Mended (Connections, #3)(78)

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, don’t go yet. Come back to bed,” she says, rolling over onto her stomach and rising on her elbows.

“I can’t. When I lie next to you like that, all I can think about is being inside you. I need to take care of the Damon situation.”

She rolls back over and tosses the pillows off the bed. “I’m going to have to touch myself again. Aren’t I?”

“Fuck, Ivy. Don’t talk like that. The shower can’t get cold enough for me already.”

“You could let your crazy thoughts go and spend the day in bed with me.”

“Ivy, stop. Please.”

“Xander, his father is being buried today. My attorney said he’d take care of it as soon as he could.”

I look at her. “Ivy, I’ll take care of it much sooner. I can promise you that.”

? ? ?

Looking out the car window, squinting against the brightness of the sun, I think I have to get my f*cking car back. And what is Bell doing without a car anyway?

Turning the corner to my mother’s house again, I resolve not to be so emotional. I need to know what she knows about Damon and his family.

I step in the back door again. This time Brigitte is in the kitchen. Her shoes clatter against the floor as she runs to greet me. “My Xander. My Xander,” she says, hugging me.

“Brigitte. How are you?” I respond.

“Very well,” she answers. “Your mother will be so pleased to see you.”

I kiss her cheek and make my way through the house. I find my mother sitting in her leopard-print chair at the oversized desk in her office. This room is her domain. The carpet is the lightest of beiges. The walls are a deep red with three large shadow boxes strategically placed behind her desk. They are lit from within. One houses my first basketball jersey, another River’s pint-sized first guitar, and the third one holds Bell’s pink ballet slippers. Our most prized possessions that she just couldn’t part with. Photos plaster the walls. On one wall, photos of the three of us kids are hung, and on another, photos of her parents and sister. There is one large photo of my mother and Jack on her desk.

She looks up at me from over her reading glasses. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve already crossed the room and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her, because I know I don’t let her know this often enough.

She stares at me, squeezing the hand I leave on her shoulder.

“I’m okay, Mom. I am. But I need some help.”

“I know all about Ivy and Damon,” she says.

“Mom, I need to understand him. What makes him tick?”

“Power and money.” She looks at me and then picks up a letter on her desk. Running her finger over the edges, she hands it to me and says, “I think this is what you’re looking for.”

I take a shaky breath. My hand grips the envelope tightly for a few seconds. “What is it?”

“It’s your inheritance.”

My mind is running in circles. “What do you mean, my inheritance?”

“Josh Wolf was a good man. He never knew Dylan was your biological father until Damon blurted it out one night in the heat of anger. He came to see me afterward. You were around seven. I made him promise to leave you alone, and he did as I asked. His only request was that I send a photo of you once a year on your birthday with a few words about you written on the back. He wanted to know you even if he couldn’t really know you.”

She looks at me, studying my reaction before continuing. “This came this morning. It’s a letter from Josh’s attorney telling me it was Josh’s wish for me to use my best judgment in determining if you are ready for this. Ironic that his son couldn’t even let him die in peace. He had to tell the world about you before his father could. I’m really sorry for that.”

“Mom, I told you I’m okay. And I am.” I take the letter and have a seat. I open it and a number of pictures fall out onto the thick carpet. I bend to pick them up—they’re of me, with words written on the back. A picture of me in a Poison T-shirt at eight years old with the words “Loves Ninja Turtles” on the back. Another of me with my new guitar, the words “Loves to jam” scripted on the reverse side. I pile them all together and sit back in my chair.

“I stopped sending them when you turned eighteen. At that point I figured you were a man and I couldn’t stop him from telling you if he wanted. I thought about telling you so many times after Daddy’s death because I was afraid Josh or Damon would, but I couldn’t get the words out. Like I said, Josh was a good man and he respected my wishes.”

I understand why she couldn’t tell me. I don’t have to ask. She knew how much I hated Nick then. And she didn’t want me to hate him. She wanted me to love him like she loved me. She was right not to tell me because I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I shuffle the stuffed envelope between my hands until I decide to pull the letter out. The note itself is a short handwritten one . . .

I’ve watched you grow into a young man. I’ve watched you take control of your life. I wish I could have been a part of your life, but you have a family that loves you more than anything, so it’s only in my death that I’m able to tell you how proud of you I am. By all rights what I’m giving you is yours. Take care and never forget who you are.