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She and her caregiver had moved in with him the day before since the renovations on the house were complete. The transition had seemed to go well enough, even though his mom had told him several times that she really needed to get home soon.
“I’m on my way, Mom.” Dropping his pen onto his desk, Gibson strode out of the office and into the kitchen where his mother stood at the door, peering out through a side light. Her blond hair was pinned back from her face, her frosted pink lipstick the same shade he remembered from childhood. She didn’t even look her age, let alone old enough to be suffering from dementia. He swallowed a swell of emotion before he asked, “Is everything okay?”
“Someone’s in the driveway, Joe. Come see.” His mother called him by his father’s name, a slip she’d never made before.
Was she getting worse? What other signs might he have missed?
“It’s Gibson,” he reminded her gently, draping an arm over her shoulders to hug her to his side before he glanced out the leaded glass windowpane. Outside, the tall, familiar figure of his ex-wife made her way up the walk, her dark braid bouncing with her step.
Lark was here.
The emotions that knowledge stirred were too dense and multilayered to name. But first and foremost, he was grateful as hell that she was going to be able to visit with his mom before the illness stole even more of her.
“Who is it?” his mother asked, peering up at him with confusion in her eyes.
A pang filled his chest. He hated the unfairness of this disease with every fiber of his being.
“That’s Lark, Mom,” he explained, rubbing an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been wanting to see her.”
Recognition flooded her expression along with genuine joy.
“Lark’s here.” His mother smiled, every trace of confusion fading as she swatted his chest good-naturedly. “Of course I want to see her, you silly man. Open the door!”
Before Lark could lift her hand to knock, Gibson did as his mother asked, swinging the door wide, bracing himself for the impact of her presence.
He only had a moment to make eye contact with her before her gaze darted to his mother at his side. And then Stephanie Vaughn stepped forward to fold Lark in her arms.
“Hello, my favorite daughter-in-law.” His mother squeezed her tight while, over her shoulder, Lark shot him a questioning glance. “It’s so good to see you.”
It was too late for Gibson to give Lark any warning or explain how much his mom’s condition had progressed, but Lark was a mental health professional. She would surely assess the situation quickly enough for herself.
Even though it might be awkward.
Really awkward, actually, considering his mom thought they were still married.
Twelve
Lark’s reasons for coming to see Gibson all moved to the back burner when she stepped into her former mother-in-law’s warm embrace.
She’d come to tell him the judge had ruled in their favor. To announce that their father’s claim had been denied. And to celebrate that Crooked Elm and all of Antonia Barclay’s estate would be legally distributed between Jessamyn, Fleur and Lark. Their father had already left town, swearing never to return. She’d wanted to thank Gibson for his testimony and support, but her joy in a victory over her father had been overshadowed by her need to tell Gibson about the secret she’d been carrying. The one she feared would sever their connection for good.
Now? With Stephanie Vaughn looping her arm through Lark’s and leading her into the new addition Gibson had built for her, how could she do anything but settle in for a visit?
“This is really beautiful,” Lark remarked sincerely, glancing around at the wide windows overlooking the pool house and backyard, the separate entrance from the driveway in front, and the two first-floor bedrooms to accommodate Gibson’s mother plus the caregiver that he’d mentioned.
The small kitchen had a Scandinavian appeal with its clean, modern lines and spare, blue and white touches, the open floor plan connecting the living area with dark blue couches and lots of greenery.
“Thanks to you and Gibson,” Stephanie told her, waving Lark toward one of the couches. “Let’s sit.”
Confused, Lark lowered herself onto the seat she’d indicated. “Oh, but it’s Gibson who—”
“Lark, can I get you anything to drink?” Gibson interrupted her, something she’d never known him to do.
But then, his whole manner seemed anxious. He hovered close to them, staring hard at her. Meaningfully. Like he wanted to communicate with his eyes.
She had no idea what he was trying to tell her though.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Scooting deeper into the corner of the sofa, she glanced toward his mother, thinking she looked the picture of good health. Not that her appearance necessarily meant she was thriving. Lark understood better than most how mental health challenges could hide behind deceptive facades. “Are you all settled into the house now, Stephanie?”
