The Good Mom (9 page)

He walked over to the large set of double doors that led to Fleur's closet, and he swung them open.

Inside, it smelled like her. Tears stung his eyes, and he had to blink, hard.

Nothing brought her back to life like seeing her dresses hanging there. Her cubbyholes with shoes. A mirror.

How many times had he watched her check herself in that mirror before she rushed out to work or to a meeting or to the airport?

But Ashley was there with him, too, so he sucked in a breath and got a hold of himself. On the left side of the closet was a rack of drawers. Four of them. He opened the middle drawer. Sweaters, T-shirts, her running stuff. Her gym stuff. She'd been a huge gym rat.

He stepped back. He knew he had to do this. Knew he had to get this stuff cleaned out so he could sell the condo and finance his move out of the city.

He glanced at Ashley. It was as if they were speaking telepathically. With a search of his face and a silent nod, Ashley reached into the drawer he opened and gently, reverently and with care moved a stack of sweaters from the drawer to the packing box.

Then she smoothed the sweaters on top.

“Thank you,” he said. He had to choke back his emotion at seeing Ashley's respect for Fleur's memory. Once, he had loved this woman.

“We'll get you through this, Aidan,” she said quietly.

And then she started on the bottom drawer. Sinking to her knees on the plush white carpet, she began filling that box with pajamas. Nightgowns.

He turned away, overcome. This was so hard. It had to be hard for Ashley, too. She must really love her son to go through such a difficult task with him.

* * *

A
SHLEY
BROUGHT
HER
third packed box out to the pile accumulating near the front door. She rubbed her arms and glanced around her. Normally a place like this would intimidate her. The view of the waterfront took her breath away; the height of the floors made her dizzy. Aidan lived in a world of wealth that was out of her league.

She turned and looked for him, but he wasn't in this main room.

Instead, there was a pile of belongings, heaped like an unlit bonfire. On the bottom, two huge paintings. Modern art—they looked like splashes of paint enclosed in plain black frames. Beside the paintings were stacks of smaller frames. Diplomas. Awards. Piles of mail. Also frilly pillows. A side table. A small desk and matching chair. Boxes filled with books and files. Some knickknacks. A clock. A laptop computer. Some electronics. A box of things from the kitchen...mugs, some glasses with initials on them. A set of expensive luggage. A mountain of winter coats. A leather jacket and some boots.

Aidan had been busy, too.

Her heart ached for him. She knew this had been hard for him. In essence, it sounded like he'd been rejected by Fleur, and yet he couldn't be honest and tell anyone about it. He had to pretend, alone. Of course he grieved her death—whether he was aware of that or not.

Now Ashley could see where the prospect of removing Fleur's belongings had made him so angry. But he wasn't callous; he was grieving.

Ashley sighed. The awkwardness and sorrow she'd felt touching a dead woman's things filled her, as well. She knew the awesomeness of her responsibility. It made her think of herself, to put herself in a role-reversal situation. What if it had happened to her? Or worse, to her son? It made her shudder. She felt for Fleur's family. She felt for Aidan, too.

She woke from her reverie as she came across a cache at the bottom of Fleur's underwear drawer. Ah, women and their underwear drawers.

She'd dutifully put those things into the cardboard box for Flo and Albert. There were some small boxes of old jewelry hidden there. Into the cardboard box they went. At the very back of the drawer, there was a journal. Ashley's heart nearly stopped. Of course, she should have expected it. She shouldn't have been surprised.

The journal was an ordinary one. Plain tan leather. No lock. No name on the cover.

Ashley had kept a journal while she'd been in rehab. It had helped her sort out her feelings. She'd thrown it away—burned it, actually, in a private, triumphant ceremony—because the worst thing that could happen would be for her curious young son to find something so deeply personal. She no longer did a lot of things because of living with her son, protecting her son, above all being a good mother.

That had made her think of throwing the journal away. Or destroying it. Certainly, that is what
she
would have wanted, in the woman's shoes.

