Chapter 24 #2
The sky above the valley seemed to have been calibrated specifically for Deacon’s mood, as if somewhere in the upper atmosphere, the weather gods had been keeping close tabs on the emotional state of a single human.
It was gloomy and ominous. Ten o’clock in the morning, there was a was a gray, black dome threatening to split open at any second.
Dark clouds pressed in from the mountaintop to tree line and pooled into the canyons covering the ten thousand acres in murky shadow.
Lockhart Ranch was a luxury dude ranch and vineyard that Selma Lockhart ran with her husband and four adult sons.
She had four sons. None of them lived at home any longer and her husband went out of town the third Thursday of the month, he flew to Seattle for a standing board meeting, which was why Deacon had chosen today to fly up.
Which meant Selma Lockhart was there, alone except for the ranch staff.
And her fifth son, her first son, apparently.
Deacon had hired a private investigator last week, which is how he had all his intel, but hadn’t looked at the photos the P.I.
had sent. He had not once internet-stalked the ranch, so this was the first he was seeing it.
He told himself it was about protecting their privacy, but the truth was, if he saw her face, it would be real.
He wasn’t ready for real. Real would mean everything he’d ever believed about his parents was up for renegotiation.
It would mean that there were versions of his own story that existed out there, parallel, waiting to be discovered.
As they idled at the foot of the quarter-mile drive, he rolled his thumb over the ridges of the steering wheel and forced himself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in. Deacon could not remember the last time he’d been this unsure, this rattled.
Why had he decided that cold calling his birth mother was a good idea? He’d thought then he would know the truth. If she had warning, she could come up with a story, a lie. He was done with lies, all he wanted was truth.
He didn’t know if he’d find her at the main house or in the admin offices, but he knew she was there.
His P.I. had eyes on her that morning. He knew the ranch spanned thousands of acres, with guest quarters, spa facilities, a gym, a theater, and more, but he could barely make out the shape of a house and a barn.
With nerves rioting, he pressed the accelerator and drove beneath the gate at the entrance of the ranch, the arched metal sign above read Lockhart Ranch with an emblem of a lock and flaming sacred heart.
His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly he could see the whites of his knuckles.
He eased the SUV up the drive, each revolution of the tires scraping away at his resolve.
The landscaping was aggressively curated, nothing as simple as a daisy or a dandelion.
Instead, the drive was lined with violently trimmed topiary.
The main house came into view, a massive stone farmhouse estate with a wraparound porch and a copper roof that gleamed even in the flat light.
The barn loomed farther back, hand-crafted to look like it had stood there for a hundred years, but the sensors and cameras along the roofline gave away its actual vintage.
Deacon parked where the drive widened in front of the house, directly beneath the impressive, hand-carved doors. Time compressed, then snapped forward again. Everything went black for a few seconds. He blinked, and his sight was back.
Jenna’s hand shot to his leg, just above the knee.
He flinched in surprise, then realized it was the only thing keeping his leg from physically vibrating off the seat.
She squeezed, and instead of giving him another out, like she had at the gate, which truth be told, he probably would have taken, she encouraged him by saying, “You’ve got this. ”
He nodded, and they got out and walked up steps that felt like walking a plank.
As they made it to the porch, there was a crack of thunder, which caused Jenna to jump beside him, then look up at him and laugh.
Seeing her smile and hearing her laugh did something to him.
It soothed him, calmed him, it broke the tension.
It wrapped around him like the hug she’d given him at the hospital and gave him the strength to face whatever was to come.
After taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand to knock. But before he could the door opened and a woman stood before him, looking scared, shocked and stunned.
She was tiny, barely five feet, and looked oddly familiar to him.
Her frame was petite, hair dark, olive skin, and light eyes.
She reminded him of someone. At first, he thought it was because she bore a striking resemblance to the actress Ana de Armas, in fact it could be her in five or ten years.
But then he realized she eerily resembled of Michael’s wife, Teresa, and Poppy’s mom, Kerri. His father definitely had a type.
He knew, without her saying a word, this was Selma Montez, his mother.
When Deacon realized he was just standing there staring mutely as he tried to reconcile reality, he finally spoke, “Hi, I’m—”
“Deacon.” Her lip quivered and two tears ran down her face. “You finally came.”
She stared up at him, still looking at him in disbelief, and then a dog barked and she blinked.
“Come in, come in!” Selma said, stepping aside with a practiced hostess’s efficiency, welcoming them into a large foyer where a pack of very well-behaved dogs waited.
Four of them, two German Shepherds and two yellow Labs, sat with tails thumping against the stone entry, excitedly ready to meet new guests.
“Finally?” he asked, catching up to what she’d originally said as she ushered them inside.
“Hi.” Deacon and Jenna both bent down and said hello to the dogs. “Hello.”
Selma pointed to each in turn. “That’s Ranger, Rex, Lady, and Duchess.”
“Oh my goodness, what gorgeous angels!” Jenna said, basking in the puppy party.
Deacon straightened and turned to Selma. “So… you know who I am.”
