Page 8 of The Cost of Love

“Why are you painting that?” She says the words like I have killed her firstborn child and used its blood to create the piece she clearly abhors. Not that she would actually care if someone did that, but this is the level of panic that laces her tone.

Blocking the canvas with my body, I hope that looking at only me will stop the thoughts already maligning her mind.

“Do you want tea?” I ignore her question and urge her towards the kitchen, not ready to discuss the reason behind the image.

If, for a second, she thinks I’m painting a picture of someone I am considering a future with, she will destroy it with all the gusto she would love to rain down on the woman herself.

“Of course I want tea,” she says, trying to look at the image once more, before turning her analyzing glare on me.

My hand guides her out of the room and deposits her on one of my island stools. Her dissatisfaction with the state of my place is palpable in the air while I rush to clean myself off. Having hoped that I would be able to keep her away until I was at least unpacked, I prepare to deal with the backlash of her seeing it as is.

“Earl Grey?” I ask, grabbing the kettle.

She stares around the room, as if searching for something, before turning her brown eyes on me.

“Where is your staff?” She throws her hands out, like I will place them in her palms and show her that they exist.

Delilah Whitmore is accustomed to having at least three people at her beck and call at all times. The idea that I would live without the help of others is a foreign concept not easily understandable to her.

“I haven’t had time to hire anyone yet.” I lie, leaving the conversation for another time. If she is here now, there is already so much for us to argue about without adding that to the list.

Seemingly unsatisfied with my answer, she gives me a plain look.

“Well, even more reason for you to find a wife. Clearly, you can’t manage your own household. I mean, look at it.”

So here is the excuse for her arrival. Yet another conversation about the state of my marital status. I disregard the jab, focusing on making the tea to her liking. I learned how she took it young, in an attempt to please her. Just one of the ways I molded myself to try to fit into her life. While she had all the need for a son, she had no want of a child. Not until I was an adult, at least. I am still trying to unbend the parts of myself I folded to fit in her image, tired of the pain it causes me to exist in that unnatural state.

I place the cup in front of her, and she takes a sip. I know better than to offer her food she won’t eat, so instead I slide into the seat next to her.

“Elizabeth Blackmore saw me at church this morning and told me she met my delightful son.”

I try to keep my eyes looking at her as I fight the urge to roll them.

“I told her she must have you mistaken with someone else if that is the word she is using to describe you.” While cruel, I have to admit she can also be funny.

I wait for her to get to the point, my lips pulling up.

“She seems quite taken with you all the same, and I think you should act on that.”

“I’m seeing someone.” I try to shut down the conversation before it gets started. Instead, I open up the door holding all of my mother’s emotions. She looks offended, perplexed, and excited all in one breath. Her brows don’t know whether to bend or rise as her mouth puckers. She combs her fingers through her blonde bob, pushing the hair out of her face.

“Who are they? Alexander, I’d better know their family.”

The “or else” hangs heavy in the air, waiting for me to acknowledge the threat.

There is very little she has left to hold over my head, other than her love, which she never freely gives. Unfortunately for her, I have become accustomed to living without it.

“If it becomes something, I will let you meet her.” For the third time, I have sidestepped her question, answering in the way I see fit.

This doesn’t go without her notice. She pats her hands together in an effort not to wring my neck. Lord only knows what she will do if she learns I have no intention of her ever meeting Chanice. Not unless it is on our wedding day, and my mother’s invitation to that is precarious.

Last thing either one of us needs is for Chanice to be subjected to her critiques, and she would have plenty to say.

“Well, if you are just seeing this person, you can also see Elizabeth.” She takes another sip of her tea.

I raise one eyebrow in mirrored comparison to her own as we stare each other down. The stubbornness I inherited from her has me refusing to look away. Having had years to master it, she holds my gaze with relentless determination. When it’s clear I won’t get out of this entirely, I shift my focus to my hands.

“I’ll go on one date with Elizabeth.” She pats my leg in victory. “If you call your daughter.”