The Good Mom (4 page)

Few people outside the family even knew of Luke, or of Gram's continuing grief. She kept it that way on purpose. Gram had a soft heart, though she preferred to show the world the sharp, hardened exterior she'd developed through her business and charitable pursuits.

“Did you meet Brandon through the Sunshine Club, as well?” he asked. “I understand he's also a leukemia survivor.”

“Initially, yes.” Gram paused. “My staff supervises him and handles all communication between his mother and the organization. Prior to Brandon, we'd used baseball stars—from the Captains—as our television fundraisers. But quite by accident, Brandon stepped in. And he proved to be much more effective than any of them were.”

“How so?”

She smiled at him. “Brandon is very good on television. He's a natural showman.”

Aidan thought of the studious-looking kid in the St. Bartholomew's blazer. Brandon had looked like an average twelve-year-old to Aidan. He shook his head. “I don't know that I would have gone on television and asked people for money at that age,” he murmured.

When Ashley had first mentioned Brandon wanting to be a pediatric oncologist, Aidan hadn't really believed her. To his cynical mind, it had seemed like more of a parent's dream than a kid's dream.

“You would have done it for the chance to be a ball boy for the Captains,” Gram said matter-of-factly.

Aidan sat up straighter. “Ashley's son is a ball boy for the New England Captains?”

“Oh, yes.” His grandmother nodded. “It was the price I paid for keeping him happy.”

Aidan completely understood the “happy” part—he would have killed for the opportunity to be a Captains ball boy at Brandon's age. Any kid of Aidan's acquaintance would have.

Rubbing his tired head, Aidan sat back. “So why all the subterfuge? Why didn't you just introduce Ashley and me? Simple and easy. Say, ‘Aidan, meet Ashley. Maybe you'd like to give her some advice on her son's school'?”

Gram snorted. “You don't know yourself as well as you think you do, do you?” Then she pulled back. “It's...a delicate situation,” she said carefully. “I had to proceed with caution. I do need your help, Aidan. You're the only person I know who can help—the best person—and yet I needed to know that you could work with Ashley on your own terms. If I'd been too early, pushing you to meet her, to sit with her, to talk about her son—do you think you would have lasted five minutes?”

No.
Of course he wouldn't have. And he hated to be manipulated.

Yet here he was again, put in that situation by people close to him.

Even Gram. And it hurt.

She leaned over the table and put her hand on his “I know how hard it was for you at St. Bartholomew's. It wasn't a happy place for you, and I did the best I could to give you support there.”

Yes, she had. His enrollment had been his parents' insistence.

He raised his head. He had to ask the question, because he had to know. “Did
you
pull strings to get Brandon admitted to St. Bartholomew?”

She sighed. “Yes. Though it pained me to do it.” She blotted her lips with her napkin, and put it down on her plate. “His aunt was looking at schools in New Hampshire for him, appealing for scholarships. I couldn't risk losing him at the Sunshine Club.”

“St. Bartholomew's is academically rigorous,” he said quietly. “Can Brandon handle that?”

She gave him a sad, serious look. “Come with me tomorrow, and we'll find out.”

With a sinking heart, Aidan did a quick calculation. The kid would be in his first week of his first year at St. Bartholomew's. Preliminary academic testing results would be coming back soon. Maybe Gram had some inside information.

“Is there a chance Brandon will be asked to leave?” he asked his grandmother.

“My influence is limited.” She held up her hands. “I can recommend a student for admission, but I can't keep a failing student enrolled.” She shook her head. “You know how it is there.”

Aidan did. All too well. The school prided themselves on being academically rigorous, among the best in the world. They would keep a lagging student on for the first term, but then at the winter break, they would show Brandon the door, if necessary.

Ashley would be crushed
, he thought.

He sat for a moment, thinking about that. He didn't want to picture how upset she would be.

“There's another reason I keep Ashley LaValley at arm's length,” Gram said carefully, “You should know this.” And Aidan glanced up, suddenly alert.

“She went through alcohol rehabilitation four years ago,” his grandmother said grimly. “Her childhood was difficult from what I understand—an alcoholic mother, as well—and in such cases, I find it best to keep a certain distance.”

His mouth hung open. He could feel it.

But his shock was soon replaced with anger. Wasn't that narrow-minded of her to think that way?

“You could have mentored Ashley all these years,” he pointed out. “Instead of expecting me to mentor Brandon now.”

Gram gave him a faint smile. “That's one of the things I love most about you, Aidan. You have a kind heart.” She glanced at his phone. “Perhaps now you might return Albert Sanborne's text messages?”

Point taken.
“Since you seem to know everything,” he said drily, “why don't you tell me what Fleur's father wants?”

