Chapter 15 #2
“Got it.” Paul made another note, then glanced up with an amiable smile. “You know, you two have been absolutely killing it this year. MediCorp, now Henderson Technologies. Carter must be thrilled.”
“We’ve been fortunate,” Mason said carefully.
“More than fortunate. You make a good team.” Paul’s gaze moved between us for just a beat too long before he checked his watch. “Well, I should finish these rounds. Got about twenty more people to track down.”
He walked away, and Mason and I stood there in silence.
“That was fine,” I mumbled. “Normal.”
“Yeah.” But Mason’s hand was clenched around his coffee cup, his knuckles white.
“Mason—”
“I should get back to work.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “Are you coming to my place tonight?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.” The word came out rough. “I always want you to.”
He left before I could respond, and I stood there watching him go, Lisa’s words echoing in my head.
Eventually, something’s going to give.
* * *
My mother had specifically requested—demanded, really—that I drop off the family Christmas card photo proof “in person, Beau, so we can discuss it properly.” So I came here directly from work, fighting rush hour traffic the entire way.
The Thatcher house looked like something out of a holiday catalog—perfectly manicured hedges wrapped in white lights, a wreath on every window, and enough exterior illumination to guide ships to harbor.
I’d only moved out a few weeks ago, but pulling into the circular drive felt strange now, like visiting a place I used to live instead of somewhere that was once home.
I grabbed the envelope with the photo proofs and headed to the door.
Gracie answered before I could knock, her ancient face creasing into something that might have been a smile.
“Mr. Beau.” She stepped aside to let me in. “Your mother’s in the living room.”
“How bad is it today?”
Her left eyebrow twitched—Gracie-speak for You’re about to find out.
I followed the sound of my mother’s voice—crisp, commanding, the tone she used when the world wasn’t meeting her exacting standards.
The living room looked like a Christmas war zone.
Two men in work uniforms were carefully removing a twelve-foot noble fir from its stand while a third swept up fallen needles.
Another tree, identically sized and decorated, waited by the window.
And in the middle of it all, my mother sat in her favorite armchair like a blonde icicle in festive red and green, one hand extended while a woman in all black carefully painted her nails a festive red.
“Beau.” She didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“Traffic was—”
“Excuses are for people without discipline.” She examined the manicurist’s work with a critical eye. “The photo proofs?”
I handed her the envelope.
“Carla, give me a moment.” Mom waved the manicurist away, then she opened the envelope, her lips pursing as she flipped through the options. “These are all terrible. Why is your father smiling like that? He looks deranged.”
“He’s smiling because it’s a Christmas card.”
“It’s forced. Unnatural.” She set the proofs aside with a dismissive flick. “We’ll have to reshoot. Gracie, make a note. Call the photographer.” Mom stuck her hand out for the manicurist.
Gracie, standing silently by the door, gave the smallest nod. Her face remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the microscopic eye roll that said This is the third reshoot.
“Marcus, no—” My mother’s attention snapped to the tree workers. “The tree goes by the window, not in front of it. And for God’s sake, make sure it’s straight this time. Use the level I provided.”
“Yes, Mrs. Thatcher.”
I stood there awkwardly, wondering if I’d been dismissed or if there was more suffering to endure, when my mother’s gaze landed on me. Really looked at me for the first time since I’d arrived.
“You look different,” she said.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Less...” She waved at me vaguely, careful not to disturb the drying polish. “Sulky. Today you almost look like a functional human being.”
Behind her, Gracie’s eyebrows shot up fractionally.
“Thanks, I think?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Beau. It’s unbecoming.” She turned her attention back to her nails. “How is the apartment?”
“It’s good. Still unpacking.”
“I’m sure it’s very bohemian. Your father nearly had a stroke when you told him the neighborhood.”
“It’s close to the office.”
“Yes, well, convenience and property value are not the same thing.” She paused, tilting her head like an elegant bird examining something curious. “Are you eating properly? You look healthier. Less wan.”
“I eat fine, Mom.”
“Hmm.” She studied me with the intensity usually reserved for inspecting produce. “Something’s different. Your father won’t notice—he barely notices when I change my hair—but I can tell. You’re...” She searched for the word. “Lighter somehow.”
Gracie made a sound that could have been a cough or could have been the verbal equivalent of Oh, here we go. Her face remained perfectly neutral, but her eyes said she knew exactly what was different.
“I’m just... settling into work. The new cases are going well.”
“Ah yes, New Orleans. Your father mentioned something about that.” My mother examined her left hand, flexing her fingers. “You’re working with someone, aren’t you? A partner on the cases?”
“A colleague, yeah. Mason Price.”
“Price.” She rolled the name around like she was tasting wine. “Do we know any Prices?”
“You met Mason when he helped me move.”
“Well, working well with others is important. Partnership track and all that.” She waved her unpolished hand. “Though I hope you’re not depending on anyone else for your success. Relying on other people is how careers stall.”
“We’re a team. That’s how law firms work.”
“Mm. If you say so.” She finally looked directly at me, and for just a second, something almost warm flickered in her expression. “You seem happier, Beau. I’m not sure what’s changed, but whatever it is, it suits you.”
It was probably the closest thing to maternal affection I’d get from Catherine Thatcher, and honestly, it was more than I’d expected.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t let it distract you from your goals. Happiness is lovely, but partnership is permanent.” She turned to the manicurist. “The pinky is uneven. Fix it, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Gracie, show Beau out. And remind me to call the photographer tomorrow. These proofs are unacceptable.”
I followed Gracie to the foyer, where she handed me my coat with the slow deliberation of someone who’d been doing this for decades. As I shrugged it on, she leaned in close, her ancient face softening just slightly.
“You’ve got that look,” she whispered.
“What look?”
“The same look your father had when he first met your mother—like someone hit you in the head with a brick and you’re still trying to figure out which way is up.” Her eyes twinkled. “That boy who helped you move. Him, right?”
My face went hot. “Gracie—”
“Mr. Beau. I know that look.” She patted my arm with surprising gentleness. “Whatever it is, whoever he is, hold on to it.”
“How do you—”
“I pay attention.” She straightened my collar with a firm tug.
“Your mama noticed too, even if she won’t say it out loud.
That’s not her way. But she sees things.
” Gracie’s expression turned serious. “Just be careful. People like her, they notice everything. They just choose what they want to acknowledge.”
The words settled over me uncomfortably as I headed to my car.
People notice everything.
I sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the house that had never quite felt like home, and pulled out my phone. Mason had texted fifteen minutes ago.
Dinner? Risotto? I’ll cook.
I typed back-
I’ll bring wine. Can’t wait to see you.
His response came immediately.
Same. Drive safe.
Three simple words that made everything—my mother’s coldness, her too-perceptive observations, the constant hiding—feel worth it. Then I thought about the other three words I was hung up on, and my pulse ticked up.
Would I really be able to work up the courage to tell Mason how I felt about him?