Книга - The Good Mum

The Good Mum
Cathryn Parry


It's all for BrandonSingle mom Ashley LaValley will do anything to help her twelve-year-old son, a cancer survivor, achieve his dream of becoming a doctor. Even uproot their lives and relocate to Boston when Brandon gets a scholarship to an exclusive prep school. Even accept help when Brandon risks flunking out…Even when that help comes from Dr. Aidan Lowe, an arrogant, abrasive man recently returned from a stint in Afghanistan. But the guy's also charismatic and wickedly sexy. Ashley's spent years putting her son's needs first. Now Aidan's reminding her that she has needs of her own…







It’s all for Brandon

Single mom Ashley LaValley will do anything to help her twelve-year-old son, a cancer survivor, achieve his dream of becoming a doctor. Even uproot their lives and relocate to Boston when Brandon gets a scholarship to an exclusive prep school. Even accept help when Brandon risks flunking out...

Even when that help comes from Dr. Aidan Lowe, an arrogant, abrasive man recently returned from a stint in Afghanistan. But the guy’s also charismatic and wickedly sexy. Ashley’s spent years putting her son’s needs first. Now Aidan’s reminding her that she has needs of her own...


A haircut was the last thing on Aidan’s mind.

He stood abruptly. “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Thanks.” He took a step to make his getaway, but Ashley jumped in front of him.

He blinked, shocked. He was even more shocked when she placed her palm on his chest. His top two buttons were undone, and her palm landed partially on his bare skin.

Her eyes widened as if she was shocked at herself, too. At her own audacity.

He stared directly into her eyes. She was shorter than him by a few inches. Her skin was almost translucent and looked as smooth as porcelain, like a doll’s. She had long auburn hair pulled back from her forehead. Every emotion played clearly across her dainty features, and at the moment she appeared terrified of him. Her hazel eyes were round, the pupils slightly dilated.

Something about that made him pause. She seemed so vulnerable. He’d thought he was a mess these past months, but she didn’t seem as if all was well with her, either.


Dear Reader (#ulink_a876b639-c371-5e33-8423-87ad3d280882),

Some of you asked if Ashley LaValley, the heroine’s sister from Out of His League, would be receiving her own story. Here it is.

When we last left Ashley, she was a single mom returning from alcohol rehab. Her precocious son, Brandon, a cancer survivor and baseball fanatic, was Ashley’s whole world.

Now it’s four years later. Brandon is twelve and starting a new school year at an elite Boston boarding school in hopes of someday becoming a children’s oncologist. Ashley has uprooted her whole life—new hairstylist job in the city, new apartment—so that she can support his dream.

But she’s surprised to realize her son is growing up and becoming more independent. She doesn’t need to revolve her life around him as much anymore. For the first time in a long time, she can—and indeed must—ask herself what she wants out of her own life.

Especially when intriguing, attractive Dr. Aidan Lowe turns up in her salon chair, bringing a new set of love and challenges into her world.

I hope you enjoy their romance.

All the best,

Cathryn Parry


The Good Mom

Cathryn Parry






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CATHRYN PARRY is the author of eight Harlequin Superromances. Her books have received such honors as a Booksellers’ Best Award, a CataRomance Reviewers’ Choice Award and several Reviewers’ Choice Award nominations. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, Lou, and her neighbor’s cat, Otis. Please see her website at www.cathrynparry.com (http://www.cathrynparry.com) for information about upcoming releases or to sign up for her reader newsletter.


To Dee. Thanks for the friendship, fun and trips to Salem.


Contents

Cover (#ufe72b3c3-ab7a-5c72-892a-89702a1c0569)

Back Cover Text (#udf1e0662-f11b-5daf-832c-e459b75b607a)

Introduction (#ub8df9a42-3604-5257-a96f-62a36be41305)

Dear Reader (#ulink_38593483-e1e5-57f5-b144-c0f81cd7f562)

Title Page (#ue874762a-f0de-5a3d-809e-ee4f3ab5702a)

About the Author (#ufcc93e97-2b39-5877-a3d0-18885fbf986f)

Dedication (#ud670262c-07f7-5dfe-85b7-8bf39f157570)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2603b610-e155-5555-81b6-0a155c6f7182)

CHAPTER TWO (#u5f763403-135a-55ad-9b71-0da506b69236)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf785ce12-8082-52b7-b7de-3823cce56941)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5be4d864-f38e-5985-bcbf-aa9c2ef4517a)

NEW JOB, NEW LIFE, new home.

Today was only her second day on the job. Ashley LaValley still wasn’t used to this hair salon’s setup. So different from her old life.

She glanced toward the photo of her son, never far from her workstation. There it was—by the sleek bottle of high-end shampoo. A recent photo, Brandon smiled proudly in his newly bought, preppy St. Bartholomew’s School blazer. The light of Ashley’s life, her son had straight, sandy-blond hair and ruddy skin. Nothing at all like her features.

“Ashley, there’s a man here for you,” her young coworker Kylie said, approaching Ashley’s little corner workstation with a pen in her hand. “He’s a walk-in, so he’s not on your schedule.”

And just like that, a little thrum of worry passed through Ashley. Ridiculous, she told herself. You’re doing fine.

Putting her hand to her stomach, she breathed out slowly. Worrying was the big issue of her life, it seemed. No matter how much she worked and tried and strove, her old fears always resurfaced—usually when she was facing a change. She’d been through enough counseling to recognize what was happening, but this one-day-at-a-time stuff sure did challenge her. And of course she was being challenged—she was dealing with major life upheavals. All the biggies. New apartment. New job. New school for Brandon. New routine.

“You look kind of pale,” Kylie remarked, tilting her head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am.” Honestly, she needed to pull herself together. She had worked hard to find this job within walking distance of Brandon’s new school in Copley Square, Boston, and she couldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.

She stuck a smile on her face for Kylie, the young receptionist who controlled the front desk at Perceptions, the sleek salon where Ashley needed to keep working for the next two years, at least until Brandon graduated from his private middle school. “I’m just getting used to my new workstation is all. Let me clean up a bit first.” She picked up her broom and began sweeping up snips of blond hair from her last client. “Who’s the man I’m taking?” she asked as casually as she could.

“I didn’t ask his name.” Kylie’s brow furrowed, perhaps catching her mistake. Ashley got the distinct impression that Kylie was somewhat new, too. She eyed Ashley’s broom. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. We have interns to sweep up hair.” Maybe Ashley imagined it, but she thought she saw Kylie roll her eyes ever so slightly, as if Ashley was a hopeless rube.

It was true Ashley had never worked in a salon like this one before. For the hundredth time that morning, she glanced uneasily at the gleaming surfaces of the upscale space, so different from the homey blue-collar haunt where she’d happily worked for the past twelve years. Going to work there had been like being at home. Where everybody knows your name, as the old theme song went. Her old boss, Sal, hadn’t run a place patronized by intimidating customers who seemed to ooze money and privilege. The lady getting foil highlights in the cubicle next to Ashley’s had set down a handbag that cost three thousand dollars. Ashley had noticed it in the window of the boutique next door. That was more than three times the monthly rent in her old neighborhood.

“Ilana specifically asked me to give you this client,” Kylie explained. “He came in with his grandmother, and I think she’s important. At least, she’s in the private treatment room with Ilana now.”

Ilana was the owner of Perceptions, and Ashley’s new boss. She’d also informed Ashley that for her first two weeks on the job, she was on probation until she proved herself.

“Okay.” Ashley blew out her breath and squared her shoulders. No pressure here. “I’m on it. Do you know what he wants? A trim and a blow-dry?” she guessed.

“Um, I don’t know,” Kylie said, “but he really needs a haircut. Just wait until you see him.”

“Oh, my.” One of Ashley’s fellow stylists murmured beneath the hum of her blow-dryer. She’d probably been eavesdropping, and was now craning her neck toward the front of the salon. Ashley couldn’t see what she was looking at because of the L-shaped placement of the workstations.

As the new girl, Ashley was tucked into the farthest corner, out of view of the waiting area. She was also set back from the spectacular floor-to-ceiling views of bustling Newbury Street, the Fifth Avenue of Boston. That part she didn’t mind.

Setting down her broom, Ashley followed Kylie. When they rounded the corner and she had her first unobstructed view of the waiting room, Ashley stopped short.

Her next client looked as out of place in the salon as Ashley felt.

He was tall and broad, almost wild-looking. His handsome face was sunburned, and his wild, dark hair fell to chin level. He seemed gruff and untamed and not at all like the well-groomed city types who usually came in here.

Fascinated, Ashley watched him. While he paced the room, his hands tore through his hair. He wore a drab-colored, collarless, button-up shirt with an olive-toned canvas vest. His cargo pants were utilitarian, and they fit him...very well, she thought with a flush. His shoes were something new to her. Sort of like work boots, made of nice, though somewhat battered, leather. Higher end than she would have expected.

As she watched, wondering what to make of him, he sat in a chair in the far corner. Alone, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The stylist beside her sighed, and Ashley understood why. Even from this distance, her next client exuded a raw sexuality.

With his collarless shirt partially unbuttoned, and his tanned forearms crossed across his wide chest, he appeared completely uncivilized. He gave her the impression of wanting to be outside, free and unbound. His appearance didn’t seem important to him at all.

She swallowed. What would it feel like to be so free?

Ashley shook herself. It did her no good—in fact, it was dangerous—to feel curious about any man, even if just physically. She was far too careful in her life to risk doing anything that might negatively affect her son.

“How much time do I have to cut his hair?” she asked Kylie. She was thinking about her probationary status. “Ilana will want me to be finished by the time his grandmother is ready to leave, I assume?”

“Um, yeah.” Kylie nodded. “I heard his grandmother tell Ilana they were going out to lunch afterward. She said she hasn’t seen her grandson in a year because he was overseas with the Doctor’s Aid volunteer group. I think they just came from the airport.”

“Wait, he’s a doctor?” Ashley asked.

“That’s what she said.”

Ashley’s heart sped up. Her sister was a doctor. Brandon desperately wanted to be one himself. Hence their odyssey to a new, scary life that was so far out of Ashley’s league that she felt terrified half the time.

Except maybe she didn’t need to feel terrified with this man. She knew doctors. Knew what they needed. Knew what they wanted. Understood how they preferred to be treated.

“I’ll have him ready in thirty minutes,” Ashley said.

“Don’t forget our protocol,” Kylie murmured.

Ashley tried not to snort. She threaded her way toward him past rows of swivel chairs and stylists’ sinks, briefly thinking of her old friends who would have made fun of Perceptions’ snooty attitude. Protocol, indeed. In Sal’s shop, Ashley had had the freedom to use her own personal style. Just a lean against the cabinet in her workspace cubbyhole, with her legs crossed, a casual smile for the client. Easily sliding her feet in and out of her comfortable leather clogs that she’d owned forever. While she encouraged new clients to talk, Ashley would take in the shape of their faces, the forms of their features. With her fingers, a quick, impersonal assessment of the texture and condition of their hair.

