Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Wade
I set my fork and knife on my plate and carry them into the kitchen.
The last rays of sun pour through the window over the sink—the one that looks over the field that stretches more than two acres to the east. It’s filled with grasses and trees with leaves that hint of the color eruption that’s not too far away.
My doorbell buzzes. I look across the island and into the family room. A small box appears in the corner of the television screen that hangs over the fireplace. It shows my mother entering the security code and opening the door.
“Wade? Are you home?” she calls out.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Her heels patter against the hardwood floors. I take out an extra wineglass and carry it to the table.
Siggy Mason is a force to be reckoned with. She’s fascinated me since I was a little boy. The way she tailored her parenting style to each of her five children yet remained neutral and fair was impressive.
“What a day, what a day,” she says, plopping her oversized bag in an empty chair at the table. She nods when I hold up the bottle of wine. “I hope your day was more productive than mine.”
“Actually, it was not.” I hand the glass to her. “And you can blame your children for that.”
She furrows her brow. “Boone?”
I snort as she sips her wine. Once she’s finished, she sighs.
“I had a class with your father this morning,” she says, sitting at the table. “Then a last-second meeting with a retail chain that’s interested in carrying my jewelry in their stores.”
“Full-time?”
“That’s what it sounds like.” She beams. “I never count my chickens before they hatch, but these eggs are starting to crack open.”
“Interesting analogy.”
Mom laughs. “Something smells good in here. Have you eaten?”
“I just threw some chicken and potatoes in the oven. There’s some left. Want me to make you a plate?”
She relaxes back in the chair and swirls her wine around in her glass. Seconds tick by, and she doesn’t speak. Instead, she watches me with a knowing and growing grin.
“I’m going to take that as a no,” I say and sit down in my chair across from her. Since she’s acting weird, I pour myself a little more wine.
“Coy called me today,” she says out of nowhere. “He said the doctor told Bellamy that the baby will be here any day now.”
I don’t know what my face does, but Mom laughs.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s a boy, you know. It’s not going to be another Rosie to chase you around.”
“God took pity on me.”
Mom sips her wine, eyeing me over the rim in a way that makes me anxious.
“Did you come here for a reason?” I ask.
“Do I need a reason to visit my son?”
“No, but you have four others to choose from. I try to make myself as unpleasant as possible, so I never get chosen.”
She sets her wine down and laughs. “Wade, you are not unpleasant.”
“Then something is getting lost in translation.”
Though I fight it, we exchange a grin. She knows I don’t mind her visits.
She gives me a few moments of space without peppering me with questions or tossing whatever has sparked her arrival on my lap. It’s appreciated.
My mind is still busy sorting through the work I left unfinished on my desk, a design issue on the Greyshell project that’s challenging me, and Dara Alden.
I shift in my seat.
That woman was so damn irritating—and I’m not sold on why.
Sure, her bubbliness was a little much. The fact that she remembered our ridiculous speech was also suspect, and her penchant for pushing my buttons—shoving back when I pressed forward—was aggravating. But it doesn’t add up. None of those qualities are things that I haven’t experienced before her.
To top it off, she left things unresolved. Are we working together? Does she want to? What kind of structure does she want designed if we go through with this?
Do I want to go through with this?
I don’t fucking know. And I don’t fucking know when I’ll know how this is going to wind up.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks. “Your face is getting a little red.”
“I’m fine.”
She grins. “We’ll blame it on the wine.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
Her hand stretches across the back of the chair next to her. A gold bracelet catches the light and sparkles.
“So, how’s Dad?” I ask, relieved to have found a new conversational topic.
“He’s doing well. Addictions are a process, and my therapist told me that this is something we’ll always have to contend with. But as long as he acknowledges his issues and continues his treatment and makes the right choices …”
The levity from earlier disappears from her face. In an instant, she looks more her age. She’s still beautiful and regal but weary. And that worries me.
I clear my throat. “Mom …”
She shushes me. “I don’t want to talk about me, Wade.”
“Well, I do.” I force a swallow down my throat.
I don’t know if it’s the wine giving me a set of balls to challenge my mother or what, but here we are.
