THE BOTTLE OF hideously expensive scotch sat on the polished Brazilian wood coffee table. Its legs were carved with whimsical tree frogs and palm fronds, one of the pieces that his mother had once hauled into the house to counteract his father’s love of everything stiff and dignified.
He would have given that entire seventy-five million dollars away on the street just to be able to talk to his mom again, right now. His relationship with his dad had deteriorated beyond the point of repair by the time his father had died, but he still believed that if his mom had been able to fight back the cancer that had killed her, they would have still been close. He would have been able to call her right now, to ask her how to fix this gigantic mess.
He couldn’t do that. And so he was still eyeing the unopened bottle of scotch, its contents glimmering enticingly in the fading light streaming in through the living room window.
A drink wouldn’t help him make Jo love him, but it would sure numb the misery that had weighed down his limbs so much that he wasn’t sure he’d ever move again.
He leaned back on the stiff sofa, letting his head rest on the back. Closing his eyes, he fought the desire for the drink that was taunting him. He focused on slowing his breathing, on trying to find some semblance of calm. When a chime sounded, he thought that maybe he’d finally achieved some deeper state of being, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in stuff like that.
The musical note sounded again, and he sat up stiffly, feeling like he’d been drugged. The doorbell—it was the doorbell. Woodenly, he pushed off the sofa and moved to the front door.
Jo’s mother stood on the other side. Well-worn yellow oven mitts covered her hands as she clutched tightly to a large pot.
“Hello, Theodore.” She smiled up at him, the fading sunlight catching in the virulently crimson strands of her hair as she held out the pot. He smelled garlic, Italian seasoning and, best of all, spicy sausage.
He knew that smell. “Italian sausage soup?” He’d eaten countless bowls of that soup on the well-worn table in the house next door. His heart contracted, and the warmth he’d been so desperately craving as he stared at the bottle of scotch gathered in his core.
“You know it.” She arched an eyebrow, and he saw a hint of Jo’s stubbornness play out over her finer features. “Are you going to invite me in, or do I have to be rude and invite myself?”
Choking out a laugh, he stepped back and let her in. She sailed through the door like a steamboat, heading back to the kitchen.
“I’ll just get this right on the stove. You’ll eat a bowl now, yes?”
He knew Jo’s mother—Mamesie—well enough to know that this wasn’t a question. She wanted to talk to him, and she’d decided that he could use a meal while she did.
He rubbed his stomach, which had woken up at the tantalizing scent of the comfort food. She wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten lunch, and he remembered quite well that his breakfast had been derailed by sex with Jo.
Mamesie had already filled a large bowl by the time he entered the kitchen. She’d placed it on the wide marble island with a spoon and had produced a loaf of bread from the tote bag she’d had slung over her shoulder. The yeasty scent of home-baked bread made his stomach rumble as she sawed off a gigantic slice and balanced it on the edge of his bowl.
“You haven’t been by to see me since you’ve been back,” she commented mildly as she leaned over the edge of the island, across from where she’d set the soup. He winced as he slid onto one of the bar stools.
“You still don’t pull punches, I see.” Lifting the spoon, he trailed it through the soup, watching the red droplets as they slid off the metal.
“I’m not done.” Hooking her thick-rimmed glasses into the front of her blousy shirt, she cast him a disapproving stare. “I’ve got one miserable girl at home. She’s holed up in her room and won’t talk to anyone, not even Beth.”
“Shit.” Theo dropped his spoon. “It’s my fault, Mamesie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Are you the only person in this relationship?” she asked mildly, and he shook his hand, feeling as though she’d slapped his hand. “Then I highly doubt that it’s all your fault. So why don’t you tell me about it?”
He opened his mouth, then shook his head. “With all due respect, I don’t think I should. Jo is your girl.”
“Theo.” The depth of emotion in Mamesie’s voice had him looking up, startled. “Jo is my girl. But you’ve been my boy, ever since the day I met you. Don’t you know that by now?”
Her words were the balm he’d needed. Swallowing thickly, he forced himself to begin speaking. He found himself telling her everything, right back to the night he’d left—well, everything except the sex. There were some things a mother didn’t need to know.
She nodded when he was done, and he set his spoon down. He was surprised to discover that he’d eaten all of the bread and soup, and felt a hell of a lot better for it.
“So let me get this straight.” Pushing back from the island, Mamesie fixed him with a cool, pale stare. “You told Jo, before this offer came in, that this exact thing was what you dreamed of accomplishing. Then you told her that your dream had come true. And then you told her to be the one to tell you to stay.”
“Ah...yes. That would be accurate.” When it was all laid out like that, it didn’t sound so great. “But I want to stay, if she’ll have me.”
“Do you think my daughter loves you?” There was no judgment in Mamesie’s words, but the question brought Theo up short. He knew how he felt, but Jo’s response earlier that day had made him question whether he’d imagined everything between them.
But...he knew he hadn’t. Jo might not want to love him, but she did. They’d been apart for a long time, but he still felt he knew her heart.
He nodded.
“So she loves you. And she told you to go pursue your dream, because it’s what she thinks will make you happy.” Mamesie shook her head. “Gee, I wonder why that is.”
Hope was a wild thing, unfurling inside him. “So what do I do?”
Unhooking her glasses again, she placed them squarely on her nose, then peered at him with the withering expression that no one mastered like a mother. “You go get her, you lunkhead. But have another bowl of soup first.”