Perceptions’ rules were different. Lead the new client to the special consultation room. Offer them tea or water. Complete an assessment worksheet. Above all, dress and act the part of a hip, cutting-edge stylist. Ashley felt as if she was dressed for going out clubbing, which she did not do. That young, carefree, confident girl had vanished, years ago, the day she’d discovered she was pregnant and had to make the biggest decision of her young life. Thirteen years later, here she was. Struggling to maintain control.

She stopped at the threshold to the waiting area. As if on cue, the door to the private treatment room opened, and Ilana stuck her nose out.

Ashley clasped her hands and did her best to smile at her perfectionist boss, who was so exacting she often scared her employees—but Ilana just gave her a curt nod in return. Ashley responded with another smile she didn’t quite feel. Fake it until you make it.

She turned to face her new client, determined to make a success of it. Up close, she saw that her mysterious, handsome client was clearly tired, zonked-out from his long flight.

In fact, he had dozed off into sleep.

* * *

AIDAN LOWE HAD fallen into hell. He’d slipped into the fog of the old dream. So real that fragments still haunted him. He could taste it in his mouth.

The grit of the desert. The constant dryness. The heat and the sand perpetually in his eyes. She was there, of course, smiling at him. And he walked toward her, as he always did in his dreams. Reached out his hand to touch her...

She turned away from him. Then there was a wave, the concussion of earsplitting silence. A wind that kicked up her blond hair. Her blue eyes focused on his. And then a bright flash of a light, brighter than anything he’d ever before seen.

When he woke up from the dream she was gone.

His whole body shook, and he jerked in his chair. The upheaval, the shock and the pain of the past year flooded back. It never seemed to leave him for long, no matter what he did to chase it away. Maybe if he dropped everything and left...

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore, but in the brightly lit room where he was waiting for his grandmother.

He rubbed his face. Felt the rasp of razor stubble and a small speck of drool at the corner of his lips. He wiped it away, closed his eyes and wondered what he was going to do next.

He was back in Boston now, but Fleur was dead and it wasn’t home to him anymore. He wanted to leave town as soon as he possibly could. As soon as he was satisfied that Gram was okay, that he didn’t need to do anything on her behalf. That was his one job this morning. His one small focus on the present reality.

He heard someone softly clear her throat beside him. He opened one eye, just enough to notice a woman sitting to the side of him, so close their knees were almost touching.

“Hello,” she said, giving him a bright smile.

He felt himself frown. How long had she been there, her brow creased in concern, watching him?

As he stared at her, she swallowed. A door opened off to his other side, and the woman’s gaze flicked nervously in that direction. He turned, too. The woman who owned the place—he was in a salon, he reminded himself, waiting for Gram to get her hair set so he could take her to lunch—stood in the doorway.

She gave the slight woman sitting beside him a short, pointed look—similar to the way that Fleur had communicated with the underlings in her medical practice.

Aidan glanced back to the seated woman, just to see what she would do.

She gave him another nervous smile.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked her.

“I...understand you’re here for a haircut.”

“Who told you that?” he said, confused.

Her smile faltered. “I assume your grandmother arranged it with Ilana. My name is Ashley.” She smiled again as if under the assumption that this so-called haircut would be happening.

He rubbed a hand over his face again. Maybe his father was right—Gram really was slipping. The sooner he solved the answer to his question, the sooner he could leave Boston. “What do you think of my grandmother?” he asked. He’d forgotten the woman’s name already, but that didn’t matter. “Have you seen a change in her lately?”

“I...” She gave him a blank look.

He shook his head. She obviously had no idea if his grandmother seemed to be suffering from dementia or not. She probably didn’t even know his grandmother. Gram didn’t often talk to people outside her inner circle, especially now that she was in her mideighties. He should have realized that to begin with, but his brain was still feeling the effects of the long flight, followed by the shock of returning home.

“Never mind,” he muttered.

But she didn’t take a hint. She actually scooted closer to him, tilting her head and giving him a charming smile, which he hated. Because since that day nearly a year ago in Afghanistan, when Fleur had been caught up in a war-zone bombing, nothing could melt his heart.

“My sister is a doctor, too,” the woman said in a confiding tone. “I know how stressful her life is. I promise not to take long. I’ll have you ready before your grandmother even finishes with her appointment.”

She didn’t get it. A haircut was the last thing on his mind. It was absurd that Gram had even thought to arrange it.

He stood abruptly. “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Thanks,” he remembered to say, just to pretend that he was still human. He took a step to make his getaway, but she jumped in front of him.

He blinked, shocked. He was even more shocked when she placed her palm on his chest. His top two buttons were undone, and her palm landed partially on his bare skin.

He stopped short. Her eyes widened as if she was shocked at herself, too. At her own audacity.

He stared directly into her eyes. She was shorter than him by a few inches. Her skin was almost translucent and looked as smooth as porcelain, like a doll’s. She had long auburn hair pulled back from her forehead. Every emotion played clearly across her dainty features, and at the moment she appeared terrified of him. Her hazel eyes were round, the pupils slightly dilated.

Something about that made him pause. He wasn’t a monster, and...she seemed so vulnerable. He’d thought he was a mess these past months, but she didn’t seem as if all was well with her, either.

He gave her some space, waiting for her to speak.

Swallowing, she removed her hand from his chest, but held his gaze. Aidan had been told that he didn’t have the best bedside manner in the world. He’d never cared before.

“My son is a cancer survivor,” she explained hesitantly. “Childhood leukemia.”

She had a son? He didn’t know why, but this surprised him.

“What’s your name again?” he asked her.

“Ashley.”

“And your son?”

She swallowed. “Brandon. He...wants to be a doctor when he grows up.”

He crossed his arms. His whole damn life he’d been expected to become a doctor, like the rest of his family. “Okay.”

“And...” She bit her lip. Those vulnerable hazel eyes still desperately latched on to his. “What’s your name?”

Dr. Lowe, he almost automatically said. But now that he was home, he wasn’t going to be a doctor anymore. “Aidan,” he answered.

“Well, Dr. Aidan, my son wants to become a cancer doctor to children—an oncologist—to help other kids the way he’s been helped. He still visits the hospital—he wants it so badly. He got the opportunity to attend a private school here in Boston, close by, and we’ve just uprooted ourselves and relocated to this neighborhood so that he could take advantage of the scholarship. This week is, well...it’s his first week in his new school and my first week in a new job.”

In his fogged mind, he put two and two together. “You’ve been ordered to cut my hair, haven’t you?”

She had the grace to laugh at their predicament. “Silly, isn’t it?”

The fact that his grandmother was ordering people to cut his hair was out of character, for sure. But he didn’t think it was a sign of dementia. The fact that he even had to consider that his grandmother could have dementia gave him a small moment of sadness.

“I’ll take good care of you,” Ashley said quickly. “I promise I’ll make it as fast and painless as possible. No chatter.” She smiled at him, putting her finger to her lips.

He stared back, determined not to look at those lips. They were tempting, and he didn’t want to be tempted.

“I’m sort of debriefing,” he said. He felt a sudden wave of anger and pain, and he almost faltered on his feet. He was very much debriefing.

And he doubted that even standing here talking to her was a good idea.

* * *

ASHLEY WAS BEFUDDLED as she watched the look on Aidan’s face move from wariness and confusion to anger. But there was no mistaking his feelings, because with a grimace of pain and a short shake of his head, he stood and walked away.

Without even pausing. Without even looking back at her.

She froze for a moment, her heart sinking, staring at Aidan’s retreating back. With a defiant gesture, he raked his hand once through his wild tangle of dark curls, as if he couldn’t have bothered about anyone in the salon, and then he opened the street door and left. Not a backward glance.

Ashley stood, shaking, her mouth opening and closing, debating what she should do. To do nothing was not an option—her new life depended on her doing something. Ilana would at some point want an account of what had happened, and if she decided that Ashley had been in the wrong—that she’d angered a client’s grandson and failed to sweet-talk him into going along with his grandmother’s wishes, then Ashley’s employment would be jeopardized, fair or not.

She couldn’t let that happen. How to fix it?

Maybe, to start, she should figure out what he’d meant by debriefing. That seemed the key to it.

She whirled for someone to ask about him. Kylie was seated at her receptionist station behind the front desk. She wore a headset and a wide-eyed expression, as if she couldn’t believe that Ashley had dared to touch a client’s chest. Ashley barely believed it herself. The thin cotton shirt he wore was no barrier. His skin had been hot—warm with pulsing blood that beat beneath a layer of muscles. She had been fascinated and scared, but also self-conscious and somewhat horrified that she’d been so tacky as to attempt to physically stop a customer from leaving.

Ashley placed her palms on Kylie’s desk. “What do you think is going on with that guy?” she whispered.

Kylie’s wide-eyed look came back. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe something happened before he flew home, at Doctor’s Aid? Could we go over everything his grandmother said this afternoon? Each word? Maybe there’s a clue.”

“Um, okay.” Kylie knocked at her teeth with a pen. “Well, his grandmother said that they came directly from the airport. Then they were going to lunch together, at a restaurant by the Aquarium, and she wanted him to get a haircut while she had her regular appointment.” Kylie smiled to herself. “I can see why. He really needs it.”

“Did she say anything else?” Ashley prodded.

Kylie scratched her head. “Well, Ilana walked over and looked in the appointment app and said, ‘Ashley is free.’ Then she told me to go get you and tell you that you had a walk-in. And I did.” Kylie looked up at Ashley with liquid brown eyes.

Ashley smiled reassuringly at her. “You did well.” Honestly, if she owned a salon—her dream business—she would never terrorize her employees. She would be pleasant to them all the time.

Sighing, she ran over her conversation with Aidan again in her mind. “Kylie, he asked if I’d noticed a change in his grandmother. Do you know what he meant by that?”

“Um...” With a bewildered look, Kylie turned to the computer screen that showed their bookings. Ashley gazed over her shoulder.

“Vivian Sharpe!” Ashley exclaimed, reading the entry in the computer. “Aidan’s grandmother is Vivian Sharpe?”

“Who’s that?” Kylie asked.

Only one of the richest and most influential people in Boston. Ashley groaned. In her more naive days, she’d once attempted to meet Vivian through Brandon and her sister—but the elderly woman had gone to great lengths to keep to her private entourage.

Vivian Sharpe—and her grandson Aidan—were on a whole other rarified level from Ashley. Vivian sat on the board of directors at Wellness Hospital. She had a particular interest in running the Sunshine Club, the cancer charity that Brandon volunteered for. Even worse, she owned the New England Captains, the professional baseball team where Ashley’s brother-in-law used to play, until he was traded to San Francisco. Brandon was over the moon about the Captains.

“Do you know this lady?” Kylie asked.

Ashley sighed. “Not really. I know of her, but that’s about it.”

