his long legs closer to the fire. “By the way, have you seen Nicky anywhere?”
“He came in with a friend a couple of hours ago. I think they’d been snowboarding. Dear, far be it from me to interfere, but don’t you think you should spend more quality time with him? He’s your son, after all, and he doesn’t see you that often since he’s here at boarding school the better part of the year.”
“Mother, he’s sixteen years old, for Christ’s sake. The last thing he wants is me hanging on to his apron strings,” Johnny exclaimed, annoyed at being reminded of his paternal obligations.
“No, I guess not. Still…” she pondered, wishing as always that Nicky’s mother, Marie Ange, hadn’t died so young, or that Johnny could have found himself another wife as suitable as his first. Her grandson needed a mother, as well as his father, and the battles waging between the two of late concerned her. “By the way, what’s her name—that woman—called.” She waved a bejeweled hand disdainfully and sniffed.
“Mother, you know perfectly well what her name is.” He clasped his hands behind his neck, teeth flashing.
“Yes, well, that may be so, but I don’t choose to use it.” Grace exchanged W for the Wall Street Journal and, correcting the position of her designer reading glasses, pretended to read. She had little time for any of Johnny’s girlfriends, particularly this Brazilian one, who in her opinion had lasted too long.
“Don’t worry. She won’t be around this year. Actually, I’m very surprised she called. Probably wanted her stuff shipped from the flat in Eaton Terrace,” he remarked, swinging a leg over the arm of the chair and throwing an empty matchbox into the fire.
“What’s that?” Liam walked into the room, clicking off his cell phone. “Did I hear you say Lucia wasn’t coming to Gstaad? Why?”
“Nicky pissed her off.”
“Kindly mind your language,” Grace reproved automatically, then lowered her glasses, intrigued.
“Spill the beans.” Liam sat next to his mother on the sofa and quirked a thick sandy brow. “Lucia never misses a chance to come to Gstaad. Must’ve been serious.”
“It was. So you can breathe easy, Mother.”
“Goodness, there must be good fairies after all,” Grace murmured, lowering the paper.
“Come on,” Liam urged, “shoot.”
“Nicky went with me to St. Barthes during his school break. One of the horses took ill—it was just before the Arc de Triomphe—so I hopped on a plane to Paris early. Next thing I know I’m receiving hysterical phone calls and all hell has let loose back on the island.” He glanced at his mother, saw a gleam in her eye and, knowing how she loathed his sophisticated Brazilian mistress, conceded, “You can relax, Mother, she’s history.”
“What made that happen?” Grace leaned forward, agog with curiosity.
“Nicky found a snake in the garden. He wrapped it in tissue paper, slipped it into a Cartier gift box and had it delivered by courier…with my business card attached,” he added with a groan.
“No!” Grace let out a gleeful chortle.
Liam laughed. “Good old Nicky.”
“You can laugh,” Johnny said with feeling, “but I can assure you it was less amusing at the time.”
“I’ll bet. Cost you, huh?” Liam inquired, amused, peering through his glasses and switching the phone back on, unable to resist the temptation of glancing again at his messages.
“Put it this way, it turned into rather an expensive operation,” Johnny muttered dryly.
“Well, if you’re truly rid of her, all I can say is bravo, Nicky,” Grace rejoined. “I’ll have to give him extra allowance,” she murmured, the thought of Lucia’s perfectly manicured hands eagerly unpacking the snake too delicious to resist.
“Brandt stock’s dropped another ten points,” Liam muttered, frowning. “Still, I reckon it’s hit an all-time low.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll call Rod and tell him to buy a chunk before the end of the day.”
“Oh, Liam, leave that wretched telephone alone,” Grace huffed, glancing disapprovingly at Liam’s precious tri-band. “Now, Johnny, I hope you took Nicky to task about this snake business.” Grace tried to sound disapproving but was obviously having a hard time. “It was very bad manners, after all.”
“Mother, you’re such a hypocrite,” Johnny chided, eyes twinkling as he lowered his feet to the carpet.
“I certainly am not. I may not like the woman, but Nicky still had no business sending her a reptile.” She winced at the thought.
“But it’s so apt,” Liam remarked, tongue in cheek. He winked at his brother and continued checking stock prices. “Ah, here’s one that’s lookin’ good. Johnny, wanna buy some—”
“I don’t want to buy a damn thing, Liam. You buy enough for all of us put together,” Johnny interrupted, exasperated. “Believe it or not, this is meant to be a holiday—”
“Vacation, dear—”
“Whatever, Mother. Either way, it does not figure in Liam’s vocabulary.”
“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” Liam raised both hands.
Grace let out a resigned sigh that expressed her feelings better than words. At thirty-eight and thirty-seven, her sons were able to take care of their own lives. Still, it was impossible not to wish and worry. Absently shifting the ornaments and ashtrays on the coffee table, she studied them, first Liam, then Johnny. Liam worked far too hard taking the many companies of the Graney-Riley group to further heights, while Anne Shellenberg, his girlfriend, seemed perfectly content to have reached thirty-five unmarried and COO of some company whose name Grace couldn’t recall. After five years of hoping, both she and Avis Shellenberg—Anne’s WASP mother—had long since given up dreaming of wedding bells chiming in the centuries-old chapel at Graney castle.
With an imperceptible turn of the head, she glanced at Johnny, the elder of the two, still lounging in the armchair and conversing with his brother, and her heart melted. He was her firstborn, the spitting image of his handsome father, those identical piercing Kerry blue eyes laughing as he spoke, and that glorious jet-black hair graying the same way at the temples. He was what, in her neck of the woods, was termed as Black Irish. So Celtic and handsome, charming and kind, just like his dad. Yet he lived like a semirecluse, spending the better half of his existence boxed up at Graney Castle raising those wretched horses, just like his father before him.
But of course, he’d never been truly happy since Marie Ange had died on that regrettable trip to Africa. That was still the crux of the problem. He could tell her he’d gotten over it until he was blue in the face, but she, his mother, would never believe him. She knew that he still blamed himself for the fatal tragedy after all these years. He did a good job of hiding behind a battery of shields erected over the years, mind you, but Grace knew better. And oh, how she wished he and Nicky could get over the barriers that all of a sudden seemed to have popped up between them. She groaned inwardly. Everything had seemed to be working out just fine until Nicky had hit his teens. Then suddenly it was one conflict after the other, leaving Grace dangling on emotional
