, really, our time together. Your father’s and mine. It seemed to get further away rather than closer.”

  Her son set the plates beside the sink then turned to face his mother again. “You’ll have to settle this with him.”

  “I know. We can’t go on like this forever.” She sighed.

  Trey sent her a sympathetic look. “Does that mean you’re going back soon, Mom?”

  “Soon? I’m not sure. I know your father’s unhappy that I’ve been gone this long and that I haven’t been willing to talk to him about us, but I think it’s good for him to know what it is to wait on a spouse.”

  “He’s been surly,” Trey acknowledged. “But still proud and stubborn as ever.”

  His mother nodded, as if accepting that truth. “I’m not surprised. And I’m still going to have to figure out my next step in life. I wanted to follow my passion, but when I was in Ghent I also realized I’m nowhere close to uncovering a latent talent that means I’ll become another Mary Delany or Grandma Moses. As much as I love the idea of being an artist, the truth is, I’m not really much of one.”

  Trey glanced over at Mia. “I’m sure you—”

  “Let’s go into the study,” Claire said, getting to her feet. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you both. It’s why I invited Mia this morning.”

  Reluctantly she followed the mother-son pair out of the kitchen. Already she felt she’d intruded on a private matter. Again. “I don’t feel qualified to pass judgement—”

  “I’m passing judgement,” Claire said. “I’m only looking for support for my position.”

  In the study, she’d laid out and propped up dozens more of her sketches and watercolor paintings. “Take a look,” Claire invited with a gesture. “Tell me what you think.”

  Feeling backed into a corner, Mia tried again. “Claire—”

  “I’m asking you, woman-to-woman, friend-to-friend, what you really think.”

  No wiggling out of it then, Mia decided. Shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans, she ran her gaze over the pieces, taking her time. She’d glimpsed Claire’s art before and her earlier opinion wasn’t changed now. But Mia’s thoughts on the subject were no reason for the older woman to decide against continuing.

  “I know why you’re thinking of giving up,” she finally said. “But I don’t agree. If you find pleasure, enjoyment—”

  “I’ve found no pleasure in failing to get better after all these weeks,” she said, her voice heated with passion. “I despise that I’m unable to come even close to the vision in my head. It’s not enjoyable, it’s frustrating and upsetting.”

  “Okay.” Mia backed off, then had another thought. “Though you have a vision, you say?”

  “I do.” With both hands, she gestured to the scattered pieces of paper. “But none of them are…are that!”

  Her arms dropped to her sides, and the movement drew Mia’s gaze to the colorful embellishment on her sweater sleeves. “That’s your work, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing to the swirls of color and texture created by a variety of stitches and colored thread.

  Claire glanced down. “Work? It’s a mere hobby. I learned from my grandmother on a sampler when I was nine years old. Since then I’ve decorated everything from pillow cases and table runners to Christmas tree skirts and—”

  “Christmas stockings,” Trey put in. “We each have our own personalized stockings—Dev has sailboats on his, Ross race cars—that she made for us when we were kids. They’re not childish though…” He shrugged. “They are…I don’t know, elegant. We treasure them. I heard Isabelle Caine refer to them as heirloom quality.”

  Claire looked to her son, smiling. “Why thanks, honey.”

  “You choose the colors of thread you use as well as the stitches on your pro
jects?” Mia asked.

  “Yes.” The older woman nodded. “But I get the designs from many places...sometimes I even begin with coloring books. They’re not my own.”

  “But you make them your own.” Mia drew closer to study the intricate decoration on Claire’s sweater and ran her finger over one whirl comprised of a tight chain of stitches. “This pursuit has historically been considered a craft, a so-called ‘domestic’ art because it was mainly an activity for women, but that’s changed.”

  Claire glanced down at her sleeves again. “I never thought much about it.”

  Mia continued to examine the beautiful pattern, a testament to the older woman’s patience, talent, and practice. “You know, Claire, women have long expressed themselves in this medium when they didn’t have a voice in other aspects of life.”

  The older woman’s expression turned thoughtful, and she held out her arm, seeming to look at her design with a new eye.

  “Claire.” The woman looked over. “In my not-so-humble opinion,” Mia continued,” you are an artist, the proof being right here, in what you’re wearing. There’s places to take this interest and talent of yours and to expand on it if you so choose. I can give you names and ideas. Off the top of my head, you might want to check out the designs decorating the clothes in the fantasy TV series Game of Thrones.”

  “I watched that.” She smiled a little. “I closed my eyes on the most gruesome parts, but Logan’s a fan and insisted I would like the drama and the characters.”

  “You should study the embroidery on the costumes. I guarantee you’ll consider that art of the highest order.”

  “All right.” The older woman appeared intrigued. “I’ll take a look.”

  “And if you want to better capture your vision on paper or textiles, over time you will improve. There are drawing techniques that can be learned in a classroom or even online. You know that. You don’t have to be in Europe, if that’s too far from home.”

  “Maybe I just wanted a summer in Paris,” Claire said, with a small smile.

  “You deserved that, Mom,” Trey put in, “and anything else your heart desires.”

  Mia glanced over at him, glad for both son and mother they’d seemed to have a found a clear path through this thorny patch and were relaxed in each other’s company.

  “But can I say one thing?” he asked now.

  “Of course,” Claire answered. “I already told you, you can say anything to me.”

  “I think you’re an artist too, Mom. I remember the Halloween costumes you made, the creative way you wrap presents, the blanket forts you set up on rainy days that kept seven growing boys occupied.”

  “You were too old for those forts by the time your cousins came to live with us.”

  “They kept the younger ones out of my room, though,” he said with a grin. “I appreciated that.”

  They both laughed.

  Then Trey sobered. “If you ask me, there’s art in making a family, Mom. And for that, you would win every prize in the world. That talent is beyond price.”

