Page 198 of Soul Mates: Hercules Valentine and I
I get out of my vehicle. As soon as my feet hit the concrete, I battle the urge to get back behind the wheel and drive in the opposite direction of the conversation I'm about to have with my mother. As the saying goes, if it's not broken, then don't try to fix it. But as long as we are slaves to Thomas’s trust, we’re broken.
I touch the finger pad to enter the hallway that’ll take me to the main foyer. As I plod up the white marble floor, my thoughts veer toward Paisley. I hope Max hasn’t gotten to her yet. I probably should’ve stopped by her apartment before driving out to Greenwich. James said she seemed to understand the message I asked him to pass on. I hope so.
“Hercules?” My mother’s voice flows in from the sunroom. “I’m in here.”
I can sense the unease in her tone. It takes a second for my feet to get going. Once we have this conversation, there will be no turning back.
I walk into the sunroom. My mother's eyes are upon me as she sits in a tufted leather armchair next to a view of her prized flower garden. Even though her light hair and dark eyes are always striking enough to make anybody admire her appearance, the colors beyond the glass are a scene stealer. She's even planted cherry trees among the flowers. The only reason I notice them is because they’re Paisley's favorite. I got a feeling Paisley would like to be in this room and perhaps sit down with my mother and have a cup of coffee. Marigold has always been a great conversationalist. She could make an exchange about a pinky finger interesting.
“Hi, Mother,” I say, closing the distance between us.
She bounds to her feet. “I'm glad you came, son.”
We hug, and I kiss her on the cheek. She smells like a bouquet of flowers.
“You look beautiful today.”
Her smile is slight. “Thank you.”
My eyes find the book in her hand. I frown as I read the title. “The Dark Christmases?”
Marigold’s thin frame is tense as she sits back down and positions the book on her lap. “Have a seat.”
I sit on the edge of the sofa across from her. Following her gaze to my leg, I realize I’m shaking it nervously.
“Yes, my name is Julia Valentine.”
I still my leg. “I know. But…”
“I was raised in a loveless home, Hercules. I'm not going to tell you the sins of my father. If you want to know”—she holds up the book—“read this.” She carefully places the book on the round table next the arm of her chair.
I shake my head, unwilling to let her off the hook. “Is that all you have for an explanation? Read the book?”
“An explanation about who my father was, yes. I can’t say it still. He was a sick man, Hercules. Very sick.” She gazes off, her eyes tapered by distraught. “I wanted to believe he was normal. And I guess I’m lucky that I wasn’t one of his victims. But he made it so difficult for me to survive.” She’s looking at me again.
I round my shoulders and lengthen my posture. “Difficult how?”
“His name was Arthur Valentine. After he was released from prison…”
My head jerks back. “Prison?”
“Yes. After he was released from prison, we were destitute. I tried making marriages of my own, but not a soul would touch me because I was more of a burden than asset.” She exhales. “But I’m a survivor.”
“I know that,” I barely say.
“I believed I had to what was best for me no matter what.”
“And that meant changing your name and identity.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
My mother recounts how she used her remaining funds from her final payment from the Valentine trust to pay someone to make her and her father disappear. An airplane crash over the Atlantic for a private flight from Teterboro to Heathrow was arranged.
“Fragments of the aircraft was found but our bodies were never recovered.”
“Of course. Because here you are,” I say.
