Page 7 of Handsome Devil
“I’m thinking we’ll stay there at least through April. We’re breaking ground in the Hamptons for that gated community project,” he added.
“I will need to return to London the week after next for Mum’s appointment,” I said matter-of-factly. “And will probably visit here every weekend to help her carers.”
My mother had early onset dementia. The first signs appeared shortly after The Accident. She was not doing well. Luckily, I could pay for the best aides and carers, thanks to my mammoth salary.
The company also allotted me a medical allowance for relatives, which paid for occupational therapy. The perks and salary were the only things that kept me here.
“Bring your mother to the States.” A demand, not an offer.
“I’m not changing her environment and caregivers so you can call me at two a.m. on a Friday asking me to fetch you condoms.”
File under things that actually happened in my second year of employment.
“You’re taking too much time off work.” His voice, like his face, was neutral and indifferent.
“Let me stop you right there.” I raised my palm. “Do not make me choose between my mother and my job. You willnotlike the answer.”
“Very well.” Tate returned his attention to the Victorian book. “Have your Centurion card returned to the bank. You just lost your shopping privileges.”
I shrugged. I never used it anyway.
“I will. Can I ask you a question?”
His lips curled in annoyance. “Clearly. You just did.”
“What’s your fascination with this book?” I cleared my throat, wanting to break the ice. At least some of it. It always appeared as though the entire continent of Antarctica was wedged between me and my boss.
“It is the first children’s book in the world without a lesson or a moral.”
“What’s wrong with morals?” I wrinkled my nose.
Tate looked up, eyes as dead as the useless heart in his chest. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t got any.”
The rest of the drive was spent in silence as the vehicle neared GS Properties’ office in Covent Garden. I inwardly groaned. I’d been meaning to call it a night and check in on Mum. Now I’d likely have to wait until dawn.
Whenever I was in London, which was nearly every month, I stayed with Mum in our Wimbledon semidetached, but she also had a caregiver with her around the clock.
I pulled out my mobile and texted Mum’s carer, Jim.
Gia: Hi Jim. Terribly sorry. A work thing came up. Can I come at around 6 a.m.? x.
“Where’s the rest of your family?” Tate demanded suddenly, tucking his book back into his breast pocket and examining his long, swordsman fingers. “Why can’t they take care of her?”
I put my phone down after Jim replied promptly.
Jim: NP. Have fun bday girl. x.
Gia: How is she?
Jim: …
Jim: Don’t worry about it, Gia. I’ve got it.
She was deteriorating faster than I thought.
“I’d say the primary reason is because they’re, well,dead.” I hoped the dramatic piece of information would wipe off his bored, mocking expression, but not a muscle twitched in his face. “My father and brother died in a car accident,” I hedged. “Don’t you remember?”
I still had some extended family. An aunt I helped financially and some relatives I spent the holidays with.
