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As I reach the door, I look back at my husband, who’s eyeing me appreciatively.
“My mother’s a good woman,” I say. “But she’s never had the life she deserves. She’s had to work hard for everything she owns.”
Though I’m not ashamed of my humble background, I can’t bear the thought of Rory looking at my mother’s rundown home, her thrift store clothing and judging her against his own wealthy family.
Rory nods. “I understand, sweetheart. You have nothing to worry about.”
As I turn and head for the shower, I can’t help thinking, “if only that was true.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
Rory
Eleanor fretsfor almost the entire drive from the mansion to her mother’s house. She tells me repeatedly that the house is small, that a lot of the furniture was bought secondhand. She needn’t worry about me looking down on her mother. My own family came from humble beginnings.
When we moved to London at first, my father worked for a minor gangster, running errands and shaking down small business owners for protection money. We lived in a poky apartment over a betting shop. Ciaran, Aidan and I had to share a bedroom, while my parents slept on a pull-out sofa in the living room.
It took years for my father to work his way up through the ranks, but by the time Jacob came along, he’d formed his own organization and the money was pouring in.
I guess that’s what separates me and Aidan from our younger brothers. They were born into privilege while we had to struggle for every morsel of food we ate.
It’s why they prefer to focus on our legitimate income streams, I think. They didn’t receive the same baptism of fire that the rest of us did.
When we get to the street where her mother lives, the tension thrumming through Eleanor’s veins becomes palpable. My Range Rover stands out against the rusted up cars parked outside the terraced houses.
“It’s that one, there.” Eleanor points to number seventy-three.
I pull up at a house with a neat garden at the front. It’s better cared for than the ones on either side. There’s gravel, rather than grass, but there are still plenty of vibrant flowers in pots dotted around the small space.
Hanging baskets frame the front door. I can’t help noticing the doorstep is freshly painted in a bright red color. Eleanor’s mother may not have much, but she takes care of what she’s got.
Turning off the engine, I get out of the car. Eleanor doesn’t wait for me to help her. She gets out of her side and comes to join me on the narrow sidewalk.
“It’s going to be fine,” I assure her, grabbing her hand and entwining my fingers with her.
Eleanor nods. We walk to the front door and she rings the bell. That surprises me. I thought she’d have a key.
A few seconds pass before a woman answers the door. She’s a couple of inches shorter than Eleanor, with graying brown hair. She’s older than I thought she’d be, in her late fifties, perhaps.
Dressed in a long floral skirt and a white top, she wears a simple gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant around her neck.
“Ellie, what are you doing here?” she asks as she throws her arms around her daughter and hugs her.
Ellie? I like that. It’s less formal than Eleanor.
“Just thought we’d pop in and surprise you,” Eleanor says.
Eleanor’s mother turns her attention to me.
“And who is this?”
“Uh, this is Rory Donovan.” She waves a hand between me and her mother, her nervousness permeating the air. “Rory, this is my mom, eh, Anne Finlay.”
“Annie,” her mother says, accepting the hand I offer her and shaking it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Annie.” I offer her my best son-in-law smile, something I’ve had no practice of, and wink cheekily as she steps aside to let us into the house.
We walk straight into a small living room. It’s cozy, with a couple of armchairs and a sofa, all in a dark brown fabric. There’s a low glass-topped coffee table at the center of the seating configuration.