Ashley communicated with the Sunshine Club office only through intermediaries—usually Susan Vanderbilt, a public relations manager at the hospital. Ashley hadn’t understood the etiquette at first, and she’d actually dared to approach Vivian once early on, at a fancy hospital Christmas party that Brandon had been invited to attend. Vivian had barely deigned to speak to her. Ashley’s sister had told her not to feel bad—that the elderly philanthropist kept herself aloof from most people, but Ashley had sensed there was more to it than that.

It had seemed personal to her.

Truth was the woman seemed not to approve of her, and that had hit Ashley in her most vulnerable spot—the worry and shame that she was in over her head with Brandon, that she wasn’t doing a good enough job at being his mom.

Just great. She felt like weeping, but now wasn’t the time or place. Her job and maybe Brandon’s place in his new world were at stake. She wished she could call her sister—ask her if she knew a Dr. Aidan from her time working at Wellness Hospital. Was there anything about him—any commonalities that she might use to appeal to him?

Ashley took out her phone. But her sister didn’t live in Boston anymore. She was three time zones away, in San Francisco, and anyway, she was likely in surgery, administering anesthesia.

She could do this. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?

On a whim, Ashley opened up the web browser and typed in an internet search for Doctor’s Aid, Boston and Aidan. She found her answer on the first hit.

Dr. Aidan Lowe, that was his name. There was a photo of him—his hair neater, his skin less tanned—posed beside a regal, beautiful, confident-looking woman. Dr. Fleur Sanborne. In the caption she was described not as his wife, not as a fiancée, but as his partner.

Life partner, judging by the body language. He obviously adored her.

Ashley clicked on the article. “Friendly Fire Destroys Doctor’s Aid Clinic—Hub Doctor Killed.”

Hub was the unique word that the local headline writers used for “city of Boston.” Ashley froze reading it, barely able to breathe. Her hands shaking, she could only skim bits of phrases from the newspaper article, dated last October.

Dr. Aidan Lowe, an orthopedic surgeon of this city, escaped injury during an attack that firebombed a volunteer clinic in the war-torn region of southern Afghanistan...

Dr. Fleur Sanborne, also of this city, the chief medical adviser to Doctor’s Aid, International, died this morning after succumbing to her injuries...

Gasping, Ashley put down her phone. This was horrible! No wonder poor Dr. Lowe—Aidan, he’d asked her to call him—had seemed traumatized. It had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with what he’d been through in Afghanistan.

Trembling, she shook her head. She couldn’t even imagine losing someone close to her. And she’d been so worried about a haircut?

She tucked her phone away in her pocket. “I need to go outside,” she told Kylie. “I’ll be right back.”

Kylie glanced up from her own phone. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll keep you posted, though.”

“All right.” Kylie glanced nervously toward Ilana’s private treatment room. “I’ll cover for you,” she whispered.

Ashley smiled at her. “Thanks. I’ll return the favor someday.”

On the way outside, she stopped by the beverage cart in the consultation area and grabbed a bottled water. On second thought, she grabbed two bottles, even though it wasn’t protocol. She had no idea what she was going to do. She was in too much of a rush, racing the clock, to be nervous about it.

Outside, the balmy air was welcome, and she sucked in great breaths of it. Early September in Boston was the best time of year to be in the city. Crowds of people—college students and tourists and suited financial types—wandered down the sidewalks flanking the wide boulevards lined with trees and flowering bushes. To the right was the small historic church she passed each day on her walk to Brandon’s school, but she very much doubted that Aidan had sought refuge there. He seemed angry and disoriented, wanting to leave rather than receive comfort. She didn’t know much about leaving—she’d never quite been able to find the courage to pick up and do that—but Ashley knew everything about giving comfort. It was the story of her life, and at the moment, this was the only gift she could think of to offer him.

She walked straight ahead and found Aidan sitting on a bench in the midst of a small courtyard-size garden where she’d noticed office workers gathering to eat their midday lunches. At the moment, most of the benches were deserted. The tended garden plots they faced were beautiful, yellow roses and purple flowering lavender plants scented the air. In the middle of the courtyard was a multitiered fountain that streamed soothing plumes of water.

Aidan, however, faced a completely dead plot, with spaded-up earth as desolate as a grave.

She felt sorry for him. Carefully, she headed over to his bench. The cold water bottles were sweating in her palms, and he glanced up at her as she sat.

She had no idea what to say or even how to begin talking to him. But now that she saw him in person, deeply grieving, she decided to just speak from her heart, and see where things went from there.

* * *

AIDAN STARED AT the pale, auburn-haired waif who’d had the nerve to follow him outside. “You tracked me down here for a haircut?” he said, incredulous.

“No.” She smiled brightly at him. “I’m not giving you a haircut today. I’m just bringing some water while we wait.” She handed him a cold water bottle—which he really was dying for—and he gladly accepted it.

In spite of himself he laughed. It seemed that this Ashley woman was good at surprising him.

She smiled wistfully and cracked open her own water bottle, then took a long drink. Sighing, she pressed her hand to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone I just did that,” she confided. “Staff aren’t supposed to drink the Evians and Perriers. That’s protocol.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe. But life isn’t always fair, as they say.” She fiddled with the label on her bottle, her eyes lowered to his. “I heard you just came back from overseas,” she said softly. In the sunlight her hazel eyes were even more spectacular than he’d noticed. Speckles of copper and green. She had a faint—very faint—smattering of freckles, too. “I’m sure it must be an adjustment for you.”

“Did you talk to my grandmother?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled winsomely. “I haven’t even seen her yet. I...don’t keep up with the news as much as I should, so I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were right away. I certainly wouldn’t have babbled on about my son like that if I’d known.”

“You still want your kid to be a doctor?” he couldn’t help saying bitterly.

But she didn’t take it wrong. She just smiled gently, as if understanding his anger at his situation and excusing him for it. “It’s not about me,” she said. “If he wants to be a doctor, then it’s my job to help him through his schooling so he can get there.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Are you married?” he asked bluntly.

“No,” she murmured.

“Divorced?” he asked again, even though he knew it was over the line. Knew he was pushing it with his rudeness.

A small smile came to her lips, as if divorce was, for her, a silly thought. “No,” she said.

“Widowed?” He had to ask—he was curious now.

She shook her head, but she had a flush to her cheeks this time. The color just heightened the fact that she was pretty. It didn’t matter at all to him that she was a single mother, and he might have told her so, if he didn’t think it would embarrass her to hear it.

He opened the water bottle she’d brought him. It was good stuff; he’d been drinking boiled bracken tea for so long in the camp they’d set up that it felt good to have fresh, cold, bubbly water slide down his parched throat.

He couldn’t stop drinking. He finished it greedily.

Then he sat and stared at the label on his bottle. He hadn’t exactly chosen his situation in life, either, even before Fleur’s death. She’d been the driver of the whirlwind, and he had tagged along for the adventure.

In the end, nothing had been what he wanted.

Maybe he and Ashley were in sort of the same boat.

“I never expected this to happen with Fleur,” he found himself muttering aloud.

“Losing someone I love would be my worst fear,” Ashley agreed.

He squinted at her, the harsh sunlight in his eyes. “You worry about your son, don’t you?”

“All the time,” she confessed.

She was being honest with him. He got the sense that she wasn’t being manipulative as he’d feared. He hated manipulative people. And it really did impress him that she cared so much about her boy.

Aidan wasn’t usually sentimental. In fact, at Wellness Hospital, he’d been known as somewhat gruff. He knew what others said of him, and it didn’t bother him. Usually.

He sighed. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go back to the salon with you. I’ll talk to the owner and make sure you don’t get in trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Actually, I have another suggestion. You see, Aidan, I’m really good at washing hair.” She gave him such a sweet smile that he didn’t know how he could refuse her. “And this salon has a nice men’s shampoo. You could face the world feeling cleaned up and relaxed. You could close your eyes and for fifteen minutes, forget about everyone else in there, including me.”

He just stared at her.

“No one will bother you, Aidan. I promise.”

It sounded appealing, actually. He was tired. He didn’t want to go out to lunch with his grandmother right now, but he’d committed himself.

He stood. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but okay. Just so you keep your job, so your kid’s all right and you don’t have to worry about him,” he clarified.

She smiled at him. “Thank you. But I really am very good at what I do. I’ll take good care of you in there. You’ll see.”

* * *

ASHLEY DID ENJOY taking care of other people. It was what she loved best. And Aidan was a doctor, someone who was doing something important with his life. In her opinion, he deserved to be treated well for it.

Upstairs in the salon, she led him down the narrow aisle to her station in the back. Her six new colleagues subtly or not so subtly turned their clients’ chairs in order to be able to observe the rugged man who walked before them. His presence in their salon caused a stir, but she hoped he didn’t realize it.

She looked over her shoulder and met his gaze. He kept his eyes trained only on her.

The trick was to do only as much as he was comfortable with while still doing a good enough job to please Ilana. At Ashley’s old job, she’d cut men’s hair all the time, so the simple task shouldn’t be a problem. Usually she spritzed their short hair with a water bottle, then clipped it. But Aidan’s situation was different.

Once at her chair in the far corner, she draped a blue plastic cape over him.

He glanced at the cape, then at her.

Smiling gently at him, she turned his chair so that he was facing away from the mirror and couldn’t see himself or her. Without him realizing she was scrutinizing him, she touched his hair between her thumb and fingers. The texture was curly. Gorgeous hair, in her opinion, but he’d been washing it with a bar of soap, it appeared. He needed a deep-conditioning treatment, but that would have to wait for another day.

“I’m going to lower the back of the chair now,” she said softly.

He gave her a boyish smile that unnerved her. Especially since the rest of him was so manly. Strong, developed arms and shoulders that made his muscles strain against the thin cotton material of his shirt when she dipped the chair back. His top two buttons were open, and dark wisps of hair peeked through. His neck was wide, with a sexy Adam’s apple. His chin was strong. He had a faint shadow of a beard. This was a man who could shave in the morning and have that shadow by afternoon. His brows were dark, too, and it gave him a serious expression, except when he smiled.

When he smiled, he was an angel.

Her hands stilled, cupping the back of his head. She’d been lowering him toward the sink and his eyes were open wide, watching her. Contrasting with the tan of his skin and the black of his brows, his eyes were arresting. Clear whites, with irises so deep and seeing, the color of rich chocolate.

She had to get a grip on herself.

“I can give you a choice,” she murmured, glancing away. “We have two shampoos. Neither of them smells girlie, as my son would say.”

“Give me whichever one he likes.” He smiled again, with those arresting eyes crinkling at the corners. “How old is Brandon?”

“Twelve. Almost thirteen.” Her hand shook—she felt nervous all of a sudden. “His voice is starting to change.”

Aidan chuckled. “Tough days ahead. I remember those.”

