“It’s all right.”
“No,” Gideon said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Livia frowned.
The rain tapped rapidly against the umbrella above them.
A hotel employee carrying two boxes slowed as he passed.
Livia lowered her voice.
“Gideon, please. People are looking.”
He turned toward her.
“So?”
“You know how this looks.”
His expression became almost unreadable.
“How does it look?”
She glanced at the older woman and forced a small smile.
“You know what I mean.”
“No. Tell me.”
Livia hesitated.
She could hear irritation in his voice now.
“She’s standing outside a luxury hotel in the middle of the night with a bag, approaching strangers.”
“I approached you,” the woman said gently.
Livia gave a short, humorless laugh.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
The woman lowered the canvas bag.
“I only wanted to give him something.”
Livia’s eyes narrowed.
“You know Gideon?”
The woman did not answer immediately.
Instead, she opened the bag.
Inside was an old wooden box.
It was scratched at the corners and held shut with a small brass latch.
Gideon stared at it.
His face softened.
“You found it.”
The woman nodded.
“In the attic.”
Livia looked from one to the other.
“What is going on?”
The older woman offered the box to Gideon.
“I thought you might want it tonight.”
He took it carefully.
For several seconds, he simply held it.
Then he opened the latch.
Inside lay an old silver wristwatch.
The leather strap was cracked with age.
The glass had a thin scratch across the center.
It was ordinary.
Probably worth very little.
But Gideon touched it as though someone had placed a priceless object in his hands.
Livia looked confused.
“What is that?”
“My father’s watch.”
Her expression changed.
The older woman smiled.
“He wore it every day for twenty-eight years.”
Gideon ran his thumb across the scratched glass.
“I thought it was lost.”
“So did I.”
Gideon looked up.
“You came all the way here just to bring this?”
The woman shrugged.
“You told me tonight was important.”
Livia went still.
Her gaze moved slowly toward the older woman.
Then toward Gideon.
Something in his expression finally made her understand that she had made a terrible mistake.
“Gideon…”
He closed the wooden box.
The woman reached toward his collar.
“You’re going to catch cold standing out here.”
She adjusted the edge of his coat with the easy familiarity of someone who had done the same thing many times before.
Gideon looked at her and smiled.
It was a smile Livia had never seen.
Not the polite expression he wore at meetings.
Not the amused smile he gave her at restaurants.
Something younger.
Something unguarded.
“Mom, you could have called me.”
The word landed between them.
Mom.
Livia’s face lost its color.
The older woman—Helen Ross—turned toward her.
There was no triumph in her expression.
No satisfaction.
Only disappointment.
Livia stared at her.
“You’re… his mother?”
Helen gave a small nod.
The sound of the rain suddenly seemed impossibly loud.
Livia looked at Gideon.
“You never told me—”
“That my mother was coming?”
“No. I mean…”
She stopped.
Gideon waited.
Livia swallowed.
“I didn’t know who she was.”
Helen looked away.
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
Livia immediately heard how terrible the sentence sounded.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I thought she was—”
She stopped again.
“A beggar?” Gideon asked.
Livia lowered her voice.
“Please.”
“A cleaner?”
“Gideon.”
“Someone looking for leftovers?”
She glanced toward the hotel employee who was still standing several yards away.
“This doesn’t need to become a public scene.”
Gideon almost laughed.
“That’s what bothers you?”
“What?”
“That someone might see it.”
Livia stared at him.
“I made a mistake.”
“You made an assumption.”
“Fine. An assumption.”
“Based on what?”
Her eyes flickered toward Helen’s coat.
Gideon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Helen noticed too.
Livia’s cheeks burned.
“You’re twisting this.”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“It’s midnight. She was standing near a service entrance dressed like—”
She stopped herself.
But the unfinished sentence had already said everything.
Helen slowly folded her broken umbrella.
Gideon turned toward her.
“Mom…”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked.”
“I’ve survived worse things than rain.”
She smiled at him.
Then she looked at Livia.
“When Gideon was twelve, his father became ill.”
Livia said nothing.
“We didn’t have much money,” Helen continued. “After he died, we had less.”
“Mom, you don’t have to explain anything.”
“I know.”
She kept her eyes on Livia.
“I cleaned offices at night for eight years. During the day, I worked in a school kitchen. Sometimes I wore clothes much worse than this coat.”