CHAPTER 16: Noah Asks About His Mother
Noah did not care about headlines.
He cared about whether Elias had eaten breakfast. He cared about the recipe box. He cared about the fact that his new shoes did not squeak the way his old ones did. And, after two days of adults whispering around him, he finally asked the question everyone feared.
“What was my mom like?”
Marcus and Elias were sitting with him in the penthouse kitchen. The hotel chef had offered a grand breakfast, but Noah asked for pancakes because Ruth’s recipe card was on the counter. Marcus, who had not cooked in twenty years, burned the first three. Elias laughed so hard he coughed.
The laughter made Noah brave.
“What was she like?” he asked again.
Marcus set down the spatula.
Elias looked at him, silently giving him the right to answer first.
Marcus leaned against the counter. “She was stubborn.”
Noah smiled a little. “Good stubborn?”
“The best kind. The kind that made powerful people uncomfortable.”
Elias added, “She was scared when I knew her. But even scared, she kept saying your name. Over and over. Like saying it kept her strong.”
Noah touched the blue blanket on his lap. “Did she want me?”
Marcus crossed the kitchen slowly and knelt so they were eye to eye. “More than anything.”
The boy’s face changed, not fully relieved, but less alone.
Marcus brought out the family album. Together they looked at pictures of Claire on horses, Claire in muddy boots, Claire at charity events looking bored, Claire laughing with Marcus beside a lake. Noah studied each image like it was a map to a country he had been born in but never visited.
“She looks happy here,” he said.
“She was,” Marcus replied. “Before things got complicated.”
Noah’s finger rested on one photograph. Claire held a sign at a shelter opening. Behind her stood Adrian Ashford, younger and smiling.
Noah frowned. “Why is he there?”
Marcus looked closely.
He had seen that photograph before, but never like this. Adrian was not looking at the camera. He was looking at Claire’s purse, where a folded document stuck out.
Mara was called immediately.
The photograph became another thread.
May you like
And as Mara said, threads were dangerous things.
Pull one hard enough, and even the richest fabric can come apart.