  Claire’s jaw dropped. Then tears sprang to her eyes and she moved into her eldest son’s arms. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Mia thought she might break too. She looked away, unable to look at the pair any longer. There’s art in making a family.

  Something she’d never had, something she’d only borrowed from Nic.

  She’d never known a man who had such an understanding, either. There’s art in making a family.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said now, humor in his voice, “if you get tears all over my shirt can I talk you into doing my laundry?”

  And then it happened.

  The worst thing.

  Mia’s stomach dropped to her toes and her chest tightened or maybe her heart expanded. It didn’t matter because either way nothing was in the right place and there was no room in her body for air. Only dismay.

  I’ve fallen in love with him, she thought, doom lowering over her. She’d fallen in love with Trey Blackthorne.

  It’s about time you admitted the truth, Nic’s voice said in her head. Now I double-dog dare you to do something about it.

  Chapter Ten

  Trey stood to the side in the penthouse study as the two women researched textile arts exhibits in European venues. Mia’s head was bent over her phone. “The Victoria and Albert Museum has collected over 700 samplers dating back to the fourteenth century.”

  His mom leaned close to peer over the younger woman’s shoulder, her eyes alight and her mouth turned up, an expression so familiar he felt transported back in time for a moment, as if he was in the US and his mom was in the throes of enthusiasm for some project or another. But then he glanced out the window, saw Paris, and then looked again at beautiful Mia, who seemed to have almost single-handedly given his mother a renewed confidence and purpose.

  Would his mom abandon her paints for an exclusive with needles and thread? He didn’t know, but he liked the current sense of camaraderie between the two women as they discussed combining embroidery and quilting and where to find vintage fabrics and antique stitching primers. It appeared Claire had rediscovered her old verve and though she’d run away from King Harbor, he could see her now stalking back into the place and making some long-delayed demands.

  Good for Mom. As for him…

  Still feeling untethered.

  Back at the Vault at the end of September, he’d once again take on the role of “family fixer” and traveled to Paris to confront Claire. Well, mission accomplished.

  Sure, so far he hadn’t put her on a plane and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to, but he’d uncovered the secret and worked his way through it with her. This morning’s conversation had been a huge relief for his mom, he could tell—and he was glad of it.

  But it didn’t leave him in a much better place. While he had a clearer understanding of Claire and Graham’s choices and decisions, that didn’t change the fact that his Blackthorne roots had been yanked from the soil of his soul.

  It hurt.

  It saddened him.

  It made him damn lonely and he didn’t like it.

  On impulse, he headed to the guest bedroom while pulling out his phone to call Devlin, the brother closest to him in age. It was only as it started ringing that he realized noon in Paris meant it was an early six a.m. in King Harbor.

  Whoops.

  “Trey.” The clipped note in his brother’s voice communicated worry. “Is something wrong? Is Mom all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Trey said, forking his hand through his hair. “I didn’t think about the time when I called. Were you asleep?”

  His brother let out a gusty sigh. “No. As a matter of fact I had to come in to the boatworks early to see a guy interested in a seventy-foot luxury yacht. He was on his way to Logan Airport to catch an early flight for Dubai.”

  Trey could picture his brother, in ragged jeans and a T-shirt, maybe a button-down thrown over in concession to meeting a potential client. “A brand-new build?”

  “Yeah.” Devlin sounded pleased. “I think he’ll choose us.”

  “I can let you go—”

  “No need. He left ten minutes ago and I decided to stay and catch up on paperwork. What’s up?”

  “Uh…” Another thing Trey hadn’t considered. Neither usually called the other just for the hell of it. They’d text over the poor performances of their favorite sports teams or Devlin would report in about Nana’s latest escapade. She often drank unsuspecting customers under the table at the Vault, though everyone—falsely—suspected the bartenders there watered down her whisky. “Not too much.”

  Where the hell had that come from—not too much? What was up was Trey’s very identity, but he couldn’t bring himself to make the admission and explanation via a phone call. The information would blindside his brother as it had blindsided him.

  “Trey?” Devlin’s voice held that worried note again. “You don’t sound li
ke yourself.”

  How Devlin decided that when Trey had literally said less than three dozen words, he didn’t know, but he remembered his cousin Brock making the same comment. “I’m not getting much sleep.” Truth.

  “I suppose you’re spending your waking hours in the Paris headquarters,” he said. “Does that mean you’ve had no luck with Mom? She’s still not opening up?”

  “No, actually, Mom’s…better. More upbeat. I don’t know if she’s ready to book a return to the States, but I’m hopeful.”

  “Hey, great,” Devlin said. “I actually had a couple of texts from her in the last two days, asking how things are going with Hannah.”

  The woman his brother had fallen for and who had recently relocated to King Harbor. “Mom knew Hannah, right?”

  “As a girl before her parents split. She heartily approves and was glad to hear we’re moving in together.”

  That was news to Trey. Though he was aware Hannah had bought a cottage near the Blackthorne estate and was fixing it up. “You’re making a real commitment then.”

  “As real as it gets,” Devlin said, then hesitated. “Mom knows and soon everyone else will too—I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  “Congratulations.” After seeing the two together he wasn’t surprised, though Devlin had been keeping it light and easy when it came to romance after experiencing a painful loss a number of years before. “You make her happy now.”

  “I intend to,” Devlin said, “because she makes me that way too. I was damn close to avoiding love altogether by burying myself in work. Bad idea, bro, just sayin’.”

  He was saying he didn’t want Trey to make that mistake. Crossing to the window, he looked out, thinking of the conversation he’d had with Mia at le mur des je t’aime —that falling in love was essential to being human. But now he supposed he never would, because how could he, when only half of him was a known quantity? How could he reveal himself to any woman when he didn’t know who the hell he was?