Tall and slender, she maintained her looks with regular visits to salons and spas. Her hair looked polished, her makeup perfect, despite the tears. In her own needy way, she did love him.
“I’m so relieved to have you back, safe and sound,” she added.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a seat by a window that overlooked a manicured park, crisscrossed by pathways. “A little something I brought you,” he said, handing her a flat jar with a colorful label. It was caviar from the Caspian Fish Company Azerbaijan. “Slim pickings in the souvenir department.”
“Thank you, Ross. You know I love caviar.”
“Sure. I want to hear all about Granddad. What’s going on?”
She reiterated the words that had brought him racing across the globe: glioblastoma multiforme. Grade four— which meant rapid progression. Refusing treatment. “He said he wants to make the most of the time he has left,” she explained, her voice tinged with indignation. “And then what does he do? Hires some woman who is obviously after his money, and goes looking for some lost branch of the family. I think it’s complete and utter nonsense.”
Ross wasn’t sure what she was referring to as complete and utter nonsense. George’s diagnosis or his reaction to it? His quest to reconnect with his brother or the fact that there were other Bellamys in the world?
“Did you know anything about Granddad’s brother?” asked Ross. “Did Dad?”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Pierce knew about the brother. It was no secret. It was simply a fact. George had a brother and the two never saw each other or spoke.”
“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with that?”
“It’s not my place to judge. Nor is it yours. I always assumed they had gone down separate paths. Your grandfather was an expatriate until he retired a few years ago, and his sons are…Why, I scarcely know where anyone is these days. It’s easy to lose track.”
“Uncle Gerard’s in Cape Town, Uncle Louis in Tokyo and Uncle Trevor’s in L.A. It’s not rocket science, keeping up with family members. Something else must have happened.”
“He’s being a foolish old man,” Winifred pronounced. “That’s what happened. I don’t know if his lack of judgment is caused by the cancer, or if he’s simply old and foolish. I hope he’ll listen to you, Ross. You’re the only one who can reason with him. He’s acting out of panic, going with a strange woman to a strange town when he should be here, with us,” his mother said, her voice taut with insistence.
Ross felt a surge of pity. Yes, she was self-centered. But she and Granddad shared a common bond. Ross and his grandfather were perhaps the only ones in the family who understood that Winifred was terrified of another loss, and it wasn’t all about the money.
Once a year, on the anniversary of Pierce’s death, Winifred would go to the war veterans’ cemetery in Farmingdale on Long Island. There, she would weep as she lay a wreath at the unadorned headstone that was indistinguishable from all the others there, in the endless rows, except for the name chiseled in it. Each year she was joined in this ritual by her father-in-law, who would visit from Paris or wherever he happened to be working.
“He’s a selfish, foolish old man to do this to his family,” she repeated.
“Oh, that’ll bring him rushing back,” Ross pointed out.
“I would never tell him that.”
“Sometimes you can sense someone’s opinion without having it expressed directly.” He paused. Then something made him ask, “Did you ever really know Granddad, Mom? Did you love him, or did you love the way he took care of us after Dad was killed?”
“Don’t be silly. The two are inseparable.” Then she burst into tears. “Of course I loved him. What on earth do you take me for?”
Ross touched her shoulder, knowing this was a rare glimpse at his mother’s closely guarded heart. She patted his hand and moved away from him. The two of them had never been at ease in one another’s company. Ross felt too restless to sit still. “I’m going to drive up and find Granddad. If I leave now, I can beat the rush-hour traffic out of the city.”
“You just got here,” said Winifred.
“Come with me,” he suggested.
“I couldn’t,” she said. “I have too much on my schedule.”
Ross didn’t let himself comment about that. “I can stay for dinner,” he conceded. “Then I need to borrow the car."
“Thank God I caught you,” said Natalie Sweet, exiting the taxicab. “Your mother told me I could catch you if I hurry.”
In the remote parking facility where the car was stored, Ross set aside the car keys and opened his arms. She launched herself at him. They clung together for long moments and he inhaled the bubblegum-sweet scent of her hair. She was his best friend, and one of his oldest. He and Natalie had met at boarding school in Lugano, Switzerland. They had both been scared, skinny kids with mad skills at skiing and families that were far, far away.
Leaning back a little, he lifted her off the ground. “I’m glad you caught me.”
“Welcome home, soldier,” she said, and her voice in his ear was as welcome as an old favorite song on the radio.
“Thanks.” He set her down. “You look fantastic, Nat. The writing life agrees with you.”
She laughed. “Making a living agrees with me. See how fat and sassy I am?” She perched her hands on her hips.
“You look great.”
She had always been pretty—to Ross, anyway. Not a classic beauty; she had typical girl-next-door good looks, with the wholesome appeal of a loaf of freshly baked bread.
“So things are working out at the paper?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it in the car.” She grinned at his expression. “That’s right, soldier. I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t remember inviting you.”
She indicated a slouchy-looking weekender bag on the pavement. “You didn’t. But you’re going to need me and we both know it. We’ve got the Vulcan mind link up and running, right?”
In secondary school, they’d both been closet fans of Star Trek: The Next Generation, a crazy dubbed version that aired on the Italian national station. To this day, he still remembered how to say “Live long and prosper” in Italian.
“Look, it’s really good of you,” he said. “But I’m driving upstate by myself. It’s not a pleasure trip.”
“Haven’t you figured it out by now?” she asked, giving him a slug in the arm. “I’d rather have a rotten time with you than a great time with anyone else. So we’d better get going, or we’ll get stuck in traffic.”
“You’re not coming.”
“Why would you waste valuable time in an argument you’re going to lose?” she asked.
“Damn. You are one huge pain in the ass.”
A few minutes later they were in a thick but moving line of traffic leaving the city behind, block by tattered block.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Natalie said. “This car kicks ass.”
He’d never argue about his mother’s taste in cars. The Aston Martin roadster drove like a carnival ride. He could barely remember the last time he’d driven anything that didn’t involve both hands and both feet simultaneously.
“You didn’t give me a choice,” he reminded Natalie.
“I