“Actually, we're all assuming—hoping—that you'll be staying in town long enough to help organize the one-year memorial service for Fleur.”

He shook his head. He hadn't even considered there would be such a thing. She'd passed away last October—eleven months ago. There had been a small, private funeral, of course, and though he hadn't attended—he was still in Afghanistan—Gram had.

He was grateful to her for that even now.

“Aidan? Give the word, and I'll handle it for you.”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

“It's not a problem for me to do so.”

“I said
no
.”

“Would you like me to arrange a room for you in one of my vacant apartments?” she pressed.

“No, I have a condo.”

“Very well. And if you'd like your position back at the hospital—”

“No,” he said icily.

“Or a position consulting with the Captains?”

Gritting his teeth, he stood. He'd just spent a year in a war zone, performing amputations on children; he certainly didn't feel like coming back to tape sprained ankles for professional baseball players.

“Take all the time you need,” she said softly. “Think about what I've said.”

He didn't need time to think, he needed
space
to think.

As he walked to the men's room, he couldn't help thinking that Gram was perfectly fine. He was the one with the head problems.

Or maybe they were heart problems. He wasn't sure anymore.

* * *

I
N
THE
END
, Aidan stayed with Gram in her spare bedroom. He'd gone back to his condo, but the doorman had handed him a stack of messages.

One from a reporter. Another from the hospital, his former employer. Yet another from Fleur's father, Albert, writing this time instead of calling “just in case your phone isn't working here yet.”

His head pounding, Aidan had left it all and walked out to the street, where he'd hailed a random taxi and directed it to Beacon Hill.

His grandmother opened the door in person. She knew enough to hand him a cup of tea and just let him go to sleep.

The next morning, he was still feeling jet-lagged when his grandmother's housemaid opened the bedroom curtains and brought in a tray of watery coffee and toast.

And then he was stepping into his grandmother's town car again, being driven by Rocco toward the Back Bay and St. Bartholomew's School.

He'd discovered that he was curious to see what his grandmother was going to do next. He had a sinking feeling that it might not be in Ashley's best interests. Or in his.

CHAPTER THREE

“B
RANDON
,
HURRY
UP
, we're going to be late!”

If there was one thing Ashley could take heart in, early on this Friday school morning, it was that her almost-thirteen-year-old son wasn't in the bathroom preening. There were no girls in his classes at St. Bartholomew's, unlike in his public school. He seemed to be taking that fact in stride, though. Sometimes nothing appeared to faze her happy-go-lucky kid.

She found him in his bedroom, typing swiftly into his smartphone. He kept a social media account that Ashley monitored as best she could. He shared photos mainly. And his friends commented, in their weird kid-speak that was totally different from the kid-speak that Ashley and her friends had used too many years ago.

She put her hand on her hip. “Brandon, we need to go.”

“Okay.” He gave her the lopsided grin that was already slaying female hearts from the North Shore to the Cape—wherever the Sunshine Club donation appeals were broadcast.

Thankfully, though, her scary-smart kid still liked school. Ashley had been a middling student—not like her reclusive genius of a younger sister.

But Brandon was neither reclusive nor middling. No, he'd gotten the best of the LaValley family genes—not that that was saying much. It was as if they'd saved up all the good ones for this amazing kid. God, she was lucky.

Brandon grabbed his backpack. His blazer was looped through the top—it was still warm outside—but every day this week she'd watched as he'd put it on, looking natty, as he entered the school archway.

With a bottle of juice in his hand, he said to her, “You don't have to walk with me.”

They'd been through this. “I know I don't
have
to most days,” she said, “but today I need to.”

He cocked his head. “That note is probably no big deal.”

He was referring to the letter that the school had sent home, requesting Ashley's presence at a meeting in the headmaster's office this morning. “It's standard, Mom,” Brandon had already explained. “In schools like this, they send notes to parents all the time. All my friends probably got them, too.”

Frankly, she trusted his judgment when it came to St. Bartholomew's more than her own. He'd been there a week already, and he came home happier each day.

“I'll see the headmaster and find out what he has to say,” she told him.

“I know I'm doing well in my English class. There are, like, these kids in my class, they're from Mexico and Korea, and their English isn't that great yet.”

“That's a long way from home,” she remarked.

“It is. I wouldn't want to be them. I'm only a few miles from home. I can still see my old friends on weekends.”

“True,” she murmured, grabbing her purse from the closet she kept it locked in. Old habits. Their previous apartment had been broken into twice, and she'd learned not to leave her valuables out where thieves could see them. Then she motioned Brandon toward their front door and locked it behind them.

“So, what does the headmaster do when he wants to talk to your Korean friend's parent?” she asked as they headed toward the street.

