Page 199 of Soul Mates: Hercules Valentine and I
“Yes. Here I am.”
We stare at each other. And for a moment, it’s as if I’m looking at a ghost.
“I’m trying not to judge you,” I finally say.
She grunts as she presses her palms over her face then removes them. “I’m trying not to judge myself. At least, at this stage in my life, I finally have some remorse. I didn’t have any back then. I believed it was my right to have whatever I wanted by any means necessary.”
I’m speechless. There’s nothing to say when your mother confesses to being self-centered and having some remorse about it.
“I began to evolve into a slightly better person when Achilles was born.”
“Mother,” I say, rubbing my fingers against my scalp. I’m trying to arrange all the questions I have to ask of her in my head and in the right order. “Was Hugo’s real name Arthur Valentine.”
There’s relief in the way she’s shaking he head. “No. My father and I parted ways after the accident.”
“Then he’s still alive.”
My mother looks down to lift the hem of her white blouse then evens it out. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care.” She’s watching me again.
I study her eyes. “Then who was Hugo?”
“Rupert Nelson was his real name.”
A sardonic laugh escapes me. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Have we just stepped into the damn Twilight Zone or something? Suddenly, I’m struck by illumination. “Gregory Grove figured it out, didn’t he?”
After inhaling and exhaling deeply, she says, “He used it as an opportunity to squeeze us out of our rights to TRANSPORT.”
I belt another bitter laugh. “And that’s the basis of the feud.”
“Yes.” She rises elegantly to her feet. “I have something for you.” She walks to her French-style writing desk against the wall and takes an orange envelope out of the drawer.
“This is proof we have rights to TRANSPORT. If we would’ve fought them, we would’ve won.” I take the folder from her then watch her casually take her seat again. “And Rupert was a venture capitalist, just like Gregory was. The two never got along. I think it’s because they were both brilliant in their own right.”
“Got it.” My tone is sharp and impatient. I can’t let her throw me off my fact-finding mission by feeding me information that does me no good. I can’t change the past. “What about Dad?”
My mother’s lips pull together then tighten. It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about my father. “What about him?”
“What are his skeletons, Mom?”
Her chin shoots up. I think my tone took her by surprise. “He was a bartender in Alaska that I seduced and convinced to be with me in the way I needed him.”
“You needed him to lie for you and with you.”
She gazes down to smooth her hem again. “If that’s how you want to look at it, yes.” Her jaw is set when she looks up again. “But your father is an adult.”
“In body, Mom, yes. But he grew surviving foster homes. He was easy to manipulate.”
She shakes her head adamantly. “I gave him a son.”
“You gave him three sons,” I correct.
There’s that look on her face again. I tilt my head curiously as dread rolls through like waves crashing against the shore. “Mother?” I say.
She closes her eyes. “You’re his son. Achilles and Orion have a different father.”
I’m propelled to my feet. “Who?” I roar.
She shakes her head.