She inhaled. She’d promised to help him relax, and she was the one who needed to concentrate. Turning on the water, she tested it on her wrist. The salon was warm, so she calibrated the temperature of the spray so it was slightly cooler than normal. Carefully, with one hand shielding his eyes and ears from the spray, she wet his hair.

His eyes drifted closed.

She opened the bottle of moisturizing shampoo she’d chosen for him. The smell was fantastic. With her fingertips, she massaged his scalp, working up a lather.

He sighed. As the moments passed, layers of concern and worry seemed to be dropping from his face.

She couldn’t help studying him. From his soft smile and calm breathing, he seemed to be enjoying her ministrations. And giving him pleasure made her feel good, too. It danced along the edge of feeling slightly sexual. A humming in her chest. Slight tingling in the juncture of her legs. She only touched his scalp, and in the presence of other people, so it was a safe feeling.

She could even fantasize a bit without any repercussions. She had no doubt that after today, she would never see him again. Their worlds simply never crossed.

His eyes were still closed. No one came near their space. Just a few short moments together in a bubble with a handsome, presumably decent man. No worries. Not about her son, her job, her insecurities.

Shampooing his hair was a harmless pleasure.

But she couldn’t prolong it anymore. With regret, she tested the water again, then rinsed the suds. Sifted through his curls in the swirling water, her fingers tangled in him.

She lifted his chair and patted his wet hair with a fluffy towel. Then shaped his damp curls with her fingers so he could return to the world again. Time to say goodbye. He opened his eyes.

She’d barely had time to think of an appropriate farewell when she suddenly realized Ilana was standing beside her chair.

“Oh!” Ashley exclaimed.

“Dr. Lowe’s grandmother is waiting for him out front,” Ilana said in a businesslike tone.

“Thank you. I...believe we’re finished here,” Ashley said, rattled by her employer’s sudden presence.

Ilana peered critically at Aidan’s wet hair. He just stared back at her, as if challenging her assumptions.

“How is my grandmother doing?” Aidan asked Ilana, in a deep tone that rumbled.

“She’s wonderful, as always.” Ilana smiled at him, then turned to look at Ashley, brow raised again, as if to ask why Aidan hadn’t received a haircut.

Aidan stood, and Ashley took off the blue plastic cape.

“Ashley is great,” Aidan said quietly to Ilana. “My grandmother will be happy to hear about my shampoo. Definitely the best salon experience I’ve ever had.”

He met her gaze, and Ashley smiled at him, though she was sure she was likely Aidan’s only salon experience. Ilana seemed mollified, however. Her serious expression toward Ashley cracked, the look replaced by a slight—very slight—smile.

Ashley exhaled. Whew, she thought. I did it. Crisis over.

But instead of just leaving with Ilana, as she’d expected, Aidan instead faced her shelves and reached out his hand.

The photo of Brandon! Mild alarm coursed through her as Aidan lifted the photo of her son, studying him.

“You didn’t tell me he went to St. Bartholomew’s School,” Aidan remarked.

“How do you know that?” she asked nervously.

“The blue blazer,” he explained. “The yellow patch.”

Her heart was hammering. His observation brought to mind the outing to buy the blazer, two weeks earlier, when her sister had turned to Ashley and murmured, “He asked me about his father. What do you want me to say to him?” And Ashley had handled it. She always handled it—his biological father was deceased, after all, as was her own—but still it rattled her.

None of this had anything to do with Aidan, though—he had nothing to do with her son’s paternity, or her personal anxiety.

Aidan was looking at her quizzically, with unspoken questions she couldn’t answer, so she just took the photo from him and quietly replaced it on her shelf. “Is there a problem?” she murmured.

“No.” But his gaze looked faraway. Everything about his body language screamed, “Yes! It’s a problem.” She didn’t know what to make of it, but the back of her neck tingled.

As Ilana led Aidan off to his grandmother—to Vivian Sharpe—Ashley could only wonder if she’d missed something important.

And worry, as she always did.

* * *

AIDAN SHOULD HAVE realized St. Bartholomew’s School was so close—only two blocks away from the hair salon. From the windows he could see the distinctive spire of the small chapel, the tiny patch of greenery that was their courtyard in the city.

Likely, that’s why Ashley had chosen to work here. She’d told him her life revolved around her son, and he believed her. It made him marvel to think of it. Such a foreign concept to the Sharpe-Lowe family.

He turned back for a moment, watching her reflection move across the windowpane. He could watch her all day. He felt calm and languid after her attentions. The dust of the desert had been washed down that golden sink of hers. It had felt nice to have her fingers sift through his hair. She was nothing like Fleur. Nothing. If two women could have completely opposite personalities, it was them.

He paid the young receptionist, then approached his grandmother, who was sitting on a sofa in the waiting area. She had a fancy black cane by her side—an antique, it looked like. That was new to him, Gram using a cane. When he’d gotten off the plane and met her at the town car, it had bothered him to see it because he preferred to think of her as forever strong. But now he couldn’t help wondering—had she deliberately maneuvered him into meeting Ashley today?

Aidan had gone to St. Bartholomew’s School as a boy, too. It was a tiny, elite school with exceedingly high expectations. He knew how difficult a place it could be.

Ashley didn’t seem to understand that as well as he did. That was only natural.

You could help her, a voice inside said.

He closed his eyes. Nope, he said to the voice. His life was too complicated and messed up as it was. His interest was the last thing Ashley needed as she tried to make a better life for her son. If that was at all in his grandmother’s mind, then she could just forget it.

It was too bad, he reflected, on his way out the door and down the stairs. He liked Ashley. Liked her basic kindness.

And he really, really liked the way she’d given him that sexy shampoo.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_88a0fd41-181f-5262-81ea-947d70f6f2ef)

ASHLEY THOUGHT ABOUT Aidan long after he left. Long after two more clients—a cut and color and then a set—had come and gone.

She couldn’t shake the sense that she’d made a mistake in getting too personal with him. She really didn’t know him that well, and what if there were repercussions? He’d recognized Brandon’s school jacket, and that had unnerved her.

Her hands shaking, she stepped around Jordan, the young intern who was busily sweeping hair from Ashley’s workspace.

“Thanks,” she said to Jordan. Maybe if she distracted herself from thinking about Aidan by helping someone else, she’d be okay. “Are you a student?” she asked Jordan.

Jordan flipped her long straight hair over one shoulder and smiled boldly at Ashley. Nothing shy about her. “I graduate in June. I’m hoping Ilana hires me after I pass my state exams.”

“That’s great.” Ashley hesitated a beat. “I’ll help, if you want. I know someone who sat on the state board for years and years.”

“No, thanks. I’m good,” Jordan said. “Thanks anyway.”

“Sure.” Ashley nodded, hiding her disappointment and gathering up her purse. She was finished for the day and had no reason to stay longer, other than to try to alleviate the general feeling of uneasiness that she wanted to shake.

“You’ll get used to working here,” Sandie, the stylist who’d worked at the chair next to Ashley, murmured in her ear, causing Ashley to jump. “You just have to get past Ilana’s probationary period, and then it’ll get better.”

“It’s not easy starting over someplace new,” Ashley admitted.

“You’re very brave,” Sandie said. “I saw you earlier with Dr. Lowe.”

Had she? And what was brave about washing his hair? “He didn’t want a haircut,” she explained. “I did what I could.”

“Well, you were a hit. I overheard what he said to Ilana. You impressed him, Ashley. He’ll probably come back to you as a regular client now.”

Ashley froze. She hadn’t even considered that could happen. That was...that was...

“How did you get this job, anyway?” Sandie asked her curiously. “Because Ilana is...particular. Turnover is high at Perceptions, but the stylists who stay—well, we have a good reputation. The pay is great, and the customers are loyal.”

Ashley sat reeling, still absorbing the information. “I won an industry award last March,” she said, “for styling the models’ hair at the Museum of Art’s Pompeii exhibition party.”

“That’s great! But how would a hair stylist get involved with the Pompeii exhibition party?” Sandie asked.

“Through my younger sister.” Ashley smiled to herself. “She got me involved with the museum a few years ago. She has a big interest in archaeology.” Lisbeth, besides being a doctor, was also a history nerd. A big, lovable history nerd. “I learned to style hair for the Roman period using pictures my sister showed me. The women back then wore really intricate braids and headpieces. It was interesting. Some of the museum members commissioned period costumes for the party, and I designed the hairpieces for their outfits.”

“I could see where Ilana would be impressed with you.”

“I hope so,” Ashley murmured.

“Well...” Sandie glanced back toward her station. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Feeling uneasy again, Ashley clutched her purse and headed out the door to meet Brandon. As she passed the receptionist station, Kylie nodded at her. “Goodbye, Ashley. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

So uneasy.

* * *

OUTSIDE, THE SUN had lowered behind the buildings enough that it wasn’t as hot as it had been when Ashley had been outside with Aidan earlier.

She walked past the park where she’d sat with him, but she couldn’t think of that right now. Feeling shaky again, she paused to take a breath. She’d been walking so fast, so lost in thought, that she almost bumped into a woman coming toward her on the sidewalk. The woman—with a little dog in tow, pulling on his leash—frowned at Ashley as she passed.

Ashley moved to the other side of the sidewalk. Put her hand over her stomach and took a deeper breath.

Almost home. She was at the building next to theirs, which housed a liquor store on the street level. A “package store,” as they were known in New England terms, or at least, as people in her old neighborhood called them. “Packies” for short.

Her gait slowed. She couldn’t help glancing in the window at the rows of bottles. Wine, her particular weakness, would be at the back of the store. She was no connoisseur, hadn’t cared about vintages or grapes, she’d just sipped now and then to keep the edge off and to help her nerves. Shaky nerves, like she had now after her unsettling day of work. The vague sense of shame that she’d done something wrong, but wasn’t quite sure what. The anxiety that she was an inadequate person and didn’t quite know how to fix it, other than to do what she had to, which was to take care of her child. The child she’d been blessed with, a most precious person. The one person who always loved her back, and she couldn’t screw him up, not like she and her sister had been screwed up by their mom and her alcohol-and-men problems.

Ashley touched the window, her hand trembling. A part of her, so raw and visceral, desperately wanted to go inside that package store. To hear the tinkling of the bell over the door. The cool feel of the bottle in her hand. The crinkling of the brown paper bag that covered it. And then, at home in her kitchen, to pop open the cork and pour the white wine into the large plastic cups that she and Brandon had used back when she’d last tasted a drink.

He’d been eight years old. Four years ago. She’d tossed those cups the day she’d come home from rehab. In her mind, she’d done the worst thing ever—she’d left her eight-year-old son for thirty days in the care of her shy younger sister who’d felt uncomfortable with children—and yet she’d also done the best thing, which had been to address her problems. Ashley had taken the steps she’d needed to take. She was a recovering alcoholic.

But why did her hand still shake? Why did she yearn to go inside?

Closing her eyes, she took a breath. And another. And another. All baby steps. All leading her away from temptation.

