Chapter 1

Bolton

Louisville, 2018

I sipped my glass of wine idly as the sky darkened in the west. It was only March, but warm air from the south had pushed into the colder remnants of winter. Forecasters dusted off their monitors and issued severe thunderstorm warnings—apparently, I had a front-row seat. Wind smacked the budding leaves in the parking lot, but the trees were impervious and mocked the assault. I checked my phone for the time. My mother was late, at least by most of the world’s standards. Like those slender, unencumbered trees, she floated through most of her life on her own sense of time. She was famous for it, as much as she was for her beauty.

We were to have lunch at The Bourbon Tea Room, named as a dual salute to the distilleries that lay an hour to the east and the sensibilities of women who sought an elegant place to sip and gossip—or better yet, flirt with a lover. It was one of those places with an exterior that discouraged the fast-food crowd, and if that didn’t work, their menu prices erased any doubt.

The clouds could hold back no longer, and rain bounced in quarter-sized splats off the asphalt. I could smell her distinctive cologne even before I saw her, its scent heavy on the humid air.

“Bolt!” She greeted people by name, followed by an audible exclamation mark, which she insisted made them feel special. It was my mother’s trademark—making people feel special.

I stood to pull the chair out for her, feeling pride at the way men’s eyes followed her approach to our table. Even at fifty, she could put younger girls to shame. “Did you get wet, Mamounette?” I asked as I kissed her soft cheek.

“No, no. It knows better than to test me so,” she sang in her melodic French accent.

I signaled the waiter who, having witnessed my mother’s entrance, was waiting like a runner in his starting block. He and my mother were of a similar age, but the comparison stopped there. He stared and bent low to place a menu carefully into her hands while I had to grab mine as he tossed it in my direction. I was used to that sort of reaction to her. I’d inherited her dark, Gallic coloring and stormy charcoal eyes. On her, it promised a spirited temperament, mystery, and charm. On me, it was just brooding, or so I had been told. Luckily, the only thing I’d inherited from my father was his towering height. In my opinion, it was his only redeeming quality.

My mother ordered her usual lettuce leaf with lemon, and I asked for a Reuben. “So, mon chéri,” she began when the waiter finally drifted away. “You look so sad today,” she empathized, taking my chin in the palm of her hand. “You have trouble with your work?”

“No, Mamounette, nothing for you to worry about. Maybe it’s just the gloomy weather.”

She shook her head, pulling the white linen napkin from around the silver and spreading it over her lap. “You work too hard. Life is made for romance!” Her voice gushed with enthusiasm. I never saw my mother sad. She could be angry—oh, god, she could get angry—but generally she brimmed with positive, loving thoughts and plans. There was no one like her in the world, in my opinion. She deserved so much better than my father.

The waiter obviously had some pull in the kitchen, because our meals arrived in roughly two minutes. My mother had just picked up her fork when a delicate jingle from the direction of her bag interrupted us. She rolled her eyes. “Mon Dieu, that’s your father’s ring.” She quickly reached for the bag to pull out her phone.

I put my hand over hers before she could tap to answer. “Let it be, just this once? I’ll be out of town on business again soon, and you’re so busy. I was looking forward to spending the afternoon with you—like we did when I was a kid and you took me everywhere in the world. I miss those times.” When I heard myself talking, I felt like that young boy again.

She nodded. “I do, too, and we shall have them again. But, I must live with your father, and it will not make my life easier to ignore him now.” She tapped the answer icon, and I could hear him shouting from where I sat.

“Where are you?” His voice even sounded like the mottled red I knew his face was displaying.

I calmly took the phone from her grasp and said, “She’s having lunch with me. She’ll be home later this afternoon.”

“Bolton, is that you? Put Leila back on the line. I come home early, and she’s gallivanting around, spending my money like it grows in the field.” His voice was furious.

“Well, in a manner of speaking, Father, it does grow in the field. They call it horseshit.”

