He stands completely still, unmoving, unreadable, until his hands are on my arms again, and he’s pulling my mouth to his again too, in a fast, hard kiss. He ends with, “Ah, woman. What are you doing to me? Let’s get this over with and get home.” He turns us toward the door and opens it, allowing me entry into the Brandon family home, where life, love, and laughter seem to be more focused on one man’s battle to live or die, which he may or may not have already lost.
I enter the house first, my gaze once again traveling the stunning circle that is the broad foyer with a unique domed ceiling, which is somehow fitting, since this family is nothing if not unique. Shane shuts the door and joins me at the same moment I hear Maggie.
“There you are!”
At the sound of his mother’s voice, Shane and I turn to the left, nearing the kitchen, and find her hurrying toward us. As is usual for her, her black suit and long dark hair drape over her shoulders, giving the picture of elegance. “The chef’s quite insistent that his food has to be eaten now,” Maggie says, “or, per his expert opinion, it will be a disaster to the taste buds.” Shane’s hand settles protectively at my lower back while she motions between us. “I need you two in the dining room, pronto.” She stops in front of us and lowers her voice, her attention on Shane. “Is this cancer treatment the real deal?”
“Why would he fake a medical procedure?” Shane asks, clearly having no intention of sharing his doubts with her.
Her lips purse. “Why would he announce something like this and not tell his wife beforehand?”
Shane’s fingers flex against where they rest against me. “Why indeed, Mother?” he asks, a barely there hint of sarcasm in his voice, and I know he’s thinking about her and Mike, concerned about her motives and loyalty. But I also have an epiphany. Could Shane have coped with his father’s flaws by placing an unrealistic standard of perfection on his mother that he’s yet to recognize or accept?
Maggie’s response to his question is a look that’s downright incredulous. “This is your father we’re talking about, Shane. Everything he does has an endgame and some sort of strategy to get there.”
“Staying alive,” he says, “seems like a fairly cut-and-dried strategy and crystal-clear endgame.”
“Cut-and-dried?” she demands. “If ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to your father, he would have told me about his treatment first, as most husbands would have. And if ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to your father, he’d have made peace with his family when he was diagnosed in the first place.” Her voice is controlled, hard, and I do not know if she’s containing her burning hot emotions or if she’s been scorned by her husband to the point that this is the ice of a queen whose king has betrayed her.
“And,” she continues, apparently not done yet, “if ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to that man, you and your brother wouldn’t be playing a game of tug-of-war with the bladed rope he’s handed you. Your father enjoys his mind games, and he will enjoy them while the rest of us suffer, until the day he dies. Perhaps even beyond.” She folds her arms in front of her but not before I notice her hands trembling, which could mean any number of things, guilt and heartache among potential culprits. “Did you,” she asks, focusing solely on Shane, “know about this in advance officially or unofficially?”
“I did not,” Shane confirms.
“And you have Seth, who I know is a perfectionist to the bitter extreme, monitoring his activity?”
“I do,” Shane states.
“Then that proves my point,” she says, anger quavering back into her voice. “We’re all being taken on a ride.”
“Actually,” I dare interject, afraid they’re both making assumptions based on a history of manipulative behavior by Brandon Senior that may not apply this time. “My mother’s best friend had terminal cancer, and I was close enough to her to know details. When a patient is terminal, they are put on a trial list—if they want to be considered for one, of course. When one opens up that matches their needs, it’s often sudden, as it was with her. She found out and was under treatment within days.”
“And how did it work out for her?” Maggie asks, her blue eyes fixed on me.
“She lived five years when she’d previously been given three months,” I say. “So no, it wasn’t a cure, but it certainly gave her valuable years she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
“I see,” Maggie says softly, her expression unreadable, but there is a timid quality to her barely there reply that doesn’t suit what I know of this woman, as if her internal struggle is perhaps distracting her from a performance. It’s stunning though. Could her entire existence be one big, exhausting show?
“Mrs. Brandon.”
The male voice echoes from the left, near the kitchen, and Maggie inhales but doesn’t turn, exhaling on a tightly spoken, “Yes, Chef Rod,” and she glances at Shane. “Your father and your brother are already in the dining room.” She then cuts me a sharp look. “No one else knows where your head was at and you need to make sure it stays that way.” It’s a reprimand, and I don’t know if it’s self-serving to her, but it’s good for me and Shane.
“I was angry,” I say. “I don’t care if they know. I’ll tell them.”
Her lips purse and hint at a smile. “That’s an acceptable response.” And with that, she returns to her prickly self. Then she turns and starts walking away.
Shane and I stand there, watching her cross the tiled foyer, neither of us moving or speaking, a band of tension tightening around us, suffocating us with the energy that is his family. “He didn’t tell her before the rest of us,” Shane bites out the moment his mother disappears into the kitchen, “because of Mike. On some level, be it consciously or unconsciously, I know she knows that.”
And with that statement, I have a good idea where his head is, even if he does not, and it’s not in the right place. I step in front of him, my hands settling at his hips. “This is not the right time or place to say this to you, but it’s necessary if we’re going to stay for dinner. Can anyone hear me here or do we need to go outside?”
“Speak softly and we’re fine here,” he says, curiosity in his eyes. “What is it?”
“I asked you what happened to change your mother, and you said, ‘My father.’ I’m not justifying your mother’s actions, but, Shane, she didn’t get to this place overnight. She has lived with your father for over thirty years. She made a decision to stay, and found a way to survive.”
“I know that,” he says.
“Of course you do,” I say. “On the surface it’s logical, but do you really understand it? Because I remember how much I put my mother on a pedestal after my father’s suicide and how hard it was for me when I discovered she was as human as you say I am. And flawed, like your mother.”
“Why is this important right this minute?”