Chapter 11: What He Told His Mother

Harrison's POV

I put my son back to bed at three-thirty and stood over him until his breathing slowed.

Thea had gone into the guest room and shut the door, and I had not heard her lock it.

That was worse than a lock.

At six I carried Caleb out to the car where Celia was waiting.

"Take him to the hotel," I said. "Don't bring him back here until I call."

"Harrison, I'm so sorry. If I'd known she would wake..."

"You knew she was asleep forty feet away, and you came anyway."

"He was burning up."

"Then you call me, and I come to him." I buckled my son in. "You do not walk him down my hall."

She watched me with her eyes full.

I used to believe those eyes.

At seven I was on Beacon Hill, standing in my mother's dining room without having been announced.

She sat at the head of the long table in her robe, with her cane against the chair and a plate of untouched toast.

On a bad day she was slow.

This was a good day, and I was grateful for it, because I did not want to wait for any word she tried to hide.

"You're up early," Harriet said.

"Five years ago," I said. "Tell me what you did."

She did not blink.

"Thea told you."

"Thea told me you said you paid a great deal to keep his name out of your house. I'd like to know what it was, and how much."

"Harrison, sit."

"No."

I had never said that to her in my life, not as a child and not as a man.

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