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“Of course you did. Flowers, dinner cruises, surprise luncheons, picnics in Paris. You’re the most thoughtful and sweetest man I know. A gentleman, just as your father and I raised you to be.”
Frowning, I reply. “I didn’t do any of that.”
“Yes, you did. During your pursuit of her and convincing her that you’re the great love of her life.”
I roll my eyes, set my fork on my plate and lean closer.
“Mom, I didnoneof those things.”
She sits back sweetly with a smile. “Precisely. And that’s why you don’t have her back in your life. That’s why you’re broken, my love. You have not done anything to make you memorable in her mind or convince her that you want her more than any other man could.”
There you have it, my mother, Sabine Christiane Bellerose-Maxwell, in all her manipulative complexity. She had always had a way of pulling nuggets of information from her children when we were reticent about sharing.
“Mom, how do you know about her?”
It’s her time to roll her eyes at me as she removes her napkin from her lap and sets it on the table.
“How do you think that I know?”
Shrugging, I reply, “Shep?”
“Him and Poppy.”
“What’s Poppy got to do with this?”
“Poppy was the one that saw you go chasing after her that night at the ball. I was surprised when after a very harrowing conversation with Shep, I learned that you had been involved with this woman, and she was married. But...and here’s a big but, you know that I don’t believe in extramarital affairs, but I also know that a woman will only step outside of the marriage when she has good reason to. I have it on great authority that she had a reason to.”
My curiosity has been stoked, but I don’t want Mom to know that. I frown at her choosing that moment to push my tea aside and grab my glass of water.
She lifts an eyebrow in a challenge and tilts her head sideways.
“Okay, Mom. You win. What was her reason?”
“That’s not my place to tell you that, son. You’ve judged her unfairly, and I think you owe it to her to get the complete story before you just walk away. It’s been a few months, so hopefully, you’re not too late.”
“Too late?” I ask, leaning forward.
Mom rolls her eyes again and says in exasperation, “Yes. To claim your woman, son! Now you need to stop sitting on your hands and pining about how unfair life is and find that woman. Chase her down and convince her that the two of you were meant to be.”
“She’s married.”
“Kincaid, for you to be such an intelligent man, you’re not very smart regarding matters of the heart. I’ll share this much with you; if anyone tells you I did, I’ll deny it. I have it on good authority that she consulted an attorney about five weeks ago who is a very good golfing buddy of your father’s. Darren. Lewis. Arnold.”
She drags that last bit out in such a salacious manner.
“The divorce attorney?”
Mom sits back in her chair, crossing her hands in her lap and looks at me with a smug smile. She’s completely pleased with herself.
Well, I’ll be damned!
“Mom, I didn’t know you were a gossip,” I say as a slow grin transforms my grim expression.
She looks offended, presses a hand against her freshly styled black and white hair and says, “I’m not a gossip, Kincaid. A lady has her secrets, and sometimes she has to position them in such a way as to benefit those that she loves.”
I have no idea what that means neither do I want to.
The game has just changed.
