“When are you coming home, Trey? Because—” His brother’s voice abruptly cut off.
“Because what?” Trey prompted, frowning. “Devlin?”
A new voice came through the phone. “You haven’t been answering my calls or responding to texts.” Graham.
At the sound of the man he’d always considered his father, grief stabbed. The wound immediately filled with hot anger, followed by another knife of grief. Trying to get a grip on his emotions, Trey squeezed the device and when he thought he could speak with some calm, he managed an ordinary question. “What are you doing at the boatworks at this time in the morning?”
“I’m not getting much sleep,” he said gruffly, echoing Trey’s own words.
“And you’re in King Harbor?” Astonishing in itself, as midweek his father was invariably mastering the universe from behind his desk in Boston.
“Your grandmother complained of shortness of breath,” he said. “I thought I better check in since your mother wasn’t here to do it.”
“Is Nana okay?” Trey felt a clutch of concern. Though eighty-six, she never seemed to slow down. “Did you take her to the doctor?”
“She’s fine,” Graham said. “And my visit gave her the opportunity to lambaste me over this situation with Claire.”
“I’m glad Nana’s all right.”
In the ensuing silence, he could almost feel his dad’s inner struggle not to ask after Trey’s mother. Finally, the older man broke. “Is Claire…is… How is everything there?”
Trey pulled in a long breath. As much as he’d been reluctant to discuss the matter of his parentage over the phone with his brother, he couldn’t pretend not to know the truth when speaking to Graham. “You should know that Mom and I talked. She told me the whole story.”
A long silence stretched over the phone. “The whole story.” It was as if that single moment of quiet had aged the Blackthorne CEO. The three words sounded strained and hoarse.
“Yes. I know the secret.” Trey steeled his spine. “I know about the insemination.”
“Give me a minute,” the older man said.
Through the phone, Trey heard a door close and he imagined Graham had separated himself from Devlin.
Then the older man cleared his throat and spoke again. “You say you know about the insemination.” A neutral tone. Cautious.
Did he imagine Trey’s mother hadn’t shared that a stranger had contributed half of Trey’s DNA? Could he think that she’d kept silent about that particular piece in order to preserve her husband’s pride?
There was no doubt that Graham Blackthorne had a surfeit of the stuff.
“I know about the insemination, and that it wasn’t your sperm,” Trey confirmed. “And that I’m not actually—”
“We went to the very best clinic available,” the older man interrupted. “I want you to know it was very well thought of, and still is, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sure—”
“They were experts, the very best. The very best of everything. I didn’t want anything less for your mother and…and for you.”
Yeah, a Blackthorne wouldn’t settle when it came to creating someone he’d call “Son.”
“We paid for exclusivity, you know,” Graham continued. “Anonymity was a given, but after, um, the procedure they didn’t ever again use that…that product.”
Product.
Leave it to the man to make it sound—make Trey sound—like a manufactured good. “Sure, yeah,” he murmured. “One time, then they broke the mold. Half the mold, anyway.”
“Right,” Graham replied, ignoring any acerbity he might have detected in Trey’s voice. “And did your mother tell you the clinic sends us annual health updates? We’d get news immediately if anything of concern popped up, of course.”
Trey pushed two fingers against the ache beginning to pulse in the middle of his forehead. “Good to know.”
“There was a full health screening at the time of donation too. Even a color vision test.”
“Great. Even a color vision test.” All the facts, Trey thought, none of the feelings. It stood to reason that Graham had gone into the process disappointed he couldn’t father his own child and then come out—what? Sure he’d been grinning in the delivery room according to the family photos, but how about as the years rolled on, when he had other, true sons?
Three of them.
Each one a Blackthorne through-and-through. By blood.
The older man cleared his throat. “Trey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not good at expressing, at explaining…” After a long moment, he sighed. “The clinic told us that keeping the details private between your mom and I was best. It seemed so to me at the time.”
“And later? Mom said she’s wanted to tell me for years and that you would never agree.”
“I thought secrecy protected us all.”
Anger rose from Trey’s belly, and he tried holding it in his chest, and then tried containing it in his throat, but finally he lost the battle. “Protected you, you mean. Protected you from the world finding out that successful and powerful Graham Blackthorne couldn’t father a child.”
“That’s not exactly right. Not entirely. Don’t you see—”
“I see that not only were you ashamed of your infertility…” The back of Trey’s neck burned and all his muscles had tensed to the point of pain. “But you were also ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed? No—”
“You didn’t want people finding out that the result of some procedure, that the creation of some donor product had been given the keys to your kingdom—someone not truly your son.”
“Trey.” It was nearly a whisper.
“The Blackthorne pride couldn’t take that.” Trey’s tongue clacked against the top of his dry mouth and his head pounded even harder. He thought of all the years he’d tried to prove to Graham and the whole world that he could handle the company. That he could be trusted to carry on everything the family stood for. “Your pride couldn’t take that.”
A tense silence descended. “Trey.” The older man’s voice sounded hoarse. “Trey, no. Let me…I can’t say…” The words tapered off.
