Page 22 of Dirty Secret Love

A pang of regret tugs at me, making me wonder why I’ve decided to share the intimate memory of Mom’s final moments. That’s something I guard in my heart and don’t share with anyone, not even friends. It was the last day we were somehow a happy family, or at least I believed that we were. After that, I figured out my father could be a cruel man, and my brothers didn’t give two fucks about anyone.

Maybe that’s why I hold onto that memory so closely. I can still recall that day so vividly: Dad was hopeful that Mom would get better. She had nurses and doctors visiting around the clock, even when they insisted she was already in the hospice stage, my father was expecting a miracle.

Father carried her gently to the living room, setting her in her favorite chair. She looked so small in comparison. Elle clung to Mom, her small fingers wrapped around our mother’s weakening hand.Even Gen and my often-absent brothers were there that day—all six of them.

They all loved Mom, I guess because she tried to make us all a family, even when she failed. As Dad began to read one of Mom’s favorite fairy tales, it was almost at the end when she took her last breath. The silence that settled afterward was profound, forever changing our family. The glue that had kept us together died.

Of course, I tell Sutton how Mom planned family gatherings and always tried to have an adventure. She used to say life was the biggest adventure and we had to embrace everything about it—and enjoy it.

“Your mom sounds like an extraordinary woman,” Sutton says, her eyes shining in a way that makes me believe she’s enjoying learning something new about me and my family.

“She was,” I reply, choked with emotion. I take a deep breath, trying to keep the swell of feelings at bay. “She was the best in ways I can’t even begin to describe.”

“I wish I had met her.” There’s a touch of sadness in her words.

Cracking a small smile, I begin preparing the hot cocoas, trying to shake off the somber mood. “Bet she would’ve loved you. Books were one of her favorite things.”

She leans against the counter, her fingers absentmindedly tapping on the granite surface. “How about your dad?”

Taking a deep breath, I avoid her gaze, focusing intently on stirring the cocoa. “He was devastated after she passed. Mom brought out the best in him, and after her death . . . I think the only one who could coax a smile or a kind word out of him was Elle.”

“Elle’s the one working at Hem & Her Tailors, right?” Sutton asks. I guess she’s trying to change the subject to a lighter note.

“That’s the one,” I confirm.

“I like her, but she’s pretty quiet,” she states. “I’m surprised someone is working with Ms. Lena. She can be pretty tough.”

“Elle’s an introvert. Fashion was her passion, and . . . she’s a lot like Gael in that sense. They both need to be close to what they love to truly thrive—she wouldn’t care how tough her boss is as long as she has fabric, scissors, and the tools to create something.”

Sutton angles her head curiously. “Is that why Gael insists on cooking at Jez’s bar and grill?”

I nod, pouring the hot cocoa into mugs. “Uh-huh.”

She takes a sip from the mug I hand her, the warmth spreading through her. “So, how many times did your father marry?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” I retort playfully, raising an eyebrow at her. “I thought you weren’t on board with my approach to our fake relationship.” I hesitate, struggling with the tug of war inside me.

I feel like I’m baring too many secrets. Secrets that won’t endanger my family, but maybe the way Sutton makes me feel—vulnerable, exposed—might endanger me, or my heart. No one has made me feel this comfortable. I don’t know why I’m trusting her with so much, and even though I’m somehow afraid, I want to continue this conversation.

She grins, her fingers playing with the rim of her mug. “I haven’t decided if it’s good or not. Even if I agree to be a part of this scheme. But I like getting to know people,” she confesses, her eyes searching mine.

I’ve learned this about her really fast, her need for knowledge. Pushing aside the sudden tightness in my chest, I begin with the basics, “My father married three women and knocked up one—Drake’s mother.”

“He’s the oldest, right?”

I nod, then I remember my conversation with Cal and Magnus. “Uh-huh. But please remember this is confidential. According to the current narrative they’re handling in Heartwood Lake, we’re all Donna’s children, except Gael and Genevieve,” I explain, taking a sip of my cocoa, feeling its warmth temper the cold, bare emotion that discussing family often brings.

“That’s weird, but I don’t plan on saying anything,” she promises. “Tell me about your siblings. Who are Donna’s children?”

With a deep breath, I outline the basics. “So as you mentioned, Drake’s the eldest. His mother’s details remain a mystery, even to him. Then there’s Magnus, Callahan, and Bach—Donna is their mom. Gael and Genevieve came next—Flora, their mother, isn’t nice.” She’s more like a bitch, but I don’t mention that part. After taking a deep breath I continue. “Slade came next, and then Dad met Mom. They had me and five years later, Elmira came into the world.”

Cocking her head, Sutton queries, “Who’s Slade’s mother?”

I let out a sigh. “Her name is Leonora. She suffers from dementia and before you ask, I don’t know where she is.”

“You seriously don’t know where she’s at? Maybe some center in Denver, or?—”

“We don’t know, and maybe that’s the way it should stay, darling,” I warn her gently. If I don’t stop her, she might start asking questions directly or worse, searching and accidentally flagging our existence.

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