TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (28 page)

“I don’t understand.”

She sits herself down. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one telling you this but he won’t, he can’t and

there are things you should know.”

I’m holding onto her every word, so much so my heart rate is increasing out of fear of what she’s

about to say. “Go on, I’m listening. What should I know?”

“His name.”

“What do you mean his name?”

She reaches into the box. “See, on his Birth Certificate it reads
Ayden Saphir Pierre.”

She’s right, it does and all I can do is stare at the unfamiliar letters on the pale sheet of paper. “I

didn’t know that.”

“He said he’d lived long enough with the stigma of being a foreigner. You see, he was singled out at

Bright Hill and never a day went by without him having to defend his mother’s name.”

“So his mother was French?”

“Yes and beautiful I should think, to have brought such a beautiful boy into this world.”

Perhaps a little too quickly I interrupt. “Yet she gave him up. Why did she do that? Do you know?”

“No. But there were rumours about a young French woman giving birth and being forced to leave

her baby at the hospital.”

I feel my heart aching for the poor woman and even more so for Ayden. “She must have been

desperate.”

“A mother should never be forced to do such a thing.” She’s shaking her head in disbelief.

“Poor Ayden. He never knew her?” I feel tears pricking my eyes.

She nods a woeful no and reaches into the box to take out a book on gemmology. “But that didn’t

stop him loving her. He even learned French so they could communicate when he found her.”

He speaks French …

“He thought about her daily. I saw it in his eyes, those beautiful eyes that see everything but give

nothing away. This was the first book we bought him. Look how it’s tattered and worn. He almost read

the print right off the pages; night after night looking for something. Always looking.”

“For what?”

“For proof of her existence. A sign. Anything.”

I’m shaking my head and my downturned smile does not go unnoticed.

“But then, he found it.” She taps the book. “In here.” She thumbs through the pages until she stops

on a page overwritten with comments and highlighted passages. She passes it to me and I rest it on my

lap, moved to see the heavy handed scribble of a heart-broken, teenage boy.

“How old was he when he took an interest in gems?” I ask, running my finger over the underlined

words.

“Fourteen. We asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said a book on gems.” She walks

over to the wardrobe and pulls back the other door. Behind it are rows and rows of books, mostly

hardbacks relating to a single subject: gems generally and sapphires in particular. This is nothing new,

hardly a revelation. I have a blue sapphire and diamond ring on my finger and I’ve seen his signature

suits so …

“I know he likes sapphires …”

“Likes?” She calls out melodramatically, clapping her hands. “He’s obsessed by them. He sees his

mother in them, that’s how he keeps her memory alive.”

I feel I should be making sense of all this but I’m missing something; either that or I’m

embarrassingly slow on the up-take. “How do you know that?”

She hands me his Birth Certificate and a light bulb goes off in my head:

Saphir Pierre.
Sapphire Stone. On impulse, my hand reaches for my heart and tears well in my

eyes. I get it.

“You see, he couldn’t believe his mother would leave him with nothing. Even now, he still believes

she gave him his name for a reason.”

“Saphir is French for sapphire and Pierre is French for stone.” I nod my head and catch a tear before

it falls onto this treasured document. “He became an expert on sapphires so he could have a

connection with his mother?”

“Not quite. He became an expert to start a business. His whole company is founded on them …

even I know only diamonds are stronger than blue sapphires when it comes to cutting and they are far

better conductors. His communications business would never have got off the ground if it hadn’t been

for them.”

“So he was right?” I can’t conceal my astonishment.

“Yes. We re-mortgaged the house to get him started and he spent every waking moment

researching, learning about sapphires and investigating possible uses.” She begins to laugh. “One day

a box of them came over from some far flung place on the other side of the world and we didn’t see

him for a week.” The laughter fades. “I tell you Beth, when he came out of his room two days before

his seventeenth birthday he was like a man possessed. There was no stopping him. We never saw our

boy again after that day.” Mingled with her pride is a cloud of sadness. It hangs over her and screens

the light from her eyes.

“Every penny he made he ploughed back.” She takes his Birth Certificate, folds it and places it back

in the box on top of his first gemmology book. “The week before he turned eighteen, he told us he was

changing his name and wanted us to know why. We knew why. At nineteen he reinvented himself as

Ayden Stone and, as they say, the rest is history.”

Our connection is broken by the sound of that sapphire savvy man laughing downstairs. She cocks

her head to listen. “Listen to that. Anyone would guess that it’s father and son sharing a joke.”

“It is,” I state. That’s what it sounds like to me.

“No, Ayden never calls us mother and father.” Nervously she fiddles with her necklace. “Do you

know what the worse day of the year is for him?” I shake my head. “Mother’s Day. He would feel

obliged to buy me a card, knowing how upset I would be if he didn’t but, deep down, I knew it was

only a token gesture. A simple act of kindness.”

I take her arm and hold it. It’s the least I can do. “It must have been difficult for you knowing that.”

“Yes, but love is where you find it and he has found you Beth.” She brightens suddenly, sweeping

away the sadness, preparing to lock it behind a sliding wardrobe door. “You have no idea how happy

that makes me.”

I feel her hand against my cheek. “Thank you.”

“I have my scrap book here somewhere full of newspaper cuttings and photographs of him with his

‘lady friends,’ but you’re the only one he has brought home to meet us.” She strokes my hair and I feel

the warmth of her affection.

I reach out my hand. “He had this engagement ring made for me.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to contain her surprise. “It’s a heart of stone: his heart. You

must treasure it Beth. It’s no small thing for him.”