The only unwise part of her new life—moving into an apartment near a liquor store. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d had to make a choice between Brandon’s need to be closer to his new school and her own need to be farther away from her old addiction.

Brandon’s needs had won. Brandon’s needs would always win. As they must.

* * *

AIDAN ATE HIS meal silently, alone. His grandmother had been on her telephone for the past half hour.

First her stockbroker, then her lawyer. Then the general manager of her professional baseball team, the New England Captains. If he was lucky, Aidan thought with amusement, maybe he’d get the trifecta plus one, a ringside seat to her conversation with the head of the board at Wellness Hospital.

Finally, she hung up.

“Eighty-five years old,” he said to the legendary Vivian Sharpe. “Don’t you think you should relax and enjoy yourself for once?”

She gave him a dark look. “You know better than to say that to me.”

He set down his fork on his luncheon plate. They were at a fancy seafood restaurant that just felt odd to him, after nearly a year out of the country and living in the situation he’d been in.

He sighed. Might as well come out and say what he’d been thinking. Delicacy had never been a part of his and Gram’s relationship. “Dad mentioned in his last email that he and Mom were worried about you. He asked me to talk to you and give my opinion about the state of your, ah, mental faculties.”

And then Aidan softened the blow with the wry, comical smile that he and Gram alone liked to share. She snorted at him. He knew it was good-natured on her part, though the message surely had to sting.

She waved her hand. “I’m restructuring my estate, and William and Jane haven’t been happy about that fact. Pay no attention to their insinuations. I don’t.”

Aidan nodded. William, Aidan’s dad, was a world-renowned heart surgeon. He and Jane—Aidan’s mother, also a cardiologist—had enough money that they didn’t ever need to worry about finances again. Even so, finances were the types of conversation they loved to concern themselves with.

Heart surgeons with no hearts, Aidan thought, and not for the first time. He laughed out loud. It was darkly comical, and since he knew there was nothing he could change about it, dark humor with Gram was a fine way to cope.

“You laugh now,” Gram said, a spark in her eyes, “but William spoke to me about you, as well.”

“He isn’t worried about my finances, is he?”

“No.” She waved her hand again. But this time she met his gaze seriously. “I’m worried about you, too, Aidan, but I’m worried about your well-being.” She leaned forward and peered more closely at him. “You’ve been through a terrible situation. I wish you had come home last October when it happened. I don’t know why you stayed.”

No more humor, he thought sadly.

“How are you, Aidan? Honestly?”

“I’m fine, Gram,” he insisted.

She shook her head. “I may have been on my phone just now, but I noticed you’ve been ignoring your text messages. That isn’t fine.”

His grandmother didn’t miss a trick. Surely she’d also caught a glimpse of who the text messages were from—Fleur’s parents. Right now, he just wasn’t in a good place to speak with them. Eventually he would be. But not yet.

He gazed out the window at the view overlooking the blue Atlantic. Sailboats bobbed in the bay. In the distance was a faint smudge of land—one of the islands in the outer harbor.

“Aidan?”

He glanced at the water glass he’d been idly rubbing his finger around. “Yes, Gram?”

“It is nice to have you back. And to see you looking civilized again, even if your hair isn’t quite short enough yet.” She reached out and touched his hair.

He smiled faintly at her. “You asked them to do that for me. It wasn’t my idea.”

“Yes, I did ask them. Discreetly of course. And now you look much better. You look cared for.”

Ashley had washed it for him. “Cleaned it up,” she’d said. He could turn ninety, and he would never forget the feel of her fingers brushing his scalp. It had been one of the most sensual experiences of his life, and yet they’d both been fully clothed. Her breast near his face. The rustle of her skirt as she’d turned. The soft knock of her heels on the wooden floor. The pads of her fingers as she’d brushed a soap bubble from his brow.

“Aidan?”

Again he snapped to. Hadn’t realized he’d been daydreaming. “It’s strange to be in Boston,” he admitted.

“Home,” Gram amended.

Was it? Outside the windows near the street, Boston whizzed by. The buildings were familiar; the shops and restaurants in the same places with some facades and names changed. Always, though, the throngs of students—college kids—at the crosswalks.

“How do you feel?” she asked again.

He closed his eyes, ran his palms over his newly smooth hair.

“Honestly, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.” He’d spent his childhood here, had gone to college and done his residency here. Now he’d been gone for a year, and it felt like a foreign country.

Gram rummaged inside her tote and pulled out a stack of mail secured with a rubber band. “Your mail. I suppose now that you’re back, I’ll no longer need to handle it for you.”

She’d done the job well for him. Periodically, he’d received an email from her assistant, detailing bills paid on his behalf, invitations answered and declined. “Thank you,” he said.

She waved her hand. “You may stay at my townhouse tonight, if you’d like. I had the guest suite made up for you.”

“I still have my condo.” The words came out gruffly.

There was a pause. She was being circumspect, his formidable grandmother, who had a big heart and who loved him with all of it. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, you do, Aidan.”

His condo was filled with Fleur’s presence, of course. With her things and her memories. He’d toyed with the idea of turning his back on it, selling it as is. Hiring someone to empty it and never going inside again.

“You’re welcome to stay with me tonight,” Gram said again. “In the morning I’m stopping by St. Bartholomew’s School for a meeting of the board. It would be nice if you came along.”

He looked at her sharply. Of course, he’d suspected back at the hair salon that there might be some angle with St. Bartholomew’s somewhere. With his grandmother, nothing was coincidental.

“Why did you really bring me to that hair salon today?” he asked. “Tell me the truth, Gram.”

She smiled at him. “To bring you back into civilization with me. Even if she didn’t cut it, Ashley did a nice job.”

Gram was lying. Feeling sad, he took his napkin off his lap and placed it on the table. “How do you know Ashley? Be honest.”

“I’ve spoken to her only once before.”

“In what capacity?”

Gram folded her hands over her purse and looked him squarely in the eye. “Her son, Brandon, is the best fundraiser for the Sunshine Club we’ve ever had.”

Aidan swallowed his shock. The answer was cold and businesslike, even for her.

Yet the Sunshine Club was his grandmother’s pet project—her fundraising arm for children’s cancer research. The Sunshine Club was Gram’s baby. She’d started it decades ago after her youngest child—an uncle Aidan had never known—had died of childhood leukemia. Gram often said that if Luke had been born today, with all the advances in medicine, then he would have lived.

Few people outside the family even knew of Luke, or of Gram’s continuing grief. She kept it that way on purpose. Gram had a soft heart, though she preferred to show the world the sharp, hardened exterior she’d developed through her business and charitable pursuits.

“Did you meet Brandon through the Sunshine Club, as well?” he asked. “I understand he’s also a leukemia survivor.”

“Initially, yes.” Gram paused. “My staff supervises him and handles all communication between his mother and the organization. Prior to Brandon, we’d used baseball stars—from the Captains—as our television fundraisers. But quite by accident, Brandon stepped in. And he proved to be much more effective than any of them were.”

“How so?”

She smiled at him. “Brandon is very good on television. He’s a natural showman.”

Aidan thought of the studious-looking kid in the St. Bartholomew’s blazer. Brandon had looked like an average twelve-year-old to Aidan. He shook his head. “I don’t know that I would have gone on television and asked people for money at that age,” he murmured.

When Ashley had first mentioned Brandon wanting to be a pediatric oncologist, Aidan hadn’t really believed her. To his cynical mind, it had seemed like more of a parent’s dream than a kid’s dream.

“You would have done it for the chance to be a ball boy for the Captains,” Gram said matter-of-factly.

Aidan sat up straighter. “Ashley’s son is a ball boy for the New England Captains?”

“Oh, yes.” His grandmother nodded. “It was the price I paid for keeping him happy.”

Aidan completely understood the “happy” part—he would have killed for the opportunity to be a Captains ball boy at Brandon’s age. Any kid of Aidan’s acquaintance would have.

Rubbing his tired head, Aidan sat back. “So why all the subterfuge? Why didn’t you just introduce Ashley and me? Simple and easy. Say, ‘Aidan, meet Ashley. Maybe you’d like to give her some advice on her son’s school’?”

Gram snorted. “You don’t know yourself as well as you think you do, do you?” Then she pulled back. “It’s...a delicate situation,” she said carefully. “I had to proceed with caution. I do need your help, Aidan. You’re the only person I know who can help—the best person—and yet I needed to know that you could work with Ashley on your own terms. If I’d been too early, pushing you to meet her, to sit with her, to talk about her son—do you think you would have lasted five minutes?”

No. Of course he wouldn’t have. And he hated to be manipulated.

Yet here he was again, put in that situation by people close to him.

Even Gram. And it hurt.

She leaned over the table and put her hand on his “I know how hard it was for you at St. Bartholomew’s. It wasn’t a happy place for you, and I did the best I could to give you support there.”

Yes, she had. His enrollment had been his parents’ insistence.

He raised his head. He had to ask the question, because he had to know. “Did you pull strings to get Brandon admitted to St. Bartholomew?”

She sighed. “Yes. Though it pained me to do it.” She blotted her lips with her napkin, and put it down on her plate. “His aunt was looking at schools in New Hampshire for him, appealing for scholarships. I couldn’t risk losing him at the Sunshine Club.”

“St. Bartholomew’s is academically rigorous,” he said quietly. “Can Brandon handle that?”

She gave him a sad, serious look. “Come with me tomorrow, and we’ll find out.”

With a sinking heart, Aidan did a quick calculation. The kid would be in his first week of his first year at St. Bartholomew’s. Preliminary academic testing results would be coming back soon. Maybe Gram had some inside information.

“Is there a chance Brandon will be asked to leave?” he asked his grandmother.

“My influence is limited.” She held up her hands. “I can recommend a student for admission, but I can’t keep a failing student enrolled.” She shook her head. “You know how it is there.”

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.

“I know I’m doing well in my English class. There are, like, these kids in my class, they’re from Mexico and Korea, and their English isn’t that great yet.”

“That’s a long way from home,” she remarked.

“It is. I wouldn’t want to be them. I’m only a few miles from home. I can still see my old friends on weekends.”

“True,” she murmured, grabbing her purse from the closet she kept it locked in. Old habits. Their previous apartment had been broken into twice, and she’d learned not to leave her valuables out where thieves could see them. Then she motioned Brandon toward their front door and locked it behind them.

“So, what does the headmaster do when he wants to talk to your Korean friend’s parent?” she asked as they headed toward the street.

“Cho,” Brandon said. “His name is Cho.” He ran his hand through his shaggy bangs.

“Okay, Cho. What happens? Do they get his parents on a video call? Or send them an email?”

“Cho’s father uses an interpreter from their embassy. I think he’s an ambassador, with an office down in Washington. Or something like that.”

Not for the first time Ashley marveled at the company her son was keeping. It made her heart swell. She felt weepy with all the opportunities he was getting.

