Cathryn Parry - The Good Mum

“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

“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.