I nod and gaze at it. She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know.

“We hoped and prayed this day would come, when he would finally say goodbye to his phantoms,

both of them. His mother and his sister.”

My mouth falls open. Quickly, I close it to speak. “His sister?”

“Yes, Elise.”

“I …” For some reason this is a bigger shock than finding out about his mother. To have a sister

and not to tell me …

“I wouldn’t expect him to speak of her, the memories are too painful, but he and she were like

brother and sister for just over two years until … well, I don’t know, until something happened when

he was ten and they took her away.” Her head falls into her hands. “Oh, the nightmares he had …”

I need to hear about this. “About her?”

“I don’t know for sure. He would never tell me and, you know what he’s like, he can’t be forced or

cajoled into doing anything against his will. Such a stubborn boy. Always had to win and have his

way.”

I speak my single thought out loud. “Perhaps he’ll tell me?”

Sylvia pats my hand. “Choose your moment carefully Beth, we all have our demons and it will be

painful for him to face his.”

I have an instant recollection of doing exactly
that
three days ago. “I will, don’t worry.”

“I know you that Beth. Just don’t be surprised if he goes out of his way to keep you safe.”

I give her a knowing smile. “Believe me, he’s already started a security programme more suited to

the Queen of England than me.”

“Well, you could never accuse him of doing anything by half.” She returns the contents of the box

to their safe spot, pats on the lid and returns it to its hiding place. The door slides shut and walls in

Ayden’s secrets but, those secrets are out; they’re like living, breathing entities that have taken on a

life of their own and found refuge in my imagination.

“Come.” She holds open the door for me, probably assuming I will be able to put it all behind me.

She’s wrong.

“Let’s go downstairs and see the boys before they get into any trouble.”

She presses her forefinger against her lips and we make our way into the kitchen in silence. Ayden

has his back to us and is unaware of our presence. His laughter breaks the silence but I can’t hear him

speaking. Is he on the phone? Who’s he talking to?

Sylvia mimes ‘Watch.’ I do. I watch him signing to Patrick who is making virtually no sound, his

hands moving like a man tying knots, over and over. Ayden is nodding and responding by doing the

same, even exaggerating his expressions to elaborate meaning.

From the corner of his eye, or by sensory perception, he senses my presence, turns and gives me a

playful wink. I give him one of my shy smiles. Patrick claps his hands and is impatiently waiting to be

introduced. Instead of Ayden doing the honours, I do so myself. Remembering what I learned at night

school, I sign:
Hi, I’m Beth, you must be Patrick.

I reach out my hand, but he pushes it away and hugs me to him like a long lost daughter. Taking my

hand he leads me to the side room and signs, thankfully a little slower than with Ayden.

What have you done with our bad-tempered boy? You have given us this contented one as a

replacement. Thank you.

I sign back:
He is very special to me and he makes me happy too.

As quick as a flash he asks:
Do you love him?

I already know my reply:
More than life itself.

He’s nodding and laughing:
That’s what he said. You two must have rehearsed this?

I smile and remind him,
Great minds think alike
.

With that we return to the breakfast bar and to an exploding bottle of bubbly. I take a step back and

watch the three of them together, mopping up champagne, filling up glasses and smiling with so much

love I think my heart will burst from taking it all in. It’s moving and it’s real: a little too real. It

reminds me of the things I’ve missed out on. I have no family to speak of, except Charlie, and now

finding out about Ayden, his past and it colliding with our future, I wonder if I have the strength to

endure it.

Feeling the distance growing between us, Ayden reaches out and pulls me into him, so close I can

feel his heart beating against my palm; his hand is around my waist, holding onto me tightly,

reassuringly, sensing my need to be held, to be included. He whispers in my ear. “You’re a part of this

family now Beth. I told you they’d love you.”

His words touch my soul, forcing me to fight back tears. Not in eight years have I felt this close to

anyone or to a group of people who want nothing more from me than my love in return for theirs. I

could weep. I quell the flood by grabbing a strip of kitchen towel, pat my eyes and blow my nose

discreetly before raising my champagne flute.

Ayden does the honours, freeing his hand from my waist and signing the words as he says them. I

settle my eyes on his hands and stare at them with wondrous awe. Is there anything he can’t do with

those hands?

I’d like to toast these two ladies who grace us with their beauty and their unconditional love, Sylvia

and Beth, to you both.

He picks up his champagne and we touch glasses. I see a glistening wetness forming in Sylvia’s

eyes, denoting the joy of the occasion but conveying so much more. She knows his words are well

intentioned but being called by her name cuts her to the bone.

For another half hour, we chat; Patrick teases Ayden about his boxing prowess or lack of and the

authenticity of my ring and it’s all very light-hearted and frivolous. I feel Sylvia’s eyes on us, saying

nothing but recording the way he looks at me when I speak, hanging on my every word; how he

strokes my hair and keeps checking my face for evidence of uncertainty or unease, only to be

reassured by a simple smile. What she cannot see is the magnitude of the love I feel for her son, and

that’s what he is. Maybe not her flesh and blood, but every inch the son of deserving parents; of
good

people.
The pride they show for him is self-evident. I feel blessed to be included in this family circle.

While we finish our champagne, we stand and watch Ayden and Patrick gesticulating to each other,

signing letters and words like they are catching up on old news. I feel as if I’m bearing witness to the

kind of love that is taken for granted, that goes unnoticed, until it’s gone. There’s a bond between

them, that of father and son.

Sylvia is aware of my reflective mood and seems to read my thoughts. “Just look at my two boys