The Charmer (Harbor City 2)

Mind still trying to process the revelation and reactions, he turned to his mom. “How did you find out?”

“Give me some credit. I am your mother,” she said as she strolled from painting to painting, examining each one. “Do you really think every college’s senior exhibition is so well attended by the critics?’

The exhibition had been packed with people, even his advisor had commented on it. And they were only there because of his family name? “You set me up?”

“No.” She shook her head and crossed over to him, curling her arm around his waist. “I put the right people in the room. Everything else you did on your own.”

“But Dad…” It didn’t make sense. Not even a little bit. “He was adamant that I give it up. That’s why I created Hughston.”

Helene squeezed his waist and then walked over to the largest painting in the room. It was half finished. There was no missing who it was, though, and it just about killed him. He’d started it before…well, before. Now h

e could barely look at it let alone finish it.

“Your grandfather always hated this cabin,” Helene said, looking around at the huge windows, stone fireplace, and timber walls.

“Why?” Clover asked. “It’s gorgeous.”

Helene glided her fingertips over the brushes sitting near the unfinished painting, a sad smile curling her lips. “Because this is where Michael had his art studio.”

If she had told him his dad had been a purple dinosaur that spoke Chinese, he wouldn’t have been more shocked. Not his dad. He wasn’t a painter. He was a businessman. Focused. Intense. Determined to turn both of his boys into titans of the industry. An artist? It didn’t make any sense.

“Your father and I met in class,” Helene went on, looking at another painting but obviously seeing one that was only visible in her mind. “We always told you that but not the rest. It was a painting class, and I was the model. He was good, but not as good as you are, Hudson. I wish he’d lived to see how talented you really are.” Her chin trembled for the slightest of seconds before she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. By the time she exhaled, she’d steadied herself. “Michael had the passion for it, but his work never found an audience, a fact that your grandfather reminded him of at every chance he got. So, when we decided to get married, your father gave up painting and turned all his attention to the business. He thought denying that part of himself was the best way to make sure his family was safe and secure.” Another deep breath, her hand curled into a fist and pressed to her belly. “He sacrificed something that was important to him because he thought it was the best thing for those he loved. I tried to talk him out of it. In the beginning, I gave him brushes and paint, brought him here—but it only reminded him of what he saw as a painful failure, thanks to the way your grandfather needled him about it at every turn.”

His grandfather had been a legendary asshole in the boardroom and outside of it. That he’d been a dick to his own son wasn’t a shock.

“So, when you started painting,” Helene said, “it brought back everything for your father, and he wanted to protect you from that disappointment. He wouldn’t have ever ridiculed you, not like his father had, but he didn’t want you to go through the agony of wanting something more than anything else in the world but not being able to get it. I tried to talk him out of his decision to threaten to cut you off, but he’s a Carlyle, and you are all proof that the Carlyle men are an amazingly stubborn group of people.”

“No argument there,” Clover said, even as she snuggled in closer to Sawyer’s side.

Helene strode over to Hudson, handing him the brush she’d been walking around with and curling his fingers around the wooden handle. Looking down, it was like seeing everything from far away. Maybe the anger, frustration, and sadness about all the time lost would come, but for now, all he could do was wonder what it would have been like if he’d only had the balls to tell his father the truth before he’d died.

“As parents, we want the best for our children, but sometimes we go about it in the wrong way,” Helene said, tears again in her eye as she looked from him to Sawyer. “I am proof of that.” She hooked her arm through his and walked him over to the unfinished painting of Felicia. “The whole time, though, your father knew he was wrong. He wanted to tell you, but he couldn’t find the words. Your father’s biggest regret was not going to your college exhibition. He never knew about Hughston. I couldn’t tell him. It would have broken his heart if he’d known that he was forcing you into a double life. He loved you, please know that, but he thought he knew what was best for you and just wanted you to be happy. He really did think he was doing the right thing. I hope you don’t ever make the same mistake your father and I did.”

They stood in silence together, the kind that was almost lacking in gravity it was so pure, and looked at the half-finished painting of Felicia. He dropped the paintbrush to the floor and wrapped his arms around his mom, feeling for the first time since she’d come out of mourning just how fragile she was. She covered it up well. Like him, she was good at acting the part. But maybe now they wouldn’t have to do so for each other anymore.

“Thanks for telling me, Mom,” he said, his throat scratchy and raw. “I’m sorry I never told you. I should have told you both before he…”

The rest wouldn’t come. It didn’t matter. They both knew what he meant. After one more squeeze, Helene patted him on the back and stepped out of the hug.

“I’m going to go look around,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

She and Clover walked upstairs together. The fact that those two women got along as well as they did always surprised him, but it probably shouldn’t—like connecting with like and all that.

Squatting down, he picked up the brush he’d dropped and put it down next to the unfinished painting, studiously avoiding looking at the bright blue of Felicia’s eyes staring unblinkingly back at him. Sawyer joined him, his arms crossed over his chest as he took in the painting.

“Are you hiding out and smelling like shit because of her?” he asked.

“Who?” Hudson asked, feigning ignorance because Felicia was right, he was a chicken shit. “There are just so many women in my life.”

“Cut the shit,” his brother said. “It’s so obvious that you’re into Felicia that even I noticed during those client dinners with Tyler.”

“No, that’s just how we wanted it to look.” Hudson’s gut twisted, and all the rage at himself and the situation came back again. “It’s Tyler she wants.”

Sawyer mumbled something that sounded a lot like fucking dumb shit under his breath. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

He didn’t need to. It’s what she’d told him—over and over and over again. “No, it’s the truth.”

“Since I’ve been with Clover, I’ve been trying to pay more attention to the details. You know what I just picked up on, little brother?” he asked, getting in Hudson’s face. “You didn’t say you hadn’t fallen hard for Felicia. Shit. The evidence is right here.” He jerked his chin at the row of paintings. “But if you want her, you’re going to have to learn to fight for what you want. And sulking in this cabin isn’t gonna solve shit.”