Chapter 3
"Will you tell her?"
"No." Dusting her hands off the gardening apron she had donned on entering the greenhouse, Abby sighed. "Mama, please don't look at me like that. I'm doing what's right for my daughter."
"Abigail Janice Black." Arlene Black turned away from her beloved plants, propped her soiled gloved hands on her hips and gave her a look that did not need words, but she decided to use them anyway. "That beautiful child will want to know who her daddy is and he has a right to know."
"He has none." Turning away from the all-knowing gaze, she dug into the pot of soil.
For once she had decided to come home early after attending a ballet class for her daughter.
Zoe was now tucked in front of the television in the main living area, watching her favorite cartoon.
In another hour, it would be time for supper.
Her dad was still at a meeting at the bookstore but would be home soon. He never missed supper. Not if he could help it. "It was just one foolish night."
"That produced something amazing." Arlene turned back to her rose bush.
Squinting her eyes, she attacked a blade of weed and mercilessly plucked it away.
She loved gardening and had won prizes to show for the love and care she put into the ones inside the greenhouse and those blooming in the outdoor gardens.
Her daughter had inherited her green thumbs. So had her granddaughter. "Secrets have a way of making themselves heard."
"He probably will be leaving for another part of the world pretty soon."
Arlene glanced over and felt a smile curving her lips. "You sound hopeful."
Putting down the trowel, she threw her mother a sheepish smile. "I do, don't I? Oh mama, I was so ashamed when I realized what a mess I'd made of myself. I dreaded how disappointed you and dad would be of me."
"And look what came of it." A smile wreathed her lips, mahogany brown eyes twinkling. "Hi there sweet cheeks, why don't you come on in?"
Zoe bounced in, her favorite stuffed elephant tucked under her arm. Her hair, the untamed curls, tumbled around a face that looked like an angel.
Abby felt the familiar tug as she looked at her daughter and the jolt at how much she looked like the man she had spent only one night with.
"I want to plant."
"Of course you do." The ever indulgent grandmother went to fetch Zoe's apron and tiny gloves from the storage area and helped her on with them. "This animal will have to stay out of the dirt."
"He wants to plant too."
"I thought it was a she." Her grandmother shook her head. "Not today. We'll just place him over here out of harm's way. Now come and see what I was doing with these rosebushes. And tell me about ballet and your friend, Melissa."
And just like that, three generations of Blake women bonded over roses and weed killers.
As the afternoon sunlight filtered through the greenhouse glass, Abby felt a quiet comfort in the gentle rhythm of tending plants. The earthy scent mingled with laughter as Zoe described her latest ballet moves, and Arlene shared stories about her prize-winning roses.
For a moment, worries faded, replaced by the warmth of family and the promise that, even with secrets, love would always be the root that held them together.
*****
He had brought home some of the manuscripts with him and realized that the unfamiliar rhythm of settling down to something worthwhile was quite pleasant. Now, he no longer woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because of what happened. He would go in bright and early and come in late.
And much to his mother's displeasure, he often missed supper.
She found him at his desk with a pile of files littering the mahogany surface, his head buried in what looked like a manuscript.
"I sincerely hope I'm interrupting." She had brought a tray with her.
"Mother." Lifting his head, he gave her a charming smile that looked both apologetic and annoyed at the same time. "I thought you were in bed."
"I decided to come up and see what my darling boy is doing that has him barely coming home.
" She swept into the room, carrying a cloud of her signature scent, wine red silk robe billowing.
She had yet to perform her nightly ritual of brushing her luxuriant waist length hair and creaming her delicate skin.
This was much more important, she mused.
"I had Antoine save you some dessert. Your favorite, lemon meringue."
"That hasn't been my favorite since I was thirteen." Reluctantly putting away the manuscript, he rose and joined her at the sofa in front of the rosewood table.
"Nonetheless." She gave him a searching look as she poured wine into two glasses. "Have you eaten?"