Maybe Ashley could tuck the diary into the bookcase. Let Aidan find it and decide what to do with it himself, later in a more private moment. Perhaps he'd see it when he felt less raw.

Ashley slid the diary between two volumes on the bottom shelf of Aidan's bookcase.

She continued on through the living room toward the kitchen. To the side, there was a nook, again with the floor-to-ceiling windows, where Aidan sat alone at a table, staring out the window.

She backed away, slipped into the kitchen, sidestepping some broken glass and a spill of water—that must have been the crashing noise she'd heard earlier. She looked for a broom but didn't see one at hand. Later, she would sweep up the glass for him. For now, he needed something else.

She opened a cabinet door until she found a box of English tea and some sugar packets. No kettle that she saw, but there was a microwave and a refrigerator that had a water filter.

There was one thing that Ashley knew how to do well—her go-to reaction to any difficult situation—and she made the decision then and there to take care of Aidan.

Quickly, she made two tall glasses of iced tea. By habit—because it was what Brandon liked—she stirred a packet of sugar into each glass. Brought the glasses to Aidan at the table in the other room.

He looked up, distracted, and she almost dropped the glasses. By goodness this man was beautiful, even in grief and pain. Maybe especially in grief and pain. His dark eyelashes contrasted against pale skin. His gaze was distant.

She longed to go and put her head on his shoulder. It was curious that she could admire him from afar because it was safe—he was grieving and therefore not interested in her.

She sat down beside him as he lifted the glass and took a sip. He wasn't looking at her; he was gazing out the window at the sailboats in the marina.

She crossed her legs and sipped at her own drink, watching him over the rim of her glass. He was so beautiful; he made her long for something. For what she couldn't have. But it was okay to long, because it was impossible. Lisbeth may have wanted Tony to come back and marry their mom, but Ashley had always known it was a fairy tale that wouldn't come true. She hadn't even bothered to feel bad, one way or another.

Imagining Aidan kissing her was safe. It was only a dream that would never happen. The poor man was still grieving, for goodness' sake.

She glanced around at the nice apartment. The pretty things. The outwardly gruff, though inwardly kind-at-heart Aidan. It struck her again that Fleur Sanborne had been one lucky woman.

Aidan suddenly glanced at her. “Thanks for this,” he said hoarsely, indicating his drink. “And for packing those boxes. I appreciate it.”

She nodded. “You're welcome.”

“I'm not a monster,” he said.

“I know that.” She smiled at him. “I wouldn't let a monster tutor my son.”

That made him chuckle. He shook his head and looked directly at her. It was a look of awareness, of her body, of how close and alone they sat, and it made her freeze.

“I can't commit to the whole semester,” he said, “but I can promise to work with him every day, if that's what you want, for the next two weeks. After that, I can help find someone else to take over for me.”

She tried to mask her disappointment. She'd hoped for more than two weeks. Glancing at her glass, she asked, “Do you plan to leave Boston then?”

“I do.” His frank gaze made her want to pull her thin sweater tighter across her breasts.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Thanks for telling me.” And then she babbled. “Brandon will be very appreciative, he—”

“I'm not doing it for Brandon,” he said sharply, “I'm doing it for you.”

“For me?” She could feel her cheeks heating.

“You're a good person, Ashley. So I'm going to say this. You should prepare yourself for things not to work out the way that you'd like them to.”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

He swept his arm over his apartment. She glanced back and saw the pile of jumbled household goods scattered there, and it occurred to her that he was talking about himself more than about her. He'd lost his love. His life had fallen apart around him. He wasn't handling it particularly gracefully. “Tell your son that life sometimes blows up in your face no matter what you do to stop it.”

“No!” She leaped out of her seat and stood, her hands shaking, her knuckles white on the back of the wooden chair.

