Billionaire's Single Mom

"What makes you think she'll listen to me?" he asked as he looked at me over the edge of his teacup.

"You're a priest!" I cried. "And she's always listened to you!"

"Right," Patrick said shaking his head as he set his cup down. "She's never listened to me, Leah. It's always been Molly."

"But can't you try?" I begged feeling like the pesky little sister again. "She's putting Riley and me in danger with her drinking and her smoking and the way she locks herself in her room for days at a time. I'm worried that she's going to hurt herself or burn the house down!"

"And you think I can convince her?" he said as he rubbed his hand across his cheek. I smiled as I recognized the habit he'd had since he was a small child. My brother was still in there somewhere, even if he was holding back and hiding from us for now. I wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened after Molly had disappeared, but I didn't dare try and broach that subject while we were trying to solve the problem with my mother. We’d deal with one thing at a time.

"I don't know if you can convince her, but can you at least try?" I asked.

"Bring her to Mass," he said. "I'll talk to her afterwards."

"And what if I can't?" I asked. He had no idea how bad things had gotten, and I was loath to tell him.

"Then we'll go from there, but let's not invite trouble, shall we?" he said as he stood up. "I need to prepare for my early morning service now."

"I'll try and bring her," I said as I moved toward him. He slipped around the sofa and was out of the room before I could tell him how much I'd missed him and how happy I was to have him home again.

Chapter Thirteen

Jack

When I stopped by the house to change clothes before meeting Sloan for dinner, the ever-present butler opened the door. I shook my head as I walked past the man I didn't recognize. My father had insisted that there always be a butler present in the house when he was there, but he couldn't seem to keep one consistently employed. As a result, I had no idea what this man's name was.

"Thank you . . . ?" I said trailing off uncomfortably.

"Martin, sir," he said as he stood stiffly, holding the door for me. He was dressed in a uniform that called to mind England and royalty.

"Thank you, Martin," I said as I moved toward the stairs, wondering how long it would take me to convince my mother to stop this nonsense and live like a regular person.

"Jackson, is that you?" she called from the living room. "Come here and talk to me."

"Mother," I nodded as I entered the room and found her reclining on the chaise that looked out over the lawn. She looked pale, and when I sat down and took her hand, I realized it was cold. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said withdrawing her hand and waving me off. "I've just had a long day, and now I'm trying to relax. Is that blood on your suit?"

"Yes, but I’m fine. A little accident at work, nothing to be worried about," I said as I turned the conversation back to her and the full glass of bourbon in her other hand. "Should you be relaxing so much?"

"My husband just died. I think I'm entitled," she said in a brittle voice. "Don't nag me like your brother does."

"I'm not one to nag you, really, Mother," I said standing up and walking over to the window. "But are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm sad, Jackson," she sighed. "But under the circumstances, I believe that's normal, don't you?"

"Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I stared out at the manicured lawn. My father employed seven gardeners to keep the lawn meticulously groomed and, while they did an outstanding job of it, right now it seemed like yet another example of his ridiculous excesses. No one else saw it that way, though. Just me.

"Why are you home so early?" my mother asked as she sipped her drink.

"I'm going to dinner with Sloan," I said. "I need to change before I go."

"Because of the blood?" she asked absently.

"Yes, because of the blood," I said as I turned away from the window and looked down at her. My mother was a strong woman—she'd had to be to stand up to my father—but right now she looked small and fragile, and I was worried about her. "Mother, I think you should take a vacation away from here. What do you think?"

"Where am I going to go?" she said. "Everywhere I go reminds me of your father and the fact that he's not here, and never will be again."

I moved back to the chaise and leaned down to wrap my arms around her as she cried. I hated seeing my mother cry, and I hated it even more that she was crying over my father.