Konnor suppressed a growl. Honey. We’ll see about that.
“So I hear you’ve been seeing my mom,” Konnor said.
Mark nodded. “I’ve been fortunate enough to, yes. She’s one of a kind.”
Konnor cocked his head. “We can agree on that. What are your intentions towards my mother?”
He sounded like an old-fashioned prick, but he didn’t care.
“My intentions—”Mark met his mom’s eyes, and they warmed with such light and love that Konnor gritted his teeth. “My intentions are to make her deliriously, unconditionally happy. As long as she’ll have me.”
Yeah. We’ll see about that, too.
Konnor’s hand clawed around his fork. “When are you back to L.A.?”
“Tonight.”
“Like soccer?”
“I do, actually.”
Konnor was pretty sure the man said that because his mom had told him Konnor was a soccer fan. But at least he had the decency to pretend like he did.
“How about we go to see a game tomorrow. Have some beers. Talk man to man, not on Skype.”
“Sounds like a plan. Just one thing. I don’t drink.”
“Why? Alcoholic?”
“Konnor!” His mom gasped.
Mark laughed. “It’s a fair question given my upbringing. No, I’m not an alcoholic. I tried a beer once when I was sixteen and hated the taste and the way it made me feel. In combination with my childhood and my father being an alcoholic, I decided not to drink.”
Ah, hell. Konnor just might like the man, even though he hadn’t intended to.
“All right,” Konnor said to the modern, older version of Tamhas. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 30
The stadium rumbled with the singing of thousands of voices. Konnor watched the brightly lit green grass, though he wasn’t really interested in the game. The seats in the Midfield Box of Banc of California Stadium were amazing. Konnor wasn’t a poor man, but he couldn’t afford being a member here.
Mark really did like soccer and had enough money for the membership. They sat in the middle of the box, and a waitress brought them two boxes of nachos and two sodas.
“The preparation for your mom’s exhibition is going well,” Mark said. “I’ve seen many different artists in my years of doing business, but raw talent like your mother’s doesn’t come along often.”
Konnor simply stared at Mark’s profile. The resemblance with Tamhas was uncanny. Yeah, there were some differences, like Mark’s nose was thinner and higher, and his eyes were a different color. But even the voice, save for the Scottish burr, sounded similar. Mark and Tamhas had the same pleasant baritone. Only where Tamhas talked fast and was always on the lookout for danger, Mark was calm and at ease.
“I’ve been telling her she should show her paintings to someone for years.”
“Yeah. She told me. You were right.”
“But are you sure you’re not just trying to get her to like you more?”
He smiled sadly, his eyes watering. “I was afraid I could be biased because I’m so in love with her.”
In love? Konnor’s lungs contracted.
“But I asked my ex-wife, who owns a gallery in New York, and some of the art dealers I know and trust. They all think she’s a gem. How many does she have? Hundreds? She’s sitting on a fortune, my friend.”
Konnor sighed. It was great to know his mom was so talented and could secure her future if for any reason Konnor were to disappear…
If he went back in time, for example.
Oh, how he wanted to see Marjorie. Take her into his arms, inhale her herbal scent.
But he couldn’t. No matter how desperate and sad he was, how empty his life felt without her…
He loved her.
He, who knew love was an illusion and only brought pain, loved her. The Highland faerie Sìneag was right. Marjorie was the woman for him. He knew it in his bones. It fit so well. And he’d needed to cross hundreds of years and see his empty, pointless life to realize that.
Still, he couldn’t abandon his mother. And he still needed to make sure Mark was the man his mother thought he was. After all, Jerry had been sweet and kind until Helen and Konnor had moved in with him.
“What do your kids do?” Konnor said.
“My oldest, Denise, is your age, and she’s a boat captain. My middle son, Trevor, is a pediatrician in Chicago. My youngest son, Jack, is still in school studying psychology.” He chuckled. “They say psychologists go into the profession to solve their own problems, but I hope we didn’t do too bad of a job as parents.”
Konnor looked sharply at him. He actually hadn’t considered that until right now. Even though Mark was the victim of domestic abuse, like Konnor, he’d gotten married and had three children. Yes, he was divorced, but he didn’t look like he was suffering or anything. He said he loved Konnor’s mom.
“So what happened with your ex-wife?” Konnor said. “Why the divorce?”
Mark inhaled deeply, sat back in his chair, and sighed, looking at the players running around the field.
“Good question. What happened… I don’t know. We were deliriously happy. I loved her. She loved me. We had our kids, did a great job with them, if I say so myself. I’m very proud of every single one of them. But then…something was missing. I suppose, Janet said it first. She asked what was going on. We simply…grew apart. There was no hatred between us, no drama. The whole divorce thing was really boring, actually. We still have a good relationship. A lot of it revolves around work, actually. She has her gallery, which was ours before, and I hunt down great art. We’re comfortable financially, as you can see. I think it was a bit difficult for the kids, but in the end, they understood and agree it’s better for everyone.”
Konnor felt it. The man was being truthful with him. It was in the ease of his words, in his relaxed pose, in his tone.
“So there was no pain? When you divorced?”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Not pain exactly. More like sadness, I think. I did mourn our relationship. We were happy, and I’d thought we’d always be together. You don’t marry someone thinking you’ll be done with them one day, right?”
“That would be what I’d be thinking,” Konnor mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Tell me. Did you say you’d be thinking that?”
Konnor sipped his coke, regretting his words, hoping he could distract the man. He had no intention of talking about his feelings and limitations. “Doesn’t matter.”
“No,” Mark said. “It actually does. It’s not my business, of course, but I do think you and I, and your mother, share something deep and unfortunate. That experience of being abused and helpless and being taught all the wrong things about life. I used to hate everything and everyone. I stole stuff. I beat the shit out of others. I thought bad things about myself because my father’s fists taught me to do so. I think that’s why I went to study art, to find the relief from pain.”
Konnor nodded thoughtfully. For someone with a similar violent upbringing, Mark seemed like a normal guy now. Not broken. And he was a family man who’d raised three kids.