“I appreciate your loyalty to Dad and the way you just raise your chin and get shit done, the way you take care of us all, but are you taking care of yourself?”
“Of course I am.”
“Are you?”
Her lips part as if she’s going to say something, but she closes them just as quickly. I don’t give her any room to wiggle out of the conversation. I just watch her—pin her to her chair—because at some point, she’ll finally give in.
She grips her wineglass with both hands as her shoulders fall forward. “I’m tired, Wade.”
“As you should be.”
“I keep telling myself that this season of my life will require more from me than some of the others. Like when you boys were small.” A faint smile touches her lips.
“Holt was fourteen, Oliver nearly twelve. You were ten, Coy eight, and Boone just in kindergarten. When I tell you how exhausting that was, it doesn’t begin to cover it. ”
I grin. “Should’ve stopped with Coy.”
As intended, this makes Mom laugh.
I sit back in my seat, my wineglass in my hand, and watch my mother.
“You know,” I tell her, “I can understand some of that. I don’t know what it’s like to have kids, obviously, but I can reflect on different parts of my life and recall that what kept me going was simply the idea of getting through it. ”
A chill runs down the center of my spine. I fight against the memories clawing their way to the surface.
Not here. Not now.
“That being said,” I say, settling in my seat, “I don’t know if that was the best way to handle those situations.”
Mom cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
I’m not about to discuss my life with her. This isn’t about me anyway—it’s about her and my father.
I’ve watched my mother carefully since we found out about Dad’s addiction. She’s remained stoic and has displayed more loyal devotion than I believed the old man might’ve deserved. But what is it doing to her?
“I mean that you’ve been pushing through, getting through it, for so long that maybe you need to stop,” I say.
“Your entire life has been about other things—your children, Dad, your business. And all of that is well and good but have you ever just paused and thought about what benefits Sigourney Mason?”
She smacks her lips together. “I’m a mother, Wade. And a wife and a businesswoman. What I do benefits me because seeing you all happy and healthy and thriving—that makes me happy.”
“But does it, though?” I get up from the table and head into the kitchen. Why is everyone so fucking philosophical this week? “I see your point. And you’re right.” I look over the island at her. “But you didn’t answer the question that I asked you.”
“Sure, I did.”
I shoot her a look as I reach into a cabinet.
“You asked if I thought about what benefits me,” she says. “I gave you that answer.”
“You gave an answer that would’ve sufficed had Boone asked it.”
She sighs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I take out a glass container and then close the cabinet. “You answered the question in the role of mother, wife, CEO. You didn’t give me a first-person answer. What benefits you as a person? As an individual? As your own structure?”
She watches as I place a chicken breast into the bowl. I add some potatoes without looking up to give her space to consider what I’m saying. By the time I snap the blue lid down over the leftovers, she speaks.
“I suppose I’ll have to think about that,” she says quietly.
“I suppose you will.”
She smiles as she gets up from the table. “Out of all of my children, you surprise me the most.”
“I’m surprised every day that I’m related to the rest of them.”
She walks into the kitchen and pats my cheek. “Never tell them that I said this, but you are the most special out of all of them.”
“I’m fairly certain they’re all aware,” I deadpan.
Mom snorts and then chuckles as she walks back to her bag. I follow her with the container in my hand.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Midnight snack.”
She takes the bowl from me. “You are a good man, Wade Edward. You’ll make the greatest husband and father someday.”
I make a face and recoil.
“Wade …” She sighs. “Stop it.”
“We were doing so good.”
She holds the bowl with one hand and grips the back of a chair with the other. I have no idea what’s coming. I just know I won’t like it.
I brace myself.
“Since we officially took a turn, I can bring this up,” she says. “I heard from Holt that you are no longer in the wedding party.”
Oh, hell.
“I understand that an agreement was made between the two of you, and I’m going to respect that,” she says. “I just want you to know that it wouldn’t have hurt you to stand beside your brother on his wedding day.”
“And it’s not going to hurt anyone if I sit and watch him profess his undying devotion to Blaire in front of too many people—just like he does every damn day—in a venue that I’ve seen the price of,” I say, pointing my finger at her.
