The Lost - J. D. Robb [128]
“Why my grandmother seemed different after my grandfather died.”
“In what way?”
Aidan shrugged. “She seemed . . . free. All that talk about a grand trip to Ireland. She was like a girl planning her first dance. And then there’s my mother. Why didn’t she look like either of her parents? Not just her face, or her body type, though there was that. But also the fact of her prematurely gray hair. Both of her parents were barely gray when they died, with just a few silver threads. She went gray in her forties, and by the time she died she had a silver mane.”
“Like Cullen’s.” He smiled.
“You think it’s funny.”
He shook his head. “I think it’s a family trait, and though you’re trying to deny it, you’re beginning to believe.”
“Maybe.” Restless, she set aside her glass on a side table. “But it would take more than gray hairs or a few old love letters to convince me that everything I’ve held to be true for a lifetime is a lie.”
“It happens more often than you think. Adult children are told after the death of a parent that they were adopted, or learn that the woman they called mother was actually their biological grandmother, covering for the mistake of a too-young daughter. Though we may wish it otherwise, life isn’t all neat and tidy.”
“Knowing it happens to others doesn’t make it any easier to accept. I wonder if you’d be so philosophical if this were happening to you. How would you feel about catching your mother in a lie?”
His smile remained in place, though there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes. “I would have had to know my mother to catch her in a lie. And since she disappeared from my life before I was old enough to talk, that wasn’t possible.”
Aidan felt a rush of remorse. “I’m sorry. I had no right . . .”
He looked beyond her and seemed almost relieved as he got to his feet. “Cullen. Aidan and I are having some iced tea. Will you join us?”
“I will. Thank you.” The older man settled himself comfortably in the chair beside hers and began petting the two dogs that rushed up to greet him.
Ross returned with a glass and poured him a drink.
Cullen sipped. “Have you been enjoying the gardens, my dear?”
“I have. Almost as much as I’m enjoying Ross’ cottage.”
Cullen gave a broad smile. “He and I have enjoyed many a night of heated debate out here. Though I must confess that on my part the heat may have come from a bottle of Bushmill’s finest.”
“And many a headache in the morning, as you’re fond of telling me.” Ross laughed.
She could imagine Ross and Cullen sitting here often, debating business or politics or world affairs.
Aidan glanced from Cullen to Ross. “Who most often wins the debate?”
“There are no winners,” Cullen declared firmly. “To be Irish is to understand that the joy of a debate is not in the winning or losing, but in the argument itself.”
“Ah. So that’s where this comes from. My father used to accuse me of enjoying a good argument way too much. Now I learn that it’s the Irish in me.”
Cullen was still smiling, but his look had sharpened, and she had the distinct impression that he was searching for parts of himself in her face. Wasn’t she guilty of doing the same, when she thought he wouldn’t notice?
Ross was watching them both, and keeping his thoughts to himself.
“What else do you enjoy, my dear?” Cullen sipped his iced tea and continued to study her.
“Good books.”
“Fiction or non?”
Without a thought, she said, “Nonfiction. Usually. I devour biographies.”
He and Ross shared a glance. “And what is your taste in music?”
“I love it all, I suppose. But especially classical. Operas in particular.”
He arched a brow. “Do you have a favorite?”
“I love all I’ve seen. But I always cry at Madame Butterfly.”
He smiled at that. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I never had lessons, so I don’t play well, but I play piano for my own amusement. And I’ve been known to pick up a violin and play a tune or two.”
“Any other great loves?” He paused. Smiled. “I should clarify that. Any you can speak of?”
She laughed, enjoying the teasing. “No special man, if that’s what you’re asking. But