“So this is just a normal check-in with parents,” she repeated, for probably the tenth time, wishing she had more experience with private schools.

“Don’t be nervous, Mom.” Brandon shot her a grin. “We’re good.”

“Right.” She nodded, averting her gaze as they walked past the package store that had made her so nervous yesterday. “Good.”

Brandon reached in his backpack to put on his earphones and music, but she grabbed his hand. “Can we just talk, please? It’s only a few more feet to walk with your mom.” She smiled as easily as she could. “Humor me.”

He rolled his eyes in mock good humor. “We’re okay, Mom.” And then he added something she hadn’t heard before. “If something was really bad, they would have called Mrs. Sharpe.”

Vivian Sharpe? She eyed her precocious son. “Why would they call her? She’s not your mother.”

He smiled faintly. “Nope. You are. And everybody knows it.” Then he took out his smartphone and skimmed through it. Ashley said nothing because it was what all his friends did.

But his comment still bothered her.

“Has Vivian Sharpe contacted you lately?” she asked.

“No, Mom. You know she hasn’t.”

Okay. She shouldn’t worry, then. Maybe she should make a pact with herself to stop worrying.

They fell into an easy pace while she shook off the bad feeling and tried not to worry any longer. This early in the morning, the streets weren’t very busy. Brandon scrolled with his thumb while he walked, one eye on the screen in front of him, one eye on the street.

When they got to the school, Brandon paused and glanced up at her. For a moment, he was her little boy again, instead of this more complicated preteen. Still skinny, with a smattering of acne across his nose, he leaned over and gave her a hug.

“I love you, Mommy,” he whispered. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she felt close to tears, wanting to hold on to this moment, wishing it could last longer than it did.

And just as quickly, they were walking on. Up the stone steps, passing a group of four men who seemed to be teachers. They greeted Brandon warmly. One of them—Dr. Prosser—the English teacher—directed her to the corridor where the headmaster’s office was located. Ashley hadn’t been inside since Brandon’s admittance interviews last spring.

The receptionist looked up as Ashley entered. Glancing over the top of her eyeglasses, she, too, smiled warmly.

See, nothing to worry about, she told herself. All these nice people cared about her son’s welfare. So why was she so jittery?

She sat, folding her hands and placing her purse on her lap. For the millionth time, she wished her sister was here. This was Lisbeth’s world, not hers. But it couldn’t be helped. Ashley would have to handle this alone.

* * *

AIDAN WASN’T EXACTLY sure what he was doing, standing with his grandmother outside the dining hall at St. Bartholomew’s. Curiosity, maybe? Secretly hoping for a glimpse of Ashley, his pretty hairstylist?

He must be nuts. He should be back at his condo, getting it ready for a quick sale.

Ding! Another text message hit his inbox. He glanced at his smartphone.

We would like to call on Saturday. What time is good? the message from Albert Sanborne read.

Saturday was tomorrow. And Gram was right; he needed to deal with this.

Noon, Aidan typed back.

There, it was done. One more step in moving on.

He glanced up and realized that his grandmother was moving on, too, doggedly forging ahead with her cane. He saw that she was having difficulty with the uneven stone floor, so he jogged ahead and gave her his elbow, helping her walk past the open doors that showed morning breakfast session in full swing.

It was the same as he remembered from his time, and it was smaller, too. Back when he’d been twelve, thirteen, fourteen—the age of the boys who attended St. Bartholomew’s—this place had been his whole world. Most boys boarded at the school, and Aidan had been no exception. Many of his friends had come from far away—from Europe, from Asia, from Mexico. Many were sons of wealthy families. But even the wealthy couldn’t protect their kids from everything.

Failure, for example. This had been the first place where Aidan had failed. He’d never been a studious kid to begin with, had never really cared about following in the family footsteps and being a doctor. He’d wanted freedom, the ability to go off anywhere he felt like, to have an adventure.

Fleur had brought him on adventures, the last one being a war zone halfway around the world. Perhaps that had been the initial attraction between them. But even that had fallen apart.

He’d loved her once, and thought she’d loved him, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to fix their relationship.

His grandmother had been the one person in his family who’d expressed reservations about Fleur. On the surface, she’d seemed perfect for him. “She doesn’t put you first,” Gram had said. He’d thought Gram had been crazy to even think that way. Who in his family did that? And he definitely didn’t want someone who fawned and trembled in his presence, depending on him. He’d wanted independence. And freedom. And he’d definitely wanted adventure.

Until he’d had his fill of it.

Swallowing, he paused in the hallway, his hand still on Gram’s arm. Honestly, it was crazy that he was even here this morning. But maybe he was looking for something, too. So out of character of him. He was thinking. Brooding. Trying to figure out the next step in his life. Something he’d never, ever worried about before. Normally a man of action, he’d been more like...

Like that kid in the corner of the dining hall. A ring of kids surrounded him—he had them mesmerized. Telling some kind of a joke, showing them something on his phone. They were nodding and smiling. The towheaded kid, the life of the party.

“Aidan, we’re here,” Gram murmured. They were outside the conference room where Gram was scheduled to meet with the board.

“I’ll wait outside,” he told her. “Call me when you’re finished.”

“Yes, Aidan.” Gram smiled at a tall, thin man who’d stood to greet them. “Dr. Pingree, I’d like you meet my grandson, Dr. Aidan Lowe. Aidan, this is Dr. Pingree, the headmaster.”

Aidan greeted the headmaster and shook his hand.

“I understand you’ve moved back to Boston,” Dr. Pingree said.

“For a short time, yes.”

“Thank you for coming back to see us. We love to see returning alumni. Especially those as accomplished as you are, Dr. Lowe.”

“Thank you,” Aidan said politely.

“Since I have a few minutes before the board meeting starts, would you indulge me and allow me to show you our newest improvements in the facilities? It will take just a few minutes. So often we reach out for donation appeals, but we don’t usually get the chance to show some of the capital improvements the funds make.”

Gram was quite generous with St. Bart’s. But she wasn’t going on the short tour, she said. Aidan was well aware she had an angle with him today. He knew how to say no to people very well.

Maybe he should.

“Sure,” he said to the good doctor. “Why not?” He left his grandmother and headed back to the dining hall by Dr. Pingree’s side.

The boys quieted as Dr. Pingree walked through their midst. These would be the first-year boys. Most were clustered together, wearing their new suit jackets, self-conscious, maybe a little afraid with back-to-a-new-school jitters. Aidan guessed that most came from very wealthy, very busy parents who had high standards for their children. He felt compassion for them. He remembered the feeling, the heavy burden of expectations. The fear of not measuring up. The realization of the investment.

The table that the headmaster was leading him toward was the one that Aidan had observed earlier, as he had walked with his grandmother. The table that seemed to be centered on one boy who kept the attention of the others. The happy-go-lucky kid.

Blond hair. Slight. Skinny, as if he’d just had a massive growth spurt to which the rest of his body hadn’t caught up yet.

Aidan paused. “Who is that boy?”

“That’s Brandon,” the headmaster said.

Brandon. Aidan wasn’t at all surprised. He’d thought he’d recognized the kid from the photo in his mom’s workstation.

Brandon saw them conferring. When the headmaster gestured for him to come over, he got up from the table without hesitation.

“Brandon, this is Dr. Lowe,” the headmaster said. “Dr. Lowe, I’d like to introduce you to one of our first-year students, Brandon LaValley.”

“Hi, Dr. Lowe.” Brandon confidently stuck out his hand. But his voice cracked, and his cheeks flushed.

Aidan gave the boy an easy grin. Took his outstretched hand and shook it. “Hi, Brandon. Pleased to meet you.”

“Dr. Lowe is one of our graduates,” Dr. Pingree said. “He’s currently an orthopedic surgeon at Wellness Hospital.”

Aidan didn’t correct him. Technically, Aidan supposed, he still had his position on staff there. Really, he was just grateful that the headmaster hadn’t mentioned his posting with Doctor’s Aid. Or his relationship to Vivian Sharpe. Or his past affiliation with the New England Captains organization.

Aidan was just about to make an excuse to leave when he caught Brandon’s expression. The boy stared at him with big eyes and shaggy hair and skinny arms. Aidan remembered the awkwardness of that age, and he felt some compassion.

“Are you going to help tutor me?” Brandon asked anxiously.

“Why? Do you need a tutor?” Aidan asked, taken aback.

“Um...” Brandon glanced hesitantly at Dr. Pingree. “Some of my friends who board here were assigned tutors last night. I, um, think I probably need one, too.”

Aidan stared at Dr. Pingree. “Have you discussed me with him?”

Dr. Pingree shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“I saw you once, Dr. Lowe, when I was eight,” Brandon piped up. “You were in the Captains clubhouse with Carlton Martinez. You were treating his elbow. I know who you are.”

Aidan had stopped consulting with his grandmother’s team at about that time. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you back then,” he said to Brandon.

“That’s okay. We’re meeting now.” Brandon gave him a smile.

Oh, man. He did want to help the boy. The kid was personable—he could see his grandmother’s point about his fundraising value. Aidan could feel himself being sucked in to caring what happened to him.

“What...are your requirements for assigning tutors?” he asked Dr. Pingree. “Just as a hypothetical.”

“The student has to feel comfortable with the tutor,” Dr. Pingree replied. “As does his parent.”

His parent. That would be Ashley.

Brandon vigorously shook his head. “My mom doesn’t need to know about this. Please. I’m good.” He looked anxiously at the headmaster.

What was going on here?

“Your mother is in the office meeting with your math instructor,” Dr. Pingree said gently to Brandon. “We have to let her know the status of your algebra pretesting examination.”

Brandon winced. “That means I failed, doesn’t it?”

“We’ll have this conversation later, in private, after we speak with your mother,” Dr. Pingree said.

“I don’t want her to worry,” Brandon mumbled. “She’s gonna worry about me.”

Oh, man. Aidan could see the whole problem spread in front of him. The boy trying to be a man. The mom worried for her son.

“Ah, maybe I could help,” Aidan said to Dr. Pingree. “I’m not a professional tutor, but I did go to St. Bart’s, so I understand the culture.” He lowered his voice. “When I was a student, I failed my algebra pretest. I had to work with a tutor myself—and work hard—but I managed to pull my scores up. To this day, math is one of my strengths.”

“You certainly would have a wonderful perspective to offer a newer, struggling student,” Dr. Pingree said. “You know how difficult it can be to catch up academically to St. Bartholomew’s standards.” He nodded. “Yes, I would support your choice as a mentor/tutor and give my recommendation to Brandon’s parent.”

He hoped she took his offer in the spirit of generosity with which he meant it.

But he managed a smile. “Please talk to Brandon’s mother, give her my name, before I get any more involved in this process,” Aidan said to the headmaster.

“Certainly, as long as Brandon is comfortable,” the headmaster said. He peered at Brandon. “Would you like to talk more with Dr. Lowe?”

