Justin set the tablet on his desk and steepled his fingers. “Sounds like Aubrey.”
Fury flashed through him. Stubborn. Myopic. Risk adverse. Hardheaded. She’d been everything in a woman that as a younger man he’d found off-putting. How might his life have been different if he’d chased after Aubrey? If he’d not been so consumed by his ego, hurt by her leaving, and instead of licking his wounds, gone after her? They might be a family now. Together. The three of them. There might have even been a second child or a third, since their one-night affair had happened before his prognosis.
Such. A. Fool. He’d misplayed the potential relationship with Aubrey. Perhaps the worst play of his life. And now? His gaze trailed across his desk to his tablet where the picture of Maxwell Travati stared back at him. A boy. His son. The first, and so far only, member of the next generation of Travatis.
He fought the anger that thumped through his chest because of the years lost to him and his son. If Max was his son—of course there must be a blood test and official documents. Justin certainly doubted Aubrey had included his name on the birth certificate, but if Justin was a betting man, and he often was often a betting man who won big, he’d say the e-mail was true. He knew simply by looking at the face of this boy that Max was, in fact, his one and only son.
Justin pressed the button on his phone. “Liza, you’ve taken care of the reservations for tonight?”
“I have, sir. It took some doing—you know they’re booked three months in advance. They don’t usually take new guests on short notice. I had to call the Times food critic to get you a reservation.”
Whatever strings needed to be pulled. “Which seating?”
“The nine p.m.”
Justin looked at Roger, who sat across from his desk. “You have my orders with regards to the boy,” Justin said. “I’ll let you know when I need you to move in.”
Roger nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready when you are.”
“Thank you.” Roger stood and exited Justin’s office. It was good to have money, lots and lots of money, because when people took things that belonged to you, stole things that were yours, there was always a way to make certain those things were returned.
Chapter 3
“Mo-o-om, stop it!” Max ducked his head and weaved away from his mother.
“I simply want to see if this sweatshirt fits.”
“Okay, whatever. Mom? Come on, just let me do it by myself.” Max’s gaze went from her to his bedroom door as he, ever so politely for a fourteen-year-old boy, told his mother to give him space.
“Fine! Fine!” Aubrey threw up both her hands in surrender. She needed to learn what battles to wage and when to surrender. But when, exactly, had her caring for Max become a battleground? Hadn’t she always been the one tasked with making certain his clothes fit? That he was warm and fed and well tended? Now he was wresting away from her all the responsibilities she’d not only diligently performed but had dedicated her life to performing well. Talk about a transition! No wonder adolescence was such a battle. It was the moment the mommy-expert surrendered to her child, and what a tough surrender that was.
“You need to find two sweatshirts that fit and are clean.” Now she stood at his door and glanced around his room, the state of which deteriorated with each passing day. And that smell! What was that funky smell that came with adolescent boys?
“Okay, Mom.” Max stood there with a defiant set to his shoulders, waiting.
Waiting for her to leave.
A tiny crack slivered through her heart. He used to run toward her, arms outstretched, little legs churning as fast as they could, and she’d tried desperately not to take those moments for granted, but she had. A few she’d even tossed aside, needing to work or think or balance books or make orders. A tragedy. She took one more peek at Max, his back to her as he pulled his shirt over his head, and she closed the door.
“I’m going down to see Aunt Nina at The Barn,” she called through the door. “We’ll leave in forty-five minutes.”
A grunt came from Max’s room. She assumed it was a yes or some sort of acknowledgement that he’d heard what she’d said. She walked through the house and out the side door of the farmhouse.
Scents of fresh grass and water-laden air filled her lungs. She took a deep, long breath. Work. She needed work to keep herself busy and focused and not obsessing over the conversation that, since breakfast this morning, she’d failed to have with Max about his father. The fact that Max was leaving for fifteen days only heightened her anxiety. She trod across the limestone path to the back of the restaurant.