My mother’s eyes rolled, and she grabbed the phone back from me, mouthing merci as she put it to her lips. “I will be home very soon, Dallas,” she said, attempting to placate him. My mother always emphasizes the second syllable of his name, and it occurred to me just then that it may not have been an innocent mispronunciation. “No, nowhere else. They have just brought my salad, and when I am finished, I will come,” she added. He must have hung up on her at that point, because she shrugged and slid the phone back into her bag.

“Why have you stayed with him all these years?” I finally felt old and trusted enough to ask what had bothered me throughout childhood. There were few sons who wished their parents would divorce, but I was the exception. My mother always loved travel, and while my father stayed busy with whatever excess or perversion he enjoyed, she took me with her. We traveled five continents, renting houses and eating the local cuisine. My mother said it was important to absorb the culture, and you couldn’t do that as a tourist. I was young and eager to learn. It wasn’t until my mother heard me speak Castilian Spanish like a native that she pointed out my uncanny ability to absorb languages, mimicking accents perfectly. They had come to me easily, as simply as remembering the canals of Venice or the ice cream spires of Moscow.

“It is what one does,” she shrugged and said, poking at her lettuce. She didn’t continue, and I understood that the subject was closed.

I didn’t agree. No two people should stay together in misery. It was that difference in our outlooks that kept her married to him and would keep me from marrying anyone, ever.

“Please, don’t let him get to you. You know how he can be. Just stay, and enjoy our time together,” I encouraged her.

Finally, she accomplished a ladylike version of slamming her fork onto her plate and dabbed daintily at her lipstick-accented mouth with the napkin before laying it over the lettuce leaf. She rose to her feet. “I cannot eat. I cannot even think. I must go home now. We will do this again soon, I promise you,” she leaned forward and kissed the top of my head.

I pushed back my chair and stood, looking down at her. So small and delicate. I hated my father for the hundredth time at that moment, that any one person could be so arrogant as to take over the life of another and keep them utterly miserable. She didn’t deserve that. For that matter, no one did. “I understand, Mamounette. You know, of course, there is always a special place for you in my home.” At the panicked look in her eyes, I added, “We don’t need to talk about it now. Just know that it’s there. You still have your key?”

She nodded briefly, pretending to ignore me as she pulled her compact from her bag and quickly powdered the humidity shine from the tip of her dainty nose.

“Oui,” was all she said as she gave me a quick hug, then turned with the grace of a queen and swept out of the restaurant.

I sat back down but pushed my lunch away, no longer hungry. I signaled the waiter who seemed to understand and came with the bill. I tipped him heavily for his kind attention, threw my napkin onto the table, and left.

The rain felt good on my flushed skin. What an appropriate background for what had just taken place in the restaurant. I sighed and climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. My mother was a strong woman and knew what she was doing. I had to remind myself of that. If the day ever came that she would leave him, I would carry her bags personally. I wished once again that I could take her with me to Lisbon. I would leave her on the beach, lounging comfortably in a recliner as a waiter hovered nearby. She needed some pampering. I knew I couldn’t take her—I couldn’t take anyone. No one could even know I was there. That’s how it worked. I knew what I signed up for.

I took the on-ramp and brazenly hung in the left lane until I reached my exit. While the storm had been early in the season, it seemed to breathe life into the budding trees. Just within the previous hour, they had begun to open, and patches of lime green dotted the woods like freckles on a child’s face. Springtime was my favorite. Mamounette would only travel to spring-season locations. Everywhere we went, I soaked up the culture and how people lived and interacted—just like those budding leaves around me.

I got home and let myself in. Mrs. Polk, my housekeeper, waved from the kitchen as I bounded up the staircase to my room. I shut the door a little too hard, and Mrs. Polk understood I wanted to be left alone. Stripping off my humidity-damp clothes, I stood before the mirror as the shower heated. I saw a tall man, a tan complexion, and an intense, unhappy look in his eyes. That was normal for me. I walked into the shower and shampooed my hair, letting the steamy, hot water wash away my heartache at the unpleasantness of my mother’s life. I had to focus. My life depended on it. As usual, Mrs. Polk had stocked my glass shelves with immaculate white cotton towels. I wrapped one around myself and collapsed on the bed, grabbing my phone to monitor emails before I began packing.

There was a text from my father. “Emergency. Call me.”