Page 6 of Effortless

Tom found his mother in her library. A massive, bookshelves from floor to vaulted ceiling, room in the mansion that Abriella hid in more often than not. Family portraits—young and old—covered one far wall. A wall of bay of windows overlooked the estate grounds, showcasing colorful leaves littering the ground.

His mother smiled over at him from her white chaise as he entered the space. She rested her book beside her, and waved him further in.

Old paper, leather, and ink wafted through the air. Vanilla and lavender followed right behind. His mother loved her candles and oils. Teas and sweets.

This was Abriella Trentini Rossi’s space.

Her room.

No one else’s.

Here, Tom knew his mother worried about nothing. She shed no tears. Other worlds sucked her in, and she only came out when called.

Like now.

“Hey, baby,” Abriella said.

Tom bent down to kiss his mother on the top of her dark-haired head. “Hey, Ma.”

“You look … stressed.”

“That obvious?”

His mother smiled a little. “Always, to me.”

“Dad said I need to take a break.”

“I bet he’s right, Tom.”

“I bet we won’t tell him that, will we?”

Abriella’s smile bloomed wider. “Never.”

Her hand patted his cheek with a soft touch, but she said nothing to push him on what was wrong, or how he planned to fix it beyond what he already offered. It was one of the many reasons why he loved his mother.

“Sit for a while,” she told him. “I’ll read to you.”

“What, like when I was a boy?”

“Reading is good for the soul, Tom.”

“Depends on what you’re reading, Ma.”

“A thriller.”

Tom could do that. He grabbed one of the leather chairs, and pulled it closer. Sinking into the seat, his mother started to read. Between the silence of the library, the familiar scents clinging to his every breath, and the comfort of his mother’s presence, he could almost sleep. He was relaxed.

Problem was, as soon as he left the mansion, it would all be gone.

That’s when Tom got it.

He was looking for something like his home. Or he needed something like it. He just didn’t know what in the hell that even was.

Tom unceremoniously dumped a black duffle bag on the foot of his bed as he dialed a familiar number on the phone, and put it to his ear. His two-level house just outside of the city limits wasn’t anything to scoff at, but it didn’t feel like home to him, either. He’d bought it on a whim, as his trust fund afforded him the ability to do so before he had been making decent money himself. He had wanted to be closer to business and family and not right in the heart of Chicago in a cramped apartment.

He hadn’t even bothered to really decorate the place.

In his ear, he heard the call click.