A raw pang hit his chest. Damn, he missed his mother. He remembered how she used to sit on the edge of his bed, ruffle his hair, and just talk. She didn't even care when he got moody or didn't respond. She had a lightness of spirit that cloaked him and made him feel okay again. As if she filled an empty part of him inside that he didn't recognize until she was gone.
Memories hit. Oh, how she loved to tell him his birth story. Within a few hours of his birth, he'd come down with severe jaundice. But even after time spent under the therapy lights, he'd grown worse, until the doctor said the jaundice had reached such a dangerous level they needed to conduct a blood transfusion.
The process took hours, and he'd been in the NICU for seven days afterward to heal. He remembered how his mother described sitting by his side every day, watching him through the plastic bubble, unable to hold him for long periods of time. When he was finally brought home, he'd cried every night for over six months, refusing to sleep unless rocked in his mother's arms.
Oh, how his brothers teased him for that. His father had blamed Diane Pierce for babying him and making him a sissy. But his mother always said the needed touch and snuggling those first precious days had been ripped from both of them, and they spent the rest of their time trying to make up for it.
Even years afterward, his mother's soft voice always managed to settle that aching place inside and let him know it would all be okay. It was odd to have such a deep connection with one parent and feel completely ostracized from the other. His father had spent most of his time with Cal and Tristan, leaving Dalton behind. What Dalton rarely admitted to anyone was how much he enjoyed spending time with his mother alone. She was always telling him adventurous stories or making up elaborate games. She'd bake cookies with him in the kitchen, build pillow forts in his parents' king-size bed, or share her love of old musicals while she sang along in her off-key voice. She taught him to enjoy every moment of life and make the most of it. She taught him about being happy with who you were.
Until she left. And he realized she'd been lying to him the entire time.
Because he hadn't been important enough to her.
His feet hit the top step and his eyes stung.
Silly. A grown man missing his damn mommy.
He buried the emotions deep and walked into his room. The mansion could easily hold twenty guests without anyone ever bumping into someone else, so when the terms of the will had been satisfied, Dalton had decided to keep staying in the family home. No need to get a crap apartment when he usually enjoyed his brothers' company and got home-cooked meals from Morgan. He loved the goofball dogs, too, and the brothers had gotten into a habit of inviting Sydney and Brady, the company architect, over on Sunday afternoons for dinner.
Dalton's room was decorated in navy and earth tones, with simple, masculine furnishings that showed off an array of treasures he'd carved out. From the handmade trunk at the foot of the bed to the chest of drawers and burl wood poster bed, he'd filled it with major pieces that soothed him. Old basketball trophies, a signed Mets baseball including a signature from Mike Piazza, an old prom picture with his first real crush, Andrea Bellows, dressed in red satin with her boobs hanging out in magnificent glory. A tattered, thin volume of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. There was a remnant of the first surfboard he'd finished and varnished on his own under the tutelage of a surfer god in California.
The walls were filled with photography, including a bunch of family pics that were his favorites. His maternal grandfather and grandmother on their wedding day, dressed in vintage clothes and staring solemnly at the camera. His mom sitting at a pre-K table during his first Mother's Day tea, holding up a plastic cup and a lopsided cupcake while he grinned toothlessly beside her. The official family picture every Easter, with his brothers miserable in their stiff new suits.
The en suite bathroom had a spa shower, a TV, and a sauna, and was finished with rich Italian marble. But his true private oasis called to him.
He opened the French doors and stepped outside onto the balcony. The quiet of the night folded around him, and he lifted his head up to the sky with a smile. Since his room was located on the upper level, he felt removed from the rest of the house and closer to the stars. The temperature had dropped, and the air hung ripe and still. The clarity of the night struck him full force, a dark wave of inkiness streaked with hundreds of bright points scattered messily across the sky.
He walked around the two Adirondack chairs toward the telescope. The tension in his shoulders drifted away as he set up the lens and swiveled the scope to do an overview. He'd always had a fascination with stargazing, but his lighthearted hobby had become more serious as he got older. Something connected him to the bigger world when he stared out at the universe, and the idea of so many galaxies looking over him made him feel at peace. Kind of like when he worked with wood on a project he loved. Energy buzzed within him, warming his blood. His Orion SpaceProbe telescope was top-of-the-line, and since it was a perfect late spring evening, he easily found Rigel, the brightest star of Orion, and then traced the Horsehead Nebula, located at the east end of the belt. Dalton got lost for the next half hour, enjoying the clarity of the sky and allowing his thoughts to wander like a shooting star.