“It’s not my money, so I don’t give a shit. But it’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
“We aren’t talking about their budget because that’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough. But we are talking about my dignity and standing up there like a monkey in a suit while my brother basically gives up his balls—”
“Wade!”
“What?”
The air moves between us as we watch each other. Finally, she starts to smile, and I see my opening.
“It’s the beauty of having so many brothers.
He won’t miss me,” I say, my voice a bit lower than before.
“I will be there, sitting in a row—probably near the back, and I’ll clap and bow my head.
I’ll welcome Blaire into the family officially because, despite my feelings about this indulgent event, I do like her, and I’m glad Holt is marrying her if he has to get married. ”
“I’m sure that Holt appreciates your approval.”
“And people wonder where I get my dazzling personality.”
She shakes her head and picks up her bag.
“Don’t you have another kid to check on?” I tease. “I bet Boone is dying for you to visit.”
She lifts her chin in faux defiance. “Actually, I’m on my way to see Oliver and Shaye.”
“I bet they’re thrilled.”
Mom punches me in the arm as she walks toward the door. Her ring bites into my skin, but I don’t tell her that.
“Drive carefully,” I say as we approach the entryway.
“Thank you for the snack.” She raises the container I gave her. “And the wine. That was a damn good bottle. What was it?”
“A Spanish red of some sort.” I kiss her cheek. “I’ll give you a bottle the next time you come by.”
She grins. “Are you trying to get me to come visit you more often?”
“I can ship directly to your house.”
Her laughter makes me chuckle.
“I love you, Wade. I appreciate your advice.” She lays a hand on my chest. “There’s a big heart in that chest of yours. I can’t wait until you find it.”
Reaching around her, I open the door. “Time for you to go.”
She laughs before kissing my cheek again. “Be good.”
“Always.”
“Good night, my darling.”
“Night, Mother.”
I step onto the porch and wait until she’s in her car and barreling down the driveway. Then I go back inside.
The house smells warm and spicy. Grabbing the remote, I flip on the fireplace before collecting my glass of wine. I carry it into the living room and sit down, forgetting about my dinner.
The peace that I had before my mother arrived must have left with her.
The quietness of the house that I usually enjoy, that I use to recharge my energy, makes me twitchy instead of calm.
Not wanting to be stuck inside my head, thinking about things that I can’t control, I pull my computer onto my lap and open my email.
It’s a move I instantly regret.
To: Wade Mason
From: Curt Bowery
Re: Project
Mr. Mason,
I wanted to reach out to you personally and thank you for taking on a project so dear to my heart. It’s incredibly difficult to trust anyone to work closely with my family, as I’m sure you can attest. It’s an honor and, quite frankly, a relief to know that Dara is in such good hands.
Should you have any questions or concerns, please call me on my personal cell phone. I will anticipate a contract in my office early next week.
Enjoy your weekend.
Best,
Curt Bowery, President and CEO
Fuck.
I pick up my glass and down the rest of the liquid.
“Dara and I didn’t make any agreements,” I say aloud. “What the hell is this?”
I run the possibilities in my head. Either Dara lied to him and told him that we were working together or he assumed it to be a shoo-in.
He’s wrong, regardless.
My fingers strum across the armrest of the chair as I contemplate what to do. Immediately, her laughter echoes through my brain.
“I’m not sure you’re the man who should be handling … my project.”
Her words fire through me. I tense immediately.
“I can handle your project, Little Miss Sunshine,” I say, almost glowering at the email from her grandfather. “But I’m going to make you work for it for a change.”
I poise my fingers on the keyboard and let them fly.
To: Curt Bowery
From: Wade Mason
Re: Project
Mr. Bowery,
Thank you for considering Mason Architecture. After yesterday’s intake appointment with your granddaughter, it has yet to be determined if we will, in fact, be working together. Regardless, I do appreciate your faith in my work, and I look forward to potential collaborations in the future.
Regards,
Wade Mason
I hit send.
“You’re welcome for that gift, Oliver,” I say, pleased with myself for thinking it through and adding that little bit. That should help ease things if he completely loses his cool if I don’t take this job.
Which he will.
If I do.
But will I?
I close the computer and head to the kitchen for another glass of wine.