More silence. Trey squeezed shut his eyes. “Then don’t bother trying,” he told the older man, suddenly so tired. So damn tired. “I’ve got to go.” Fresh air was suddenly imperative.
“When are you coming home?” Graham asked quickly.
Home. The leaves would be brilliant in Maine, orange and gold, rusty red. Crisp Boston mornings would be perfect for an early run followed by a hot shower and then a take-out bag of coffee and an everything bagel with cream cheese from Marini’s, the gourmet market around the corner from his condo.
But could he return to that now?
He’d traveled to Paris with the idea of restoring his mother to the bosom of her family.
The family that Trey didn’t feel he had the same place in any longer. If any place whatsoever.
On a long breath, he tried crystallizing his jumbled thoughts and tangled feelings, only to give up, feeling more hellishly lost than before. “I don’t know,” he said to Graham. “I don’t know that I’ll be coming back at all.”
Mia pushed open the apartment’s heavy entry door and took in the Paris street in the autumn afternoon sunlight, the air seeming to sparkle like champagne. She took the long fringed cotton length of fabric she held in one hand and began winding it around her neck.
“Nice scarf.”
She jumped, then glanced over to see Trey leaning against the side of the building, his head against the stone, his legs crossed at the ankles. Hands in pockets. A posture that should have spelled relaxed, but didn’t.
Walking toward him, she tilted her head. “What did you say?”
“I like the scarf.”
Fingering the material splashed with ochre, russet, and the occasional eggplant color, she smiled at him. “Your mother gave it to me.” She knotted it at her throat.
He
straightened up and turned to her. “It makes you look like a tree nymph or a woodland fairy.”
“Really?” She had to smile. “You’re always comparing me to otherworldly things.”
“Yes.”
Puzzled by the single-word answer, she came closer, studying him. Signs of strain and weariness showed around his eyes and mouth. Her heart twisted and it took everything she had not to reach out and touch him—cup his cheek in her palm or tangle their fingers together. Better yet, press her mouth to his.
Expose herself and her new, unwelcome feelings for him.
Not going to happen, she thought, because that way could lead to pain and bitterness.
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans, but couldn’t stop herself from questioning him, the tone of her voice soft. “Trey, are you all right?”
“I don’t know what I am.”
Again the enigmatic answer. She couldn’t think what to do or say next and it was he who continued the conversation.
“How did your sketching go yesterday?”
The Louvre, her excuse to avoid him. Though she had spent the day there in fact, and filled page after page of her pad, while other times she’d merely sat and breathed in the surrounding treasures. “I…it was amazing. Wonderful.” In her head, Nic had oohed and ahhed, even though the museum had not been on her list.
“But you’re without your sketchpad today,” Trey observed.
She nodded. “I’m off to pick up some souvenirs.”
On the verge of leaving him there, she cast him another searching look. He really did seem…almost lost. I don’t know what I am.
“You’re welcome to come along,” she offered, her emotions—her love for him—taking over. So much for safety for herself, not when it didn’t seem as if he should be alone right now. “I’d, um, enjoy the company.”
He agreed, causing her insides to warm and another need to touch the man surge. Digging her hands deeper in her pockets, she set off at a stroll, taking in the now-familiar neighborhood and the sights of Paris she’d never forget, from the tiny shop of the flower seller to the crêperie emitting smells that had tempted Trey many times before. Her sidelong look told her he didn’t even notice.
Hmm.
Her own feet slowed outside the wrought iron fence surrounding the schoolyard attached to a local corner church. Boys and girls in gray skirts or slacks, white shirts, and black sweaters poured out of a doorway, backpacks worn tortoise-style or slung over single shoulders. Smiling a little, Mia watched them chatter and jostle each other, exuberance at being out for the day showing.
“When do you return to your students?” Trey asked.
She started walking again. “I’m on sabbatical until February.” What she didn’t say was that she’d be working at the Roger Belton Museum in downtown Boston during November, December, and January where she’d be developing day-long lessons using art and reflecting history for grades three through seven, with the museum’s collection as the backbone of the instruction. There had been heavy hints they wanted her to develop and then head up an education department too, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to leave her classroom for good.
They continued toward the Seine and a tourist-heavy part of the city where she’d be certain to find stalls and shops with every kind of kitschy memento available for the would-be Francophile. At the first, he remained outside while she perused the narrow aisles and crowded racks. This particular place was heavy on aprons and dishcloths and she bought one of each for Nic’s mom. Because she’d forgotten to grab a shopping bag of her own on the way out of her apartment, she also bought a simple mesh bag to carry her purchases.
Trey tried to take it from her as she exited.
It caused a little tug-of-war on the sidewalk, which had them both finally glaring at each other. “I don’t know,” she said, as he wrenched it from her in a final show of strength and tucked it under his arm, “that you can be trusted to protect my purchases from the notorious street thieves.”
“Babe,” he said. “No thief in their right mind wants the junk you just paid good money for.”
She frowned, then elbowed him. “Take that back.”