But the look he gave her appeased her anger. She remembered that he had been through a heartbreaking tragedy. “Your wife died in your arms, Aidan. I know—”

His cheeks reddened. “She wasn't my wife,” he spit.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was a slip of the tongue, but—”

“She turned me down, Ashley. I wanted to marry her, but she said no. And that's not even the worst of it. Those last few months together, we'd fallen out of love. Both of us. Our Doctor's Aid assignment was a last-ditch effort at making something work again. It didn't happen. Instead, we broke up for good.”

“You...?”

“A week before she died.” He tore a hand through his hair. “I couldn't tell anyone. You saw her parents. They've been through hell—she was their only daughter. You think I could tell them the truth?”

“I...”

He shook his head. “Fleur was a complicated person. Forceful.” He glanced at her. “I'm never gonna talk about her with you, but suffice it to say, there's more than what's apparent on the surface. That's what I was arguing about with her parents when you first got here. They want a memorial service. I understand. But the truth of the matter is, I'm not comfortable being a part of it, given the circumstances.”

He glanced at her again. “Your sister would probably call me arrogant for saying that. No, I think ‘rude' was her word for me.”

“Well...”

He shrugged. “I know how it looks. I know how I
seem
. And I know that maybe I was tough about things sometimes—regular, everyday things. But it's what I was taught in life, to be tough. I wasn't taught to be kind. But honestly, I'm doing my best. And I do feel for Flo and Albert. I really do.”

“It's okay to ask for help with this,” Ashley said softly.

He slumped in his chair. He passed his hands through his hair. She knew how hard it was to ask for help—she'd had to learn that lesson in rehab. But she'd learned it. And so would he.

“I'd thought I was over it,” he muttered. “I thought I'd dealt with the breakup and her death during the last eleven months.”

“You're human,” she said gently. “Healing is a process.”

He stood. “All right.” He blew out a breath. “We'll start working together with Brandon on Monday evening at seven o'clock. Give me your address.”

“My—”

“Address. Or is there another place you want me to tutor your son?”

She swallowed. He'd segued so quickly, her head was spinning. “Um, actually, I thought you'd be tutoring him at school...”

Aidan shook his head. “Brandon isn't a boarder, so it would be better for him to be in his own space.”

Ashley twisted her hands. She suddenly wasn't sure she liked this. Having Aidan in her tiny apartment seemed too personal. Too risky to her.

Aidan in her house? Every night?

“I recommend going from seven to nine every night except Sunday,” Aidan said. “Two weeks should be enough to get Brandon started. You can be present, but it would be better if you were in another room so as not to distract him. No matter how much you might want to jump in.” He laughed suddenly. “Though not jumping in to help might be hard for you—I'm starting to see that.”

“Are you saying I'm overbearing?” she protested.

“No. Just a mama bear taking care of her cub.”

“Hey! That's not a bad thing.”

He laughed again. “We'll see.” He picked up their empty glasses and headed to the kitchen. When he was confronted with the pile of household goods, plus the broken glass on the floor, he grimaced.

“Aidan, where's the broom? I don't mind cleaning up for you.”

“No, it's my mess,” he said. “I'll handle the rest from here. And I'll meet Albert and Flo when they come back.”

“Are you sure?”

When he nodded, Ashley sighed and handed over the boxed ring she'd tucked into her back pocket. “This is for Flo,” she said simply. “The family heirloom she was asking about.”

Aidan's jaw tightened, but he met her gaze and then gave her a steely nod.

It had to hurt him. It had to hurt him a lot.

* * *

H
OURS
AFTER
A
SHLEY
had left—after they'd all left—Aidan went outside to the marina and borrowed his neighbor's boat. He motored past the moored sailboats in the inner harbor, going slowly, and once in the outer harbor, lowered the controls, pushing the engine to its fastest, until he was alone in the Atlantic.

He cut the engine. Bobbing alone, the air smelling like sea and water, the city far in the distance, he pulled out the slim volume from the backpack on the seat beside him.

Fleur's diary. He'd found it in the bookcase tucked into the bottom shelf. He hadn't known what it was until he'd opened it and had seen her large, bold printing. No cursive for Fleur; she printed everything. Sharply, confidently.