Page 81 of Weston’s Treasure

“What’s that mean?”

“Brace.”

That was all he said as his mom practically skipped down the two steps off the porch and threw her arms around Weston’s shoulders. His hand in mine squeezed before he let go to return the embrace.

“My boy’s home!” she exclaimed.

“Jeez, Ma, you’re acting like you haven’t seen me in a decade.”

“It’s been almost a year, Weston Francis,” she scolded, and I couldn’t stop the giggle from slipping out.

Weston Francis.

It was downright hilarious—my big, bad, former Navy SEAL was getting the full-name reprimand from his mother.

“Now you’re embarrassing me in front of my woman.”

Mrs. Beil pulled back ignoring Weston completely and smiled up at her son.

“You look good. Happy.”

There was no missing the excitement in her tone.

“I am.”

“I’m glad.” Her hand came to his cheek and gently gave it a pat. “So glad.”

“You think maybe I can introduce you to Silver now?”

Mrs. Beil didn’t move. She simply stared up at her son smiling. So much love shone it hurt to see. There was so much adoration pouring from that one look, my insides soured and something ugly started to roil. My mother’s poison churned and slopped in my belly.

That was how a mother looked at her child. That was what parental love felt like. That was what I’d been missing.

I knew it was big, I knew I’d gone without something important growing up, but until that moment standing in Mr. and Mrs. Beil’s front yard, I hadn’t known exactly how huge it was.

Weston’s hand was suddenly on my cheek, something he’d done so many times I’d lost count. A touch I treasured, but until then I didn’t know the depths of its meaning. It was tender, loving, something his mother had done to him probably a million times over his lifetime, now a gift he gave to me.

“Babe?” Warm, sweet, brown eyes bore into mine. “You good?”

I nodded and gave him what I hoped was my biggest, brightest, reassuring smile, even though I wasn’t sure I was good.

“Yeah.”

And just to prove I was all right, even though I really wasn’t because I’d just been punched in the gut with something so profound I could not breathe, I turned to Weston’s mother before he could make the introductions and I took over.

“Hi, Mrs. Beil. I’m Silver. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I extended my hand, she glanced at it, shook her head, and then yanked me forward with jarring force and wrapped her arms around me.

Her hug was almost as good as her son’s. But just almost, because no one’s arms felt better than Weston’s.

Then she pulled back, her hand went to my cheek—exactly like she’d done to her son—exactly like her son had done to me moments before—and she smiled at me. Her look soft, friendly, motherly—not the same but close to what she’d given Weston. Tears pricked my eyes. I thought it was beautiful watching her give that to her son. I was wrong. Now that I had all of it pointed at me, I realized it wasn’t beauty, it was so remarkable there wasn’t a word in the dictionary to describe it.

“Silver,” she breathed my name like she was testing the sound, found she liked it and smiled brighter. “Of course it would be an ardent beauty, a precious treasure, that would bring my boy home.”

I sucked in an audible breath, trying to fill my lungs with oxygen to stop the painful burning.

“And please call me Margie,” she finished as if she just had shaken me to my core.