Aidan looked at the kid. He just seemed worried. Aidan remembered feeling shell-shocked at Brandon’s age, when he’d realized he’d failed his pre-test. It had been the first time he’d ever failed anything in school. Maybe Brandon felt the same way.

“Come on,” Aidan said to the boy, motioning to a table close enough that they weren’t out of the headmaster’s earshot, but far enough away that the kids at the other tables couldn’t hear them. He was treading carefully with this situation.

Nodding, Brandon followed him. Sat down. Stared at a hangnail on his thumb.

“What’s going on?” Aidan asked the boy. “Did you study for the pre-test? I don’t know how it is now, but I remember that they recommended I study for it over the summer.”

“Yes,” Brandon said. He shrugged. “In my old school it was easier. I didn’t expect it to be this hard.”

“Yeah. I remember the same feeling.”

Brandon glanced up. Aidan could see the pain in his eyes. “My aunt was an anesthesiologist at Wellness Hospital. She went to a regular public school, and she became a doctor.”

“Well, yes.” Aidan paused. “Of course that’s possible. What’s your aunt’s name?”

“Dr. Elizabeth LaValley.”

Aidan struggled to keep a straight face. He’d done surgery with Dr. LaValley once or twice. Seemed like a million years ago, and he’d been in such a different place then.

“You know her?” Brandon asked.

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t realize your connection to her at first.” He should have recognized Brandon’s last name. He’d just been so...caught up in his own situation. He needed to rectify that. Aidan cleared his throat. “Dr. LaValley is a good anesthesiologist. We worked on some hip replacement surgeries as part of a team.”

He’d been the bored hotshot surgeon blaring Led Zeppelin music while she’d sat in her anesthesiologist’s chair wincing because she preferred Mozart.

But he kept his expression level. None of that was the kid’s problem.

“My aunt tutored me this summer,” Brandon said. “We used Skype every Monday and Thursday. She’s in San Francisco now.”

Ashley had mentioned that. But oh, here was potentially another reason for Dr. LaValley to dislike him. He would be stepping in to help where Dr. LaValley had failed. Some people wouldn’t take that so well.

“Why do you suppose you didn’t pass the pre-test?” Aidan asked him.

Brandon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Aidan remained silent. Brandon fidgeted. Finally he sighed. “I’m a commuting student, not a boarding student. The boarding students get special help from the resident teachers that I don’t get.”

Aidan nodded. Perhaps it was a valid reason, but it definitely wasn’t an avenue he was exploring. Brandon’s living situation was really none of his business.

“What else?” Aidan prompted gently. “Do you think there are any other reasons you didn’t pass?”

“Well...my aunt said I haven’t learned to be focused enough. My old school—the one I was in before this—I got all A’s there and I didn’t even need to try. I could just memorize stuff. But here, everything is faster. I guess I didn’t believe her this summer, but now I do. I think I’ll do better next time. Or I would if I was here at night with the other kids in quiet study session.” He looked longingly back at the group of boys eating breakfast together.

“Okay,” Aidan said. The last thing he wanted to do was to contradict either the aunt or the mother or the headmaster or his grandmother. “Why don’t we go back to see Dr. Pingree?”

“So are you going to tutor me?” Brandon asked.

“Do you want to be tutored?”

“Um. Yeah.” Brandon glanced at him. “Do you want to tutor me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ashley in the corridor, being led to meet Dr. Pingree. She looked pretty, with her hair done up so that her long neck was exposed. He had to be content gazing at that attractive sliver of skin, because every other part of her was covered—in a conservatively cut tailored blazer and wide-leg trousers. She was making an effort to fit in, he observed, not wearing her trendy hairstylist clothes, and that just made her all that more remarkable in his eyes.

He stilled, remembering what Gram had said about Ashley going to alcohol rehab. Aidan didn’t hold that against her. He thought highly of her for it. Still, he couldn’t deny that it raised a warning flag. Would she think he was “interfering” in her home life? Would he have to worry that her alcoholism might influence her to do something she shouldn’t?

He should have thought of that before he’d reacted so impulsively, wanting to help Brandon without thinking it through.

He tried not to wince as Ashley noticed his presence. He watched as her eyes widened. She seemed wary. Her lips pressed together.

It saddened him to see her react that way toward him. He’d liked her yesterday. He liked her calm manner, her inherent gentleness, even though she’d had a steel spine, too. In her own sweet way, she was no pushover.

Brandon was staring at him. He hadn’t seen his mom yet. And he was waiting for an answer from Aidan.

“Let me talk with your mother,” Aidan said to the boy.

“Okay. Um. Here she comes, the lady with Dr. Pingree. That’s her.”

Ashley was stalking toward them, ahead of the headmaster. Brandon glanced at Aidan and smiled hopefully as she stood before them.

“This is your mother?” Aidan asked, by way of verification, even though he well knew it was.

“Yeah, this is my mom.”

Ashley crossed her arms. Two bright spots of color blazed in her cheeks. The corners of her mouth tugged down.

She looked at Brandon, and Aidan saw hurt in her eyes. “We need to talk about our discussion earlier this morning, but not now. We’ll do it when you get home this afternoon,” she said to her son.

“But, Mom, I—”

“I said we’ll talk later.”

Brandon didn’t argue. Looking pained, he shrugged and gazed at the headmaster, who led him away.

He and Ashley were alone. “What are you doing here, Aidan?” she asked.

“Ashley, I honestly did not plan this.” But then he paused, because in a sense, hadn’t he?

He gave her a guilty look and a shrug because he didn’t know what else to do, but she stared at him, not buying the insouciant look on his face any more than she had with her son.

From his peripheral vision, Aidan was well aware that not only was her son watching them but so was the table of boys he’d been sitting with.

“Let’s talk out in the hall,” he said, smiling broadly for the audience across the room.

“Yes. Good idea.” She nodded and then turned on her heel.

He didn’t follow her, though. He was damned if he’d let himself be given the questioning schoolmarm treatment. He could have easily outpaced her—his legs being longer—but he kept his strides even with hers.

Once in the hallway, she didn’t stop. She marched straight into the closest office.

He followed her, raising a brow as he caught up to her. “Should we be doing this?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m not risking being overheard.”

Ouch. She was tougher than she’d seemed.

She shut the door behind him and crossed her arms.

The room wasn’t all that big. It was a very tight, very enclosed space.

“What are you doing with my child?” she asked.

He sobered. “I swear I didn’t set out this morning intending to meet your son.”

“Are you following me?”

“My grandmother follows you.”

She gave him a look of horror. “Vivian Sharpe follows me? What are you saying?”

What was he saying? He’d just insinuated that his grandmother was a stalker.

“No, sorry, I just...” He shook his head and leaned against the edge of the desk. He was losing it. His pulse was elevated. His breathing shallow.

Aidan closed his eyes. Practiced slow, deep breathing to regain his equilibrium.

What had made him think he could do this—help another person? He’d just come back from a war zone. His nerves were shot as it was. He’d been neglecting dealing with that part of himself.

And his grandmother had been worried about Ashley being an alcoholic? What a laugh.

“Aidan?”

He opened his eyes and focused on her. She was the only one who’d been able to calm him lately. It really was great not to be called Dr. Lowe. Not to have to be so professional all the time.

“You’ll be okay,” he said lightly to Ashley. “Don’t worry about my grandmother. She loves your son and sits in the background, doing what she can for him. You’ll never really be in trouble with her watching over you like she does.”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “It sounds like she’s a spider!”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud.

But Ashley was horrified. By him, by his grandmother. And maybe she was right to be horrified—maybe he should be more so himself. His whole life, he’d been surrounded by people who ran the show for him. Spiders, creating a web around him. This wasn’t what he wanted. In fact, right now he just wanted his freedom. Wanted to be outdoors, with a wide blue sky overhead and an endless possibility of paths before him.

“You’re right,” he said. “I made a mistake in offering to tutor your son. I only did it because my grandmother sits on the board of directors here, and she mentioned him. But I won’t be getting swept up in helping anyone again. And I won’t be having anything to do with the Captains, with baseball, with charities, with hip replacement surgeries. And I won’t be going overseas and doing good with war-torn children. I’m done, Ashley. Although, honestly, anytime you want to give me a haircut, I am so there. Just call me, and that I’ll be there for.”

“Oh, my God...” She put her hands to her cheeks. She seemed to be in as much shock as he was.

He was surely going crazy. The pressure had all caught up to him and he was coming apart in the most inappropriate way.

* * *

“VIVIAN SHARPE,” ASHLEY WHISPERED, dying at the realization. “Vivian Sharpe is keeping tabs on my son.” That’s what Brandon had been referring to earlier. How could she have missed it? “And she sits on the board at St. Bartholomew’s School?” She’d probably even gotten Brandon his scholarship.

While she stood in stunned silence, taking it all in, Aidan gave her a tired look. It was that same tired, dazed look he’d had in the salon yesterday. And she understood. He’d been through a clinic bombing. His girlfriend—or maybe fiancée—had died in his arms. That was what he was dealing with.

She rubbed her brow. It was so hot in this tiny, tight space. And Aidan, with that dazed look in his brown eyes, he was gazing at her like...like he was mesmerized by her. Like no man looked at her anymore, not since she’d become Brandon’s mom.

Brandon. He’d failed his math pre-test and he needed a tutor. He needed her help. And she needed to focus—not on her worries and suspicions about Vivian Sharpe and certainly not on her physical attraction to this complicated man, Vivian’s grandson.

She backed up. “Aidan...Dr. Lowe...please. Please, you need to tell Dr. Pingree that the school should find another tutor, someone appropriately qualified to work with middle school children on their mathematics studies. I’m not comfortable with your grandmother being involved in my son’s schooling. It’s hard enough that he’s so involved with the Captains. I didn’t realize that she was on the board of directors here, too. Will you do that, please? That way I can tell Brandon that we’ll find someone else.”

“Aidan,” he said.

“What?” she asked. He kept confusing her. He was looking at her straight in her eyes.

“Aidan. Call me Aidan.”

“Fine. Aidan. But did you even hear what I said?”

“Don’t worry—I’m not going to interfere with your kid again. I promise.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Then...why did you talk with him this morning?” she couldn’t help asking.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Curiosity? I’m sorry. It was a mistake.” He shook his head again. “I need to clear my things out of Boston and get on with my life.”

She digested what he said. He was still new to being home. Still reentering his old life again, but that old life was gone.

Just like hers.

“Good luck to you,” she murmured. She wished that she could say she thought he would be okay, too, but she wasn’t sure of that.

He glanced away, very briefly.

“Aidan, I really am sorry about what happened to your girlfriend,” she said softly.

He said nothing.

“Well, we should go...”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. She squirmed. It was so hot in this tiny school office that smelled of books and wood and leather from the big tan-colored chair behind the desk she was leaning against.

“Ashley...”

“Hmm?”

“Elizabeth would be a good person to help him,” Aidan said.

