Page 51 of Just The Way You Aren't

“You should try the pastry chef’s petit fours,” his mother says without missing a beat. She takes my plate and gracefully places three of them on there for me.

“Thank you.” I return her enthusiastic smile, then I take a bite of the delicious little cake. “My goodness, these are incredible.”

Mrs. Langley beams. “I’m so pleased you like them. Damien, you’re not having any?”

He reaches for one of the little pastel squares and bites it in half. “Delicious,” he mutters. I notice his usually steady hand seems a bit shaky as he grabs his delicate teacup and takes a large gulp. He seems reluctant to look at me now. “Unfortunately, we can’t stay long, Mother.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” She pouts as she glances my way again. Leaning toward me, she whispers loudly, “I saw a photo of my son kissing you in the paper.”

Ah yes, the kiss at the Alzheimer’s event.I’ve seen the photo too. For me, it was more than just a snapshot moment. I’ve caught myself staring at the image more times than I’d like to admit. Reliving every magical second of that evening with Damien.

“You shouldn’t be reading gossip columns,” he grumbles.

His mother waves him off with a giggle. “What else does an old woman have to do all day? Anyway, it was nice to see you smiling, Damien. You and your father both work too much all the time. Too serious, you Langley men, I say.”

I stifle my urge to agree with her, but only because I sense from Damien’s stiffening posture that his father is a sensitive subject. I take a sip of my tea, trying not to rattle the china as I set the delicate cup back on its saucer.

“Where is Carter?” Marianne asks, glancing around the room as if she expects to see him there.

Damien clears his throat. “Dad’s… not here, Mom. Not for a few years now.”

Oh. Now I understand. The truth is there, in Damien’s gentle reply. It’s in the way he reaches over to his mother and tenderly covers her frail hand with his stronger one. Mr. Langley is deceased.

A look of utter heartbreak flashes in Marianne’s eyes, but it fades away, much like the bulk of her memories from what I can tell. She gives a wobbly nod and glances down at her lap.

“Ah, yes. That’s right. I don’t know how I can forget that sometimes.” She looks back up at us with a watery smile. “I suppose I don’t want to remember some things.”

Her look is one I’ve seen far too often in my line of work. I feel helpless in the face of her renewed pain. All I can do is I return her smile, and nod sympathetically. Damien downs the rest of his tea in one swallow, as if he can’t wait to get out of here.

So much about him has become clearer in this moment. I appreciate his willingness to help me and Silver Hearts even more now that I know he has personal experience with brain diseases like dementia and Alzheimer’s, even if his mother’s condition appears to be in the early stages.

It hurts to see someone struggle, and I know this is only the tip of the iceberg. Fortunately, there is no rigid timeline. Marianne might have a decade of clarity ahead of her. Carter might be the only ghost who continues to live on in her mindfor now, but there will be more. Either way, I want Damien to know I understand and I’m here for him—and for his mom too, if he wants me to be.

Mrs. Langley stirs her tea, her spoon clinking musically against the china. "When I saw that photo of you two, I said to myself, 'Now there's a woman who brings out the best in my son.'"

Damien shifts uncomfortably beside me. "Mother?—"

"No, let me finish," she says, holding up one elegant hand. "I've seen you with other women, Damien. Society girls, models, that dreadful banking heiress." She wrinkles her nose. "But in that photo with Willow, you looked... happy. Genuinely happy." She turns to me with a conspiratorial smile. "He never looks that way in photographs. Usually, he scowls like someone's trying to steal his wallet."

Despite the heaviness of the moment, I can't help but laugh. "He does have a rather impressive scowl."

"It's his father's scowl," Marianne says fondly. "Carter could stop a board meeting cold with that look."

Damien's jaw tightens at the mention of his father again, but there's something tender in his expression too.

"Yes, well," he says, clearing his throat. "The important thing is, the event was a success. We raised over two million dollars for Alzheimer’s research."

"Research is so important," his mother agrees, nodding solemnly. "You never know who might need those breakthroughs someday."

The irony of her statement hangs in the air between us. I wonder if she has moments of clarity where she understands what's happening to her.

Before I can stop myself, I reach over to Damien and squeeze the hand that rests so tensely on his thigh beneath thetable. Instead of pulling away, he turns his hand over and laces his fingers between mine. We sit like that, hands joined, as Marianne talks about holiday traditions that haven't happened in years, about a husband who no longer exists except in her fading memories.

She tells us about Valentine's parties and Easter egg hunts for charity, about summer galas in the Hamptons. I listen, nodding and smiling, asking gentle questions when appropriate. Beside me, Damien gradually relaxes, though he never lets go of my hand.

Finally, after what must be twenty minutes of these stories, Marianne pauses to sip her tea, her gaze going a bit vacant. She’s all talked out, and the tea must be cold by now.

"I'm afraid Willow and I really should be going, Mother," Damien says gently.

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