Chapter 28
Charles tried to keep the frustration from his face as he flung the door to his mother’s apartment open and stormed inside, “Mom?”
“We’re in here.”
He recognized Tamara’s voice and followed it to the living room. The nurse looked up from her spot on the sofa. She exhaled and used her arms to help her stand. It was obvious the incident had exhausted her.
She stepped forward until she was about a foot away from him and said, “Thank goodness you’re here.”
“Where is she?”
She pointed to a door along the hall, “She locked herself in the bathroom.”
“There’s external access for emergencies. Why didn’t you open it?”
“Uh . . .” He could tell she was trying to find a delicate way to answer. After a few seconds, she continued, “In these situations it’s best to let the person calm down. Barging in there will probably make things worse.”
From previous experience, he knew she was right. “I’ll talk to her.”
The nurse didn’t stop him when he approached the bathroom door and gave it a gentle knock.
His mother’s voice boomed, “Go away.”
“Mom, it’s me. Tamara said you tried to go out by yourself today. You know you can’t do that when you’re unwell.”
“I’m a grown woman, Charles.”
“I know that but––”
She cut him off, “If I wanted to be controlled by a man, I’d still be married to your father.”
If she’d been face-to-face with him he knew he would’ve seen metaphorical fireballs exploding from her ears.
He kept his voice calm when he replied, “I’m not trying to control you, I’m trying to look out for you.”
A deep sigh echoed from inside the bathroom, “I know, darling.”
She was calming. Now to capitalize on that.
Charles inhaled, “How about I take you somewhere now? I’m free for the rest of the day.”
There was a pause, then, “I want to go to the cottage. I want to write.”
He swapped a look with Tamara. The nurse nodded at him.
He swallowed then turned back to the closed door. “Okay, let’s go to the cottage.”
***
Sarah tapped her fingertips on the arm of her sofa and spoke into her cell, “I can’t put my finger on it, but something is up.”
“I think your writer’s imagination might be getting the better of you.”
“I write romance, not mystery, Ames.”
“Well, when you figure this mystery out, you can use it in your writing to create a fabulous romantic mystery.”
Sarah smiled, “Not everything ends up as a plot point in my writing you know?”
Amy snorted, “Yeah right.”
Sarah chuckled. After they finished their conversation, she tried to put the mystery of Charles Morgan, and the secrets he was keeping, together. But failed.
***
At the cottage a short time later, Charles glanced at the letter pinned to his noticeboard and cupped his chin. Behind him, he heard pages being printed off. His feet ached, his leg muscles were starting to cramp, and his eyelids felt like they had tiny weights attached to them, but his mother was in her writer’s trance. That made her oblivious to everyone and everything else.
Writing used to do that to him, but not lately. He had no time. His mother and the secret consumed his life. He couldn’t sleep; he barely had time to eat. That’s why he needed this; why she did too. He thumbed the letter then faced his mother again. Perhaps now was the time to bring it up? Now she was one hundred percent calm, he might be able to convince her.
He took a seat at the edge of the desk where his mother sat. She didn’t acknowledge him. He caught a glimpse of the sky through the full-length bay window by the desk and noted that the sun sat behind low, gray clouds. It would rain within the hour. He had to get her back. Their talk would have to wait.
With a reluctant sigh, he stood and collected the fresh sheets from the printer. He frowned as he skimmed the fresh pages then turned to look at her. She was still absorbed. He made his features relax. He couldn’t let her see how he felt about her doing this. After all, writing made her happy . . . and he needed her happy to get her to agree to his plan.
He cleared his throat, “It’s going to rain, Mom. I have to get you back.”
His mother peeked up from over the top of her glasses and grinned, “Give me five minutes to finish this scene.”
The familiarity of those words flickered warm recollections through his mind. How many times had she said that to him as a child? How many times had he repeated those words to her when he’d started writing in his teens?
He gave their habitual reply, “Okay.”
“Thank you, darling.”
He gave her a pat on the shoulder then packed the things she’d brought with her––a dictionary and thesaurus––into her bag. They were the usual tools of a writer. Even a professional, experienced, long-time writer like his mother.
He smiled. His mother deserved all the success she’d had and he would do whatever it took to keep it that way. At the unspoken declaration, an unwanted memory invaded. Linda Scott-Jackson. She’d gone to the press about his mother’s tantrums for her own publicity. The diva reputation had been the outcome. It wouldn’t happen again as long as he had strength in his body. He would protect his mother.
“I’m ready.”
His mother’s voice brought him back to the present.
He held out the crook of his arm. She looped her hand into it. When he closed the door to the cottage behind them, a question loomed. How long would it be until the next tantrum threw his life into chaos? And would he be able to keep it as quiet as he’d managed to keep this one? What happened if Sarah was present the next time? What would she think? What would she do? The questions remained unanswered no matter how many times he asked them.