“Cho,” Brandon said. “His name is Cho.” He ran his hand through his shaggy bangs.

“Okay, Cho. What happens? Do they get his parents on a video call? Or send them an email?”

“Cho's father uses an interpreter from their embassy. I think he's an ambassador, with an office down in Washington. Or something like that.”

Not for the first time Ashley marveled at the company her son was keeping. It made her heart swell. She felt weepy with all the opportunities he was getting.

“So this is just a normal check-in with parents,” she repeated, for probably the tenth time, wishing she had more experience with private schools.

“Don't be nervous, Mom.” Brandon shot her a grin. “We're good.”

“Right.” She nodded, averting her gaze as they walked past the package store that had made her so nervous yesterday. “Good.”

Brandon reached in his backpack to put on his earphones and music, but she grabbed his hand. “Can we just talk, please? It's only a few more feet to walk with your mom.” She smiled as easily as she could. “Humor me.”

He rolled his eyes in mock good humor. “We're okay, Mom.” And then he added something she hadn't heard before. “If something was really bad, they would have called Mrs. Sharpe.”

Vivian Sharpe?
She eyed her precocious son. “Why would they call her? She's not your mother.”

He smiled faintly. “Nope. You are. And everybody knows it.” Then he took out his smartphone and skimmed through it. Ashley said nothing because it was what all his friends did.

But his comment still bothered her.

“Has Vivian Sharpe contacted you lately?” she asked.

“No, Mom. You know she hasn't.”

Okay. She shouldn't worry, then. Maybe she should make a pact with herself to stop worrying.

They fell into an easy pace while she shook off the bad feeling and tried not to worry any longer. This early in the morning, the streets weren't very busy. Brandon scrolled with his thumb while he walked, one eye on the screen in front of him, one eye on the street.

When they got to the school, Brandon paused and glanced up at her. For a moment, he was her little boy again, instead of this more complicated preteen. Still skinny, with a smattering of acne across his nose, he leaned over and gave her a hug.

“I love you, Mommy,” he whispered. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she felt close to tears, wanting to hold on to this moment, wishing it could last longer than it did.

And just as quickly, they were walking on. Up the stone steps, passing a group of four men who seemed to be teachers. They greeted Brandon warmly. One of them—Dr. Prosser—the English teacher—directed her to the corridor where the headmaster's office was located. Ashley hadn't been inside since Brandon's admittance interviews last spring.

The receptionist looked up as Ashley entered. Glancing over the top of her eyeglasses, she, too, smiled warmly.

See, nothing to worry about
, she told herself. All these nice people cared about her son's welfare. So why was she so jittery?

She sat, folding her hands and placing her purse on her lap. For the millionth time, she wished her sister was here. This was Lisbeth's world, not hers. But it couldn't be helped. Ashley would have to handle this alone.

* * *

A
IDAN
WASN
'
T
EXACTLY
sure what he was doing, standing with his grandmother outside the dining hall at St. Bartholomew's. Curiosity, maybe? Secretly hoping for a glimpse of Ashley, his pretty hairstylist?

He must be nuts. He should be back at his condo, getting it ready for a quick sale.

Ding!
Another text message hit his inbox. He glanced at his smartphone.

We would like to call on Saturday. What time is good?
the message from Albert Sanborne read.

Saturday was tomorrow. And Gram was right; he needed to deal with this.

Noon
, Aidan typed back.

There, it was done. One more step in moving on.

He glanced up and realized that his grandmother was moving on, too, doggedly forging ahead with her cane. He saw that she was having difficulty with the uneven stone floor, so he jogged ahead and gave her his elbow, helping her walk past the open doors that showed morning breakfast session in full swing.

It was the same as he remembered from his time, and it was smaller, too. Back when he'd been twelve, thirteen, fourteen—the age of the boys who attended St. Bartholomew's—this place had been his whole world. Most boys boarded at the school, and Aidan had been no exception. Many of his friends had come from far away—from Europe, from Asia, from Mexico. Many were sons of wealthy families. But even the wealthy couldn't protect their kids from everything.

Failure, for example. This had been the first place where Aidan had failed. He'd never been a studious kid to begin with, had never really cared about following in the family footsteps and being a doctor. He'd wanted freedom, the ability to go off anywhere he felt like, to have an adventure.

Fleur had brought him on adventures, the last one being a war zone halfway around the world. Perhaps that had been the initial attraction between them. But even that had fallen apart.

He'd loved her once, and thought she'd loved him, but in the end, he hadn't been able to fix their relationship.

