The Good Mum

Aidan did. All too well. The school prided themselves on being academically rigorous, among the best in the world. They would keep a lagging student on for the first term, but then at the winter break, they would show Brandon the door, if necessary.

Ashley would be crushed, he thought.

He sat for a moment, thinking about that. He didn’t want to picture how upset she would be.

“There’s another reason I keep Ashley LaValley at arm’s length,” Gram said carefully, “You should know this.” And Aidan glanced up, suddenly alert.

“She went through alcohol rehabilitation four years ago,” his grandmother said grimly. “Her childhood was difficult from what I understand—an alcoholic mother, as well—and in such cases, I find it best to keep a certain distance.”

His mouth hung open. He could feel it.

But his shock was soon replaced with anger. Wasn’t that narrow-minded of her to think that way?

“You could have mentored Ashley all these years,” he pointed out. “Instead of expecting me to mentor Brandon now.”

Gram gave him a faint smile. “That’s one of the things I love most about you, Aidan. You have a kind heart.” She glanced at his phone. “Perhaps now you might return Albert Sanborne’s text messages?”

Point taken. “Since you seem to know everything,” he said drily, “why don’t you tell me what Fleur’s father wants?”

“Actually, we’re all assuming—hoping—that you’ll be staying in town long enough to help organize the one-year memorial service for Fleur.”

He shook his head. He hadn’t even considered there would be such a thing. She’d passed away last October—eleven months ago. There had been a small, private funeral, of course, and though he hadn’t attended—he was still in Afghanistan—Gram had.

He was grateful to her for that even now.

“Aidan? Give the word, and I’ll handle it for you.”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

“It’s not a problem for me to do so.”

“I said no.”

“Would you like me to arrange a room for you in one of my vacant apartments?” she pressed.

“No, I have a condo.”

“Very well. And if you’d like your position back at the hospital—”

“No,” he said icily.

“Or a position consulting with the Captains?”

Gritting his teeth, he stood. He’d just spent a year in a war zone, performing amputations on children; he certainly didn’t feel like coming back to tape sprained ankles for professional baseball players.

“Take all the time you need,” she said softly. “Think about what I’ve said.”

He didn’t need time to think, he needed space to think.

As he walked to the men’s room, he couldn’t help thinking that Gram was perfectly fine. He was the one with the head problems.

Or maybe they were heart problems. He wasn’t sure anymore.

* * *

IN THE END, Aidan stayed with Gram in her spare bedroom. He’d gone back to his condo, but the doorman had handed him a stack of messages.

One from a reporter. Another from the hospital, his former employer. Yet another from Fleur’s father, Albert, writing this time instead of calling “just in case your phone isn’t working here yet.”

His head pounding, Aidan had left it all and walked out to the street, where he’d hailed a random taxi and directed it to Beacon Hill.

His grandmother opened the door in person. She knew enough to hand him a cup of tea and just let him go to sleep.

The next morning, he was still feeling jet-lagged when his grandmother’s housemaid opened the bedroom curtains and brought in a tray of watery coffee and toast.

And then he was stepping into his grandmother’s town car again, being driven by Rocco toward the Back Bay and St. Bartholomew’s School.

He’d discovered that he was curious to see what his grandmother was going to do next. He had a sinking feeling that it might not be in Ashley’s best interests. Or in his.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_22d85bfa-37bd-5113-be3a-63e9c139aceb)

“BRANDON, HURRY UP, we’re going to be late!”

If there was one thing Ashley could take heart in, early on this Friday school morning, it was that her almost-thirteen-year-old son wasn’t in the bathroom preening. There were no girls in his classes at St. Bartholomew’s, unlike in his public school. He seemed to be taking that fact in stride, though. Sometimes nothing appeared to faze her happy-go-lucky kid.

She found him in his bedroom, typing swiftly into his smartphone. He kept a social media account that Ashley monitored as best she could. He shared photos mainly. And his friends commented, in their weird kid-speak that was totally different from the kid-speak that Ashley and her friends had used too many years ago.

She put her hand on her hip. “Brandon, we need to go.”

“Okay.” He gave her the lopsided grin that was already slaying female hearts from the North Shore to the Cape—wherever the Sunshine Club donation appeals were broadcast.

Thankfully, though, her scary-smart kid still liked school. Ashley had been a middling student—not like her reclusive genius of a younger sister.

But Brandon was neither reclusive nor middling. No, he’d gotten the best of the LaValley family genes—not that that was saying much. It was as if they’d saved up all the good ones for this amazing kid. God, she was lucky.

Brandon grabbed his backpack. His blazer was looped through the top—it was still warm outside—but every day this week she’d watched as he’d put it on, looking natty, as he entered the school archway.

With a bottle of juice in his hand, he said to her, “You don’t have to walk with me.”

They’d been through this. “I know I don’t have to most days,” she said, “but today I need to.”

He cocked his head. “That note is probably no big deal.”

He was referring to the letter that the school had sent home, requesting Ashley’s presence at a meeting in the headmaster’s office this morning. “It’s standard, Mom,” Brandon had already explained. “In schools like this, they send notes to parents all the time. All my friends probably got them, too.”

Frankly, she trusted his judgment when it came to St. Bartholomew’s more than her own. He’d been there a week already, and he came home happier each day.

“I’ll see the headmaster and find out what he has to say,” she told him.