A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,34
enter her shrine to her lost firstborn. “He was talented,” he said.
“I know he would have become a very famous artist.” Her brows drew together a fraction, but then she shook her head a little and a cool smile stretched across her lips. Her attention remained on the canvas, as if she could reach in and stroke the hair back from her eldest son’s forehead. “One year. I can’t believe it’s been that long. I sensed his deep sadness after he and Mallory ended their relationship. If I’d known his heartbreak was so great, I would have made an appointment for him with my therapist. I could have stopped him from doing something so final.”
A trip to the therapist was his mother’s standard solution for any emotional conundrum.
“Why didn’t he finish it?” Farrell asked. There was no background behind the painted figure, only white canvas. Pencil marks showed what he’d meant to paint. A window. A sky. A wall.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He stared into his brother’s painted eyes. “The Connor Grayson I knew always finished what he started. The Connor I knew never would have taken his own life, either. He loved life.”
She looked at him sharply. “Until he didn’t love it anymore. We change just like the seasons change. He wasn’t any different.”
“Don’t you ever think there could be another explanation for what happened?”
“No,” she said with finality. “He was a sensitive artist who had his heart broken. He chose to take his own life when he fell into despair. Over the last year, I’ve accepted that that’s what happened. For you to question it . . .” Her lips pressed tightly together. “It’s too painful.”
Guilt cut through him. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t get along with his mother very well, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and forced himself to change the subject away from something that was still so raw. “Dad spoke to me this morning.”
“About Adam?”
He nodded. “I tried talking to him. He’s upset.”
“I hope he’ll quickly make peace with what he saw at the meeting.”
“He will,” Farrell said with a confidence he didn’t completely feel.
“Good.”
This was, officially, the single longest conversation he’d had with his mother in well over a year. May as well go for a lifetime record, he thought. “Dad also told me that you two want me to start thinking about the future,” he said. “And I agree. I have to decide about school. Either I enroll somewhere and take some courses, or I start working for him.”
If Farrell didn’t go for a college degree, it would be an early entry into Grayson Industries. Stiff suit, tight tie, miserable business lunches, pretty secretary. Buying and selling other businesses. Being cutthroat. Making billions.
It wasn’t Farrell’s scene. The secretary part sounded all right, but the rest didn’t interest him in the slightest.
He wished he knew what to do.
Isabelle Grayson’s small smile remained fixed on her lips. “Actually, it’s your father who’s insisting on this decision. It doesn’t really matter to me.”
“Really?” Suddenly, he was hopeful that he and his mother didn’t have as much distance between them as he’d thought. Maybe she understood him, understood what he’d gone through. Understood the nightmares he’d had to endure nearly every night since finding Connor’s body.
“Yes, really. With Connor, I had such high hopes—that he would be a famous artist, that he’d soon get married and give me grandchildren. That he’d carry on the Grayson name. For Adam, his teachers say he has an incredible mind, that he’s meant for medicine, law, business. Whatever he chooses, they believe he’ll be successful. But you . . .” Her discerning gaze swept him from head to toe. “I have no reason to think you’ll ever amount to anything of note. Therefore, I expect very little from you.”
Farrell’s throat was raw from listening to her little speech. “Thanks so much for clearing that up for me, Mother.”
He stood there, dumbfounded, as she left the room. He wasn’t sure why her words had blindsided him. He already knew what she thought of her middle-born son: nothing at all.
This only proved it.
He swept a gaze through Connor’s room one last time before he went back to his own.
“What the hell do I care?” he muttered to himself, angry now. “Her opinion means nothing to me.”
Back in his bedroom, he checked his phone to see he had a text message from Lucas.