His grandmother had been the one person in his family who'd expressed reservations about Fleur. On the surface, she'd seemed perfect for him. “She doesn't put you first,” Gram had said. He'd thought Gram had been crazy to even think that way. Who in his family did that? And he definitely didn't want someone who fawned and trembled in his presence, depending on him. He'd wanted independence. And freedom. And he'd definitely wanted adventure.

Until he'd had his fill of it.

Swallowing, he paused in the hallway, his hand still on Gram's arm. Honestly, it was crazy that he was even here this morning. But maybe he was looking for something, too. So out of character of him. He was thinking. Brooding. Trying to figure out the next step in his life. Something he'd never, ever worried about before. Normally a man of action, he'd been more like...

Like that kid in the corner of the dining hall. A ring of kids surrounded him—he had them mesmerized. Telling some kind of a joke, showing them something on his phone. They were nodding and smiling. The towheaded kid, the life of the party.

“Aidan, we're here,” Gram murmured. They were outside the conference room where Gram was scheduled to meet with the board.

“I'll wait outside,” he told her. “Call me when you're finished.”

“Yes, Aidan.” Gram smiled at a tall, thin man who'd stood to greet them. “Dr. Pingree, I'd like you meet my grandson, Dr. Aidan Lowe. Aidan, this is Dr. Pingree, the headmaster.”

Aidan greeted the headmaster and shook his hand.

“I understand you've moved back to Boston,” Dr. Pingree said.

“For a short time, yes.”

“Thank you for coming back to see us. We love to see returning alumni. Especially those as accomplished as you are, Dr. Lowe.”

“Thank you,” Aidan said politely.

“Since I have a few minutes before the board meeting starts, would you indulge me and allow me to show you our newest improvements in the facilities? It will take just a few minutes. So often we reach out for donation appeals, but we don't usually get the chance to show some of the capital improvements the funds make.”

Gram was quite generous with St. Bart's. But she wasn't going on the short tour, she said. Aidan was well aware she had an angle with him today. He knew how to say no to people very well.

Maybe he should.

“Sure,” he said to the good doctor. “Why not?” He left his grandmother and headed back to the dining hall by Dr. Pingree's side.

The boys quieted as Dr. Pingree walked through their midst. These would be the first-year boys. Most were clustered together, wearing their new suit jackets, self-conscious, maybe a little afraid with back-to-a-new-school jitters. Aidan guessed that most came from very wealthy, very busy parents who had high standards for their children. He felt compassion for them. He remembered the feeling, the heavy burden of expectations. The fear of not measuring up. The realization of the investment.

The table that the headmaster was leading him toward was the one that Aidan had observed earlier, as he had walked with his grandmother. The table that seemed to be centered on one boy who kept the attention of the others. The happy-go-lucky kid.

Blond hair. Slight. Skinny, as if he'd just had a massive growth spurt to which the rest of his body hadn't caught up yet.

Aidan paused. “Who is that boy?”

“That's Brandon,” the headmaster said.

Brandon.
Aidan wasn't at all surprised. He'd thought he'd recognized the kid from the photo in his mom's workstation.

Brandon saw them conferring. When the headmaster gestured for him to come over, he got up from the table without hesitation.

“Brandon, this is Dr. Lowe,” the headmaster said. “Dr. Lowe, I'd like to introduce you to one of our first-year students, Brandon LaValley.”

“Hi, Dr. Lowe.” Brandon confidently stuck out his hand. But his voice cracked, and his cheeks flushed.

Aidan gave the boy an easy grin. Took his outstretched hand and shook it. “Hi, Brandon. Pleased to meet you.”

“Dr. Lowe is one of our graduates,” Dr. Pingree said. “He's currently an orthopedic surgeon at Wellness Hospital.”

Aidan didn't correct him. Technically, Aidan supposed, he still had his position on staff there. Really, he was just grateful that the headmaster hadn't mentioned his posting with Doctor's Aid. Or his relationship to Vivian Sharpe. Or his past affiliation with the New England Captains organization.

Aidan was just about to make an excuse to leave when he caught Brandon's expression. The boy stared at him with big eyes and shaggy hair and skinny arms. Aidan remembered the awkwardness of that age, and he felt some compassion.

“Are you going to help tutor me?” Brandon asked anxiously.

“Why? Do you need a tutor?” Aidan asked, taken aback.

“Um...” Brandon glanced hesitantly at Dr. Pingree. “Some of my friends who board here were assigned tutors last night. I, um, think I probably need one, too.”

Aidan stared at Dr. Pingree. “Have you discussed me with him?”

Dr. Pingree shook his head. “No, I haven't.”

“I saw you once, Dr. Lowe, when I was eight,” Brandon piped up. “You were in the Captains clubhouse with Carlton Martinez. You were treating his elbow. I know who you are.”