“I’ll take this,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her close to his side. Then he sighed. “Better.”
Better. It was so much so, dangerously so, to have his fingers wrapped around hers and the heat of him all along her body. Move away, she told herself, at least a few inches. But they continued down the sidewalk, joined.
Together.
A man and a woman, lovers, walking the streets of Paris.
Magic.
This time when she entered a store he came along, standing behind her as she looked over the shelves of ashtrays, glassware, and ceramic mugs stamped with colorful renditions of the iconic landmarks of Paris. She held up a shot glass with a line drawing of the Arc de Triomphe on the outside and another with a depiction of the Notre Dame before the fire. “Which one do you like?”
“Blackthorne whisky would refuse to be poured into either,” he declared, emphatic.
“Well la-de-da.” She marched both up to the counter and passed over cash.
“La-de-da?” he repeated as he walked out. Then he burst out laughing. “What do you even mean by la-de-da?”
Her nose tilted into the air. “I think we talked about how snobby you are.”
He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. “I believe the word stuffy was banded about and we both know how I disproved that.”
Eek. Goose bumps broke out as she recalled how he’d addressed that stuffy accusation in that sex boutique and again in bed. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go there,” she said, working on prim.
“Or we should go there again,” Trey countered, slinging his arm around her neck and pulling her close. He kissed her hair, her cheek, the side of her mouth.
Her traitorous heart thumped in approval and her body heated, warming and readying. How could the man do this to her?
Because you’re in love with him.
Whether it was her own inner voice or Nic’s speaking, she didn’t know. But God, she was, she was in love with him and wasn’t it tempting to imagine riding the wave of that. Ride high, and forget about the safe side, or the limo, or whatever a smart woman would do who knew she had a fast-dwindling amount of time with a man.
Up ahead was an old blanket spread on the grass beside the packed sidewalk. Tchotchkes covered the ragged piece of cloth.
As she headed for it, he groaned. “There must be fifty different versions of the Eiffel Tower on there.”
Really, she thought, why were so many men lousy shoppers? Variety gave a person choices. “I grant you it will take some time to decide which ones will be exactly right.”
He groaned again.
She ignored him. “Let’s see, I need one for Nic’s dad and one for me and—”
“They’re all tacky in the extreme, Mia.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to admit that.”
“That’s only because you’re seeing them altogether, in a group.” It was easy to select the “gold” metal one for Victor—Mr. Arsenau—which would look good on the desk in his home office. For her teacher friend, Janice, she chose a tiny one that she could clip to her chain of work keys.
But for herself…
“What do you think?” she asked Trey. “The clear, lighted one that simply turns on or off, or do you like this one that lights in three parts, red, white, and blue, the colors of the French flag?”
Before he could answer the seller hustled forward. “Mees,” he said, rummaging around in the oversized duffel hanging across his chest. “I save thees for a femme spéciale.” With a flourish, he drew out a tower replica about one-foot high, the plastic in purple, orange, and neon green. At the flip of a button, lights circled and flashed throughout it, all to the tune of “Disco Inferno.”
“It’s terrible,” Trey pronounced.
At his appalled expression, Mia decided, of course, she must have it…th
ough she purchased the much smaller clear model as well. As they walked off, she held up the one that most offended him, pretending to admire its garish colors. “Very tasteful in the right space.”
For a moment there was silence before he let out a snort of laughter. She joined in and then they continued on in companionable good humor, browsing and arguing over the uselessness and tackiness of each of her purchases until by tacit agreement they took the steps down to the river level and found a bench beside the Seine.
There, they watched the pedestrians pass and the boats float along, the warmth of the sun and the murmurs of voices in many languages pouring like a balm over them. She knew he felt it too, because he sprawled on the bench, his expression relaxed.
“You look contented,” she said.
He glanced over, his eyebrows rising. “At the moment, I guess I am. This view is hard to beat.”
Her shoulder pressed against his and it felt natural and good and all her danger signals seemed to be off at the moment. “It is hard to beat.”
Trey’s eyes closed. “Why didn’t you come to Europe earlier?” he asked idly. “If Nicolette was so eager to visit?”
Ah. That question. Why hadn’t she and Nic come before her friend’s death had made it impossible? She’d asked herself the same thing a hundred times. “Because…” It was so simple really, bitterly simple. And grievously wrong-headed. The reason why so many opportunities were lost in a person’s life.
“Mia?” He shifted, turning to her, and pushed her hair off her face with one hand, his palm stroking the strands, caressing them all the way to her shoulder blades. “What is it?”
Staring into his face, she felt struck by the…the presence of him, as she’d been that first time she’d seen him on the sidewalk. Model-handsome, real-man muscled, he exuded a confidence and magnetism that maybe came from a life of privilege but more likely was just a part of him. Trey. The man she’d fallen in love with in Paris.
The edge of his thumb traced one of her eyebrows. “Why did you never visit before?”
Her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Because I thought we had all the time in the world,” she admitted. “I thought we could dream and plan for as long as we wanted and it would always be there. That she would always be there.”
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