"I grabbed something at Luigi's." Taking the glass, he leaned back, stretched his legs out and gave her a mildly annoyed look. "I'm thirty years old. You have to stop thinking about taking care of me."
She fussed with the napkins Antoine had the foresight to include. "A mother never stops caring about her child, not even when he or she is a hundred years old."
"I'm not a project." There was enough bitterness to have her lifting tapered brows.
"I never said you were."
He hesitated, the words hanging between them, fragile as spun glass.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable but rather filled with the weight of understanding that only years could bring.
She settled beside him with a gentle sigh, her presence both a comfort and a gentle reminder of all the things left unspoken.
"I know all of you tiptoe around me as if afraid I will shatter like glass." He pointed out. "I'm fine."
She studied the face that looked so much like hers. "That's because we love you." She gestured towards the desk piled with manuscripts and files. "You're determined to prove yourself. Interesting read?"
He glanced over at the manuscript that had absorbed his attention. "Immensely. I found it hidden in the 'not worthy of attention' pile. It's a period piece. A cross between Bridgerton and The Notebook." He stretched his legs out.
"People adore a well written love story and that is shaping up to be one.
I've contacted a producer friend of mine and he's agreed to take a look and see if it's interesting enough to turn into a screenplay.
" He paused. "The author is a school teacher, an unassuming looking woman, with a dumpy figure and a tidy bun. "
"She's written two more stories. I gave them a cursory look, and they are just as good. She might be changing careers."
His mother stared at him in amazement. "You're really serious about this."
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked mildly. "I acted for a spell and for the time I was in front of the camera, I liked it. But not enough to make it into a career. I spent my life undecided what I really wanted to do, but now, I think I've found my niche."
Determination burned into his eyes. "And I intend to stick to it.
Going through those manuscripts, the day to day grind of the publishing house, has steadied me.
" He met her eyes. "And God knows I needed steadying.
This is working, mother." He reached out to take her hand. "I don't want you to worry about me."
"It's my job as a mother to do just that. It sounds as if you're about to have a project that will take up a lot of your time." She squeezed his hand. "Just don't get too caught up and forget to have fun. For instance, the function on Saturday. You're required to be there."
He grimaced, not sure he was ready to face public scrutiny yet.
"Is there any way I can get out of going?"
Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek fondly. "Not a chance. I already had your tux sent to the dry cleaners. It's formal wear." She finished her wine and rose gracefully. "I love you."
His expression softened. "Don't I know it. Good night, mother."
He watched her leave, the gentle click of her heels fading down the hall before the quiet settled in. The warmth of her presence lingered, wrapping him in a familiar cocoon of love and expectation.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, grateful for her unwavering support despite his occasional resistance to it.
Putting away the half-finished glass of wine, he pushed to his feet and went back to the manuscript.
*****
Abigail sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her daughter.
As usual, the pink elephant was tucked under her arm, her head resting on the long curly trunk.
She had adamantly refused to turn in for the night, making all sorts of excuses and arguing that she was a big four year old and not a baby.
She had also cleverly enlisted her grandfather's help to get her point across.
Her daughter knew she had him twisted around her little finger.
After losing the argument, she had tried to get Abby to read two bedtime stories instead of one, in an effort to stall the sleeping process.
Now she was fast asleep. Abby felt the emotions storming through her as she stared at the beautiful child. Her hair was twisted to avoid knotting, the thick strands spread out over her pale pink pillows. Her long lashes made shadows on her coffee and cream complexion.
She was wearing her Barbie pajamas, the one with the pink and white lace at the front. Stroking a finger over the soft cheek, she stayed there for a minute before rising to go and turn on the night light.
Standing at the door, she gave her little girl one last look before heading through the connecting door to her suite of rooms.
She had some contracts and other documents to look over but was not in the frame of mind for work. The conversation with her mother had stirred her up.
She moved to her desk, but instead of opening her laptop, she paused by the window, gazing out into the moonlit garden. The stillness of the night brought a clarity she hadn't felt in days. She wondered if she was making the right choices for herself, for her daughter.