“What?” Selma’s brow furrowed. “Of…of course I do. The letters…”
“What letters?” Deacon was confused.
Selma’s face went blank, then the color drained. “Just…wait right here.” She turned and walked down a hallway. Deacon watched, and halfway down she touched the wall, bracing herself, as if her knees were about to buckle.
Jenna straightened and whispered, “Do you know what letters she’s talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, touching his forearm.
He nodded. “She looks like Poppy’s mom and Michael’s wife.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she agreed.
“Have you met them?” he asked.
“I did, at Frankie’s wedding.”
“Oh right.” He kept forgetting how long she’d lived in town and that she knew so many people.
He stared at the hallway until Selma returned with a stack of envelopes wrapped in string and handed them to Deacon. “These letters.”
His hands shook as he looked down and flipped through them, seeing there were cards and letters written to him, addressed to his childhood home: Deacon St. Claire from Selma Montez, then Selma Montez-Lockhart, then Selma Lockhart.
Every single one was marked “Return to Sender” in a cold, impersonal rubber stamp.
There were also several letters addressed from him to her, which was impossible, because Deacon knew that he had never, not once, written a letter to his birth mother that he found out about a week ago.
What the fuck?!
He walked over and set the stack down on the console table, untied the twine with fingers that shook more than they should, and grabbed the first letter supposedly sent by “him.” It was dated a month before his eighteenth birthday.
He was already at MIT. He didn’t even live at his parent’s home address.
The handwriting was unfamiliar, a tight, almost angry cursive he didn’t recognize.
The signature, though, hit him like a slap.
Selma,
Having you contact me has been a disruption to my life. I do not know you. You made your choice and gave me up. I am not your son, I have parents. You have your own sons. Please focus on them and forget about me.
I have not had any rights of my own until now because of the agreement you had with my parents. I am terminating that agreement. If you contact me again, I will take legal action.
Deacon St. Claire
He read the closing line three times, then a fourth, heat rising up the back of his neck.
He’d never seen this letter before, but the signature was unmistakable.
He’d watched his father sign hundreds of checks, contracts, and holiday cards with exactly that angular, self-important flourish.
He couldn’t disguise how he signed his own last name no matter how much he’d tried to.
It wasn’t just a forgery, it was a deliberate effort to mimic Deacon’s signature, but a piss-poor effort. His stomach pitched.
Deacon looked up at Selma. She was clutching a tissue, eyes rimmed red, but she didn’t seem surprised. Jenna was watching him too, her gaze soft with concern.
“I didn’t write this,” he said to Selma, his voice low. He handed the letter to Jenna, who took it as if it might combust. “I’ve never even seen these before. I didn’t know you existed until a week ago.”
She exhaled, releasing a breath that she looked like she’d been holding for…he didn’t know how many years.
His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, and the screen flashed with a Facetime call from Tabby. “Sorry I have to…’
Selma smiled as she nodded and dabbed the tears falling down her cheeks. “Of course, yes, go ahead.”
He answered, “Hey, Ladybug.”
“Daddy, my arm itches.”
“I know, because you—"
“Because I stood on the island, and it’s the, costakisses.”
He grinned. “I was going to say because your arm is in a cast. Did you tell Auntie Poppy?”
“Yes, she did.” Poppy popped her head in the screen. “But she wanted to tell Daddy.”
“Got it.” Deacon nodded as the camera turned back to Tabby.
He hated that he’d left her, but he hadn’t wanted to leave it another month, and he’d wanted the reunion to be as private as possible.
“Remember you can put peas on the outside or use your hair dryer if you press the blue bear.” Blowing cold air helped with the itching and so did a cold compress on the outside.
“Okay, Daddy. Love you.”
“Love you, Ladybug.” As he hung up, Jenna was introducing herself to Selma and explaining how Tabby broke her arm.
Deacon felt like an asshole, he hadn’t introduced them. He stepped forward. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even—”
“No, it’s my fault, I’m being a terrible host. It’s just not every day your son shows up on your porch. Please come in and sit down. Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“I’m fine.” Jenna smiled.
“Me too.”
Deacon and Jenna both followed Selma into a large great room.
There were photos of her and her family, her sons, dogs, animals, more people, maybe staff, family, friends, he didn’t know everywhere.
Deacon lowered himself down and picked one up of Selma, a man, and four young men, who he assumed were his half-brothers.
They looked similar to him. At least he thought he could see the resemblance.
“Your brothers, that was taken at Thanksgiving this year.” Selma sat in an armchair. “They’ve wanted to meet…all their lives.”
“They know about me?” He set the photo down.
“Of course.” She nodded. “And you have a daughter?”
“Tabby, Tabitha. She’s five.” He looked at the photo. “Do your sons have any…”
“No, not yet.” She shook her head. “The oldest was serious with someone, and I thought maybe, but…no....” Selma took a breath and smiled, staring at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was really there. “I have so many questions.”
Deacon nodded. “So, do I.”
She took a breath. “Ask me anything.”
He knew the question he had to ask, he just wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.