“Elizabeth?” she asked, confused again. Aidan was still staring at her lips with that dazed look in his eyes.

“Yes, Dr. LaValley. She’s tough. She can help Brandon settle down and study.”

Oh, Aidan was speaking of Lisbeth. And Brandon. Of course, her son was the whole point of their conversation.

She licked her lips. But that made it worse, because Aidan sighed as she did so.

She fanned her face with her hand. It was so hot inside, and she was just off balance, and she shouldn’t be looking at his body, so close to hers...

“Um, what did Brandon say when you talked with him just now?” she asked. She knew she shouldn’t ask—she’d just told him off, after all. But...he’d mentioned Lisbeth, her sister, as if he knew her, and that made it seem okay.

Aidan’s warm brown eyes rose to hers. A slight flicker of concern crossed his face. Then she wasn’t sure what he was thinking. But he was shaking his head again, this time vigorously.

“No. No, I can’t get involved,” he said in a loud voice.

She blinked, surprised.

“There’s too many kids with too many problems, and I can’t save them all. I couldn’t even save...well, it doesn’t matter.” Aidan tore his hand through his hair. “But just know that I’m the wrong one. I’m not the one that saves people.”

“Of course.” She nodded, trying to smile, trying to soothe him. What he must have seen in that clinic in Afghanistan...

“Let’s...well, I’ll call Lisbeth.” She decided. “I’ll explain the situation to her. And Brandon will certainly understand that you can’t help him.”

“He wants to board here with the other boys,” Aidan said.

“Well, he can’t do that.” She pushed it all away, set her chin and went to find the headmaster.

* * *

TEN MINUTES LATER, Ashley stared at Dr. Pingree. She didn’t know what to say to the news, other than the brutal truth.

“I can’t afford to pay for a tutor,” she explained. “Isn’t there another option?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an alternative to give you,” he repeated. “Other than Brandon can come here at night and take the extra tutoring study sessions with the boarding students before lights out. That’s the best I can offer.”

Ashley didn’t like Brandon being out that late on weeknights. That option was impossible.

“Isn’t there another volunteer tutor available?” she pressed.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Dr. Pingree sighed. “As I said, most of our tutoring is done in these extra study sessions. Dr. Lowe is an excellent choice to tutor Brandon in math. He actually failed his pretesting in his first year, as Brandon did, but Aidan came a long way from those preliminary scores and went on to be one of our best math students. I’m certain he has a wonderful perspective to offer a newer, struggling student. As a mentor, he would know how difficult it can be to catch up academically to St. Bartholomew’s standards.”

“That’s a wonderful recommendation,” Ashley murmured. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t going to say so, but it was apparent that now that she’d chased him away, Aidan no longer wanted to help.

Her biggest problem with the entire situation was that she’d been blindsided. She hadn’t appreciated being caught off balance. By Brandon’s mischaracterization of the note sent home, by Vivian’s behind-the-scenes monitoring of Ashley’s family, by Aidan’s involvement. Even so, she was doing her utmost to be a good mom here. To keep her attention focused on Brandon and what was best for him.

“Thank you, Dr. Pingree. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Dr. Pingree just sat at his large desk looking at her, tapping his fingers together. “I’m sorry, Ms. LaValley. As you recall, Brandon’s entry examinations last spring showed him to be behind in math. He was to have studied for the autumn pretests over the summer. I thought we made that clear.”

Yes, he had worked with Lisbeth. She was highly skilled and capable—even Aidan had said so.

“Maybe Brandon was simply nervous,” she said. “Could he take the math portion of the test again, please?”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t change the rules for one student. I’m sure you understand.”

“It’s not a change,” she said. “It’s more of a bend...”

Dr. Pingree shook his head.

At that moment, Vivian Sharpe’s distinctive voice could be heard in the outer office.

“Thank you, but could you excuse me for a moment?” Ashley asked.

Dr. Pingree stood. “You’re quite welcome, Ms. LaValley. Feel free to call me and make an appointment to talk anytime you need to.”

She nodded, impatient to see Vivian before she left. “Yes, Dr. Pingree. Thank you for your time.”

She finished the niceties and then hurried outside. A secretarial worker was on the phone, her back to Ashley, but Vivian Sharpe wasn’t there.

She wasn’t outside in the hallway, either. How did an elderly woman with a cane move so quickly?

Ashley sighed. She was still absorbing the fact that Vivian Sharpe had turned out to be a hidden puppet-master mentor for her son’s education. She wondered if Lisbeth knew. She was the one who had helped select the schools for Ashley to apply to for Brandon. And other than feeling threatened and worried, Ashley wasn’t sure what she thought about it.

The worry was for herself. It was scary to think she could lose Brandon—her influence over him, his love for her—to someone wealthier and more powerful. Vivian Sharpe controlled all the things that Ashley’s son cared about. His work with the Sunshine Club charity. His weekend job as a Captains Club ball boy. And now even his entrance into his new school.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. She was grateful, at least, that Aidan had told her. At least now she knew.

If she had met Aidan at any other time—before she’d had a son, or after her son had grown—then maybe things could be different. She was drawn to him, attracted to this gruff, sweet, complicated man who was dealing with even worse issues than she was.

Crazy as it sounded, the fact that he seemed to have a touch of a stress disorder from his stint overseas, even the fact that he was clearly still grieving, made him feel safer to her, because he was more like her than she’d first realized. Another woman might run away from the problems, but Ashley was flawed herself. Her alcohol issues. Her excessive worry. Her problems with being a single mom...

Brandon, she thought. When she’d left him, he’d been talking with Aidan, no doubt assuming that Aidan would be his mentor. Now that it wasn’t happening, he would naturally blame her for shutting him down.

Brandon also wouldn’t like it when she discussed curtailing his weekend ball boy activities. At least twice a month during weekend home games, Brandon suited up and did what every kid in Boston wished they could do, too. And now she would have to force him to make some tough choices.

He’s twelve. He’s old enough to make these basic choices. To understand consequences.

She at least needed to talk with him now. Pave the way for a more difficult conversation this evening. She didn’t like that when she’d left him, she’d snapped at him. That wasn’t like her, and she didn’t want it to bother him.

She went back to the desk where Dr. Pingree’s secretary sat. Ashley prepared to ask her to please allow Brandon to leave his class for ten minutes, in order to talk to her.

The secretary behind the desk brightened and then hung up the phone when she saw her. “I’m glad you haven’t left yet, Ms. LaValley.” She held out a slip of paper to Ashley.

“What’s this?”

“Before she left, Mrs. Sharpe asked me to give it to you.”

Her heart pounding, Ashley unfolded the slip of thick, cream-colored stationery.

Inside, there was no printed name or heading. Just a bold, cursive scrawl written firmly in black ink.

Three lines: Aidan’s name. A Boston street address. A phone number.

Her hand shook. Mrs. Sharpe, the spider. She probably thought she was being helpful.

Ashley shoved the contact information into her purse. She had no intention of using it—or Vivian’s implied approval that Aidan should tutor Ashley’s son—but it reinforced to her that Vivian didn’t want to have any direct, face-to-face interaction with her.

Fine. She was too tired to take offense right now. Too concerned about Brandon’s future.

The most important thing this message showed was that the all-powerful woman didn’t have the power to keep her son from flunking out of the elite St. Bartholomew’s School. She thought that only Aidan could do that.

Poor Brandon, she thought.

* * *

FIVE MINUTES LATER, Ashley met Brandon at the bench beside Headmaster Pingree’s office.

He looked at her hopefully. “Will Dr. Lowe be tutoring me now?”

Pushing away the guilt she felt for disappointing him, she shook her head and chose her words carefully. “Brandon, I want to make sure you’re okay. You got some big news today.”

He hung his head. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t want to see you worried.”

“When you told me not to worry this morning, did you know that you’d failed the pretest?”

He shook his head. “I found out for sure after you did.”

“But you suspected it?”

He stared at his hands. “I try not to think bad things, Mom. I always try to think positive thoughts. You know that.”

Yes, she did. That was important to him—she knew her son. And at least she could feel better that he hadn’t outright lied to her. “Could you help me understand something, Brandon? What happened with your studies this summer? You seemed to be working so hard.”

He shrugged and didn’t meet her eyes. “There was so much to do. I guess I just didn’t get it.” He looked bewildered.

“School has always been pretty easy for you.”

“It’s different here,” he mumbled.

“I know. And Aunt Lisbeth used to spend hours locked in the library when we were kids. Maybe she studies differently than you do.”

“I have a life, Mom,” he said indignantly.

This was where it got sticky. She nodded. “I know you want to keep up with your friends and your social media. I know you want to suit up and be a ball boy this weekend, Brandon. But life is about choices. You need to decide which is most important to you.”

“I can do both. My social life and school.”

“Perhaps. But you aren’t doing them well right now. And I’m afraid that if you fall behind in math, it’ll just get worse. And all the connections you have can’t help you if you don’t pass the tests. It’s on you, Brandon.

“If you’re going to stay here, you need to take responsibility for the work, not anyone else. That was made quite clear with me today. That’s why I’ve been in meetings all morning about it.”

She sighed. “Look, I would tutor you myself if I could. But I’m afraid I was never strong at math. I took as little of it as I could get away with when I was in school. And now you’re at a higher level than I ever saw.”

He worried his lip. “What if I can’t pass it?”

She looked at him sadly. “We can’t think that way. Positive, remember?”

“I know, but...what if I can’t pass the next test? It’s in October. If I can’t pass that one, then I’ll have to leave at the end of the semester, right?”

She didn’t say the obvious. “We will take one step at a time,” she said firmly.

“You can tell me the truth, Mom,” he said.

She sighed. “If you don’t pass, it won’t be the end of the world. You’ll just have to go back to your old school.” And he wouldn’t get as good a foundation for a preparatory high school followed by college entrance exams. Medical school would seem that much more difficult to achieve.

God, he’s only twelve! How can he have so much pressure on him?

Brandon glanced down. “Did Dr. Lowe not like me?” he asked in a small voice. “It seems like you’re saying he’s not going to tutor me. I have a feeling he could really help me.”

She put her arm around her son, her heart breaking. It reminded her of the day, four years earlier, when she’d had to leave him to go into rehab. When they’d sat in the therapist’s office and broken the difficult news to Brandon. He’d taken it in stride, but he’d been just a little boy then. The conversation had been harder for her than for him.

Now...

He was growing up. Things were different.

She swallowed, aware that she had to do this parenting on her own. No counselor to help her.

But she was doing it.

“Brandon,” she said carefully, “Dr. Lowe has a lot on his plate right now. His decision has nothing to do with you.”

Brandon hung his head sadly. “Yeah, it does. He said he wanted to help, and then after he met me, he obviously changed his mind.”

Ashley’s heart nearly broke for the millionth time that morning. Brandon thrived on making sure that people liked him. And he was so genial, so happy-go-lucky that most people did like him.





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