The Good Mum

“I know I’m doing well in my English class. There are, like, these kids in my class, they’re from Mexico and Korea, and their English isn’t that great yet.”

“That’s a long way from home,” she remarked.

“It is. I wouldn’t want to be them. I’m only a few miles from home. I can still see my old friends on weekends.”

“True,” she murmured, grabbing her purse from the closet she kept it locked in. Old habits. Their previous apartment had been broken into twice, and she’d learned not to leave her valuables out where thieves could see them. Then she motioned Brandon toward their front door and locked it behind them.

“So, what does the headmaster do when he wants to talk to your Korean friend’s parent?” she asked as they headed toward the street.

“Cho,” Brandon said. “His name is Cho.” He ran his hand through his shaggy bangs.

“Okay, Cho. What happens? Do they get his parents on a video call? Or send them an email?”

“Cho’s father uses an interpreter from their embassy. I think he’s an ambassador, with an office down in Washington. Or something like that.”

Not for the first time Ashley marveled at the company her son was keeping. It made her heart swell. She felt weepy with all the opportunities he was getting.

“So this is just a normal check-in with parents,” she repeated, for probably the tenth time, wishing she had more experience with private schools.

“Don’t be nervous, Mom.” Brandon shot her a grin. “We’re good.”

“Right.” She nodded, averting her gaze as they walked past the package store that had made her so nervous yesterday. “Good.”

Brandon reached in his backpack to put on his earphones and music, but she grabbed his hand. “Can we just talk, please? It’s only a few more feet to walk with your mom.” She smiled as easily as she could. “Humor me.”

He rolled his eyes in mock good humor. “We’re okay, Mom.” And then he added something she hadn’t heard before. “If something was really bad, they would have called Mrs. Sharpe.”

Vivian Sharpe? She eyed her precocious son. “Why would they call her? She’s not your mother.”

He smiled faintly. “Nope. You are. And everybody knows it.” Then he took out his smartphone and skimmed through it. Ashley said nothing because it was what all his friends did.

But his comment still bothered her.

“Has Vivian Sharpe contacted you lately?” she asked.

“No, Mom. You know she hasn’t.”

Okay. She shouldn’t worry, then. Maybe she should make a pact with herself to stop worrying.

They fell into an easy pace while she shook off the bad feeling and tried not to worry any longer. This early in the morning, the streets weren’t very busy. Brandon scrolled with his thumb while he walked, one eye on the screen in front of him, one eye on the street.

When they got to the school, Brandon paused and glanced up at her. For a moment, he was her little boy again, instead of this more complicated preteen. Still skinny, with a smattering of acne across his nose, he leaned over and gave her a hug.

“I love you, Mommy,” he whispered. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she felt close to tears, wanting to hold on to this moment, wishing it could last longer than it did.

And just as quickly, they were walking on. Up the stone steps, passing a group of four men who seemed to be teachers. They greeted Brandon warmly. One of them—Dr. Prosser—the English teacher—directed her to the corridor where the headmaster’s office was located. Ashley hadn’t been inside since Brandon’s admittance interviews last spring.

The receptionist looked up as Ashley entered. Glancing over the top of her eyeglasses, she, too, smiled warmly.

See, nothing to worry about, she told herself. All these nice people cared about her son’s welfare. So why was she so jittery?

She sat, folding her hands and placing her purse on her lap. For the millionth time, she wished her sister was here. This was Lisbeth’s world, not hers. But it couldn’t be helped. Ashley would have to handle this alone.

* * *

AIDAN WASN’T EXACTLY sure what he was doing, standing with his grandmother outside the dining hall at St. Bartholomew’s. Curiosity, maybe? Secretly hoping for a glimpse of Ashley, his pretty hairstylist?

He must be nuts. He should be back at his condo, getting it ready for a quick sale.

Ding! Another text message hit his inbox. He glanced at his smartphone.

We would like to call on Saturday. What time is good? the message from Albert Sanborne read.

Saturday was tomorrow. And Gram was right; he needed to deal with this.

Noon, Aidan typed back.

There, it was done. One more step in moving on.

He glanced up and realized that his grandmother was moving on, too, doggedly forging ahead with her cane. He saw that she was having difficulty with the uneven stone floor, so he jogged ahead and gave her his elbow, helping her walk past the open doors that showed morning breakfast session in full swing.

It was the same as he remembered from his time, and it was smaller, too. Back when he’d been twelve, thirteen, fourteen—the age of the boys who attended St. Bartholomew’s—this place had been his whole world. Most boys boarded at the school, and Aidan had been no exception. Many of his friends had come from far away—from Europe, from Asia, from Mexico. Many were sons of wealthy families. But even the wealthy couldn’t protect their kids from everything.

Failure, for example. This had been the first place where Aidan had failed. He’d never been a studious kid to begin with, had never really cared about following in the family footsteps and being a doctor. He’d wanted freedom, the ability to go off anywhere he felt like, to have an adventure.

Fleur had brought him on adventures, the last one being a war zone halfway around the world. Perhaps that had been the initial attraction between them. But even that had fallen apart.

He’d loved her once, and thought she’d loved him, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to fix their relationship.

His grandmother had been the one person in his family who’d expressed reservations about Fleur. On the surface, she’d seemed perfect for him. “She doesn’t put you first,” Gram had said. He’d thought Gram had been crazy to even think that way. Who in his family did that? And he definitely didn’t want someone who fawned and trembled in his presence, depending on him. He’d wanted independence. And freedom. And he’d definitely wanted adventure.

Until he’d had his fill of it.

Swallowing, he paused in the hallway, his hand still on Gram’s arm. Honestly, it was crazy that he was even here this morning. But maybe he was looking for something, too. So out of character of him. He was thinking. Brooding. Trying to figure out the next step in his life. Something he’d never, ever worried about before. Normally a man of action, he’d been more like...

Like that kid in the corner of the dining hall. A ring of kids surrounded him—he had them mesmerized. Telling some kind of a joke, showing them something on his phone. They were nodding and smiling. The towheaded kid, the life of the party.

“Aidan, we’re here,” Gram murmured. They were outside the conference room where Gram was scheduled to meet with the board.

“I’ll wait outside,” he told her. “Call me when you’re finished.”

“Yes, Aidan.” Gram smiled at a tall, thin man who’d stood to greet them. “Dr. Pingree, I’d like you meet my grandson, Dr. Aidan Lowe. Aidan, this is Dr. Pingree, the headmaster.”

Aidan greeted the headmaster and shook his hand.

“I understand you’ve moved back to Boston,” Dr. Pingree said.

“For a short time, yes.”