Page 30 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Eleven
Anthony
When I hear knocking at my door the next morning, I glance at the clock beside my bed. Not even six. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand, but it’s too late to sleep now. I roll out of bed and open the door. It’s Father. In a suit.
“Morning.”
He frowns. “You look terrible.”
“You look good.” And I’m not just saying it to be a smartass. He looks imposing, sharp, his eyes focused and observant. Every bit the CEO of Blackwood Energy.
“Thanks. Listen, your mother doesn’t have anything in particular to do today. On days like this, she usually relaxes and reads. Stick by her, humor her and spend some time with her. Let her see the good in you. You were her favorite son,” he adds in a quiet voice.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” The last thing I want to do is upset her with my presence.
“I want my wife back,” he says tautly, a hint of anger and grief flashing in his eyes. “I’ve done everything, Tony. This is the least you can do, even if it hurts. You will make her forgive you.”
Seeing the pain on my father’s strong face is all it takes for me to acquiesce. After all, I’m the one who caused it. “I understand.”
“Good.”
So I make myself presentable and join her. I don’t try to engage much. Just stay in the same room, reading my books while she’s reading hers.
At the same time, I do my best to avoid Ivy. I don’t want her, in her innocence, to do anything to upset Mother. She might inadvertently say or do something to defend me or hint that Mother should forgive me, but that would only result in hardening Mother’s heart and earning Ivy the Bolt treatment.
And over the next four days, I do successfully spend quite a bit of time with Mother without running into Ivy even once. Even Harry stays away, as though he knows what I’m trying to do. It wouldn’t surprise me if Father also spoke with him.
But Mother doesn’t soften, not even a little. She ignores me completely, absorbed in her books and some charity work she’s doing for the town. At times I feel like a piece of furniture.
By the fifth morning, I’m skimming the pages without absorbing a word. Am I wasting everyone’s time? Should I be more forceful? Maybe even ask Mother point-blank what I need to do to make her not hate me?
She clucks her tongue, making me raise my head. “What is it?” I ask softly, bracing myself to be ignored.
She tenses, then says, “A minor complication.”
“Can I help?” Please say yes. Give me an inch. A small opening. Anything. Please, please, please.
She scrutinizes me, her gaze roaming every square inch of my face. Then she drops her eyes, her mouth flattening.
“Mother? I’m sure I can help.”
“No.”
Suddenly I can’t stand it anymore. Nine fucking years of wishing, hoping, praying—all so she would look at me without hate or blankness. I know we can never go back to way things were before. Katherine will never come back. All I want is absolution and a few crumbs of warmth from my mother. I want my family to be happy. I want to be able to breathe without feeling like there’s a huge, immovable weight pressing on my chest.
“What will it take?” I nearly croak.
“Excuse me?”
“What do I need to do for you to forgive me?”
She regards me. “If I tell you, will you do it? Even if it’s something you wouldn’t do otherwise?”
“Yes. Anything. I’ll swallow broken glass if that’s what’s going to take.” I mean every syllable of what I’m saying.
She looks at me long and hard. I wait, suspended, torn between hope and dread.
Finally, she shakes her head. “No. I won’t. I can’t tell you.”
