Page 8 of Nico (Members From Money Season 2, #154)

He barely noticed the heat. He was so used to working in the heat that it had become a part of him. The first thing he did was set out his tools. Roller, blades, needle tools, ball stylus and so on. His work area was often messy but could not be helped.

He was doing earthenware and a few potteries. He first had to shape these water-based clay by hand and afterwards fire them in the kiln at hot temperature to cure.

He found a familiar peace in the repetitive motions.

With each stroke and press of his fingers, the clay took on a new shape, responding to his vision and careful guidance.

Occasionally, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, but his hands never faltered.

In these quiet, focused moments, all the noise and expectations of the world faded away, leaving only the hum of the kiln and the promise of creation.

In between, he used a damp cloth to keep the clay moist. What he was doing took the utmost concentration, but he worked with music to give him some inspiration. He had splurged on a very expensive sound system with speakers installed in every room.

Today he was listening to the soothing sound of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21. Moisture stained his ancient plaid shirt and dripped down his cheeks as he molded and fine-tuned his work.

He blocked out everything else and focused on what he was creating. Somewhere in the distance, the phone was ringing, but he ignored it. He had completely forgotten to turn the ringer off, but whoever was calling would leave a message if it was important. Right now, this was what mattered.

He moved with an instinctive rhythm, each motion practiced and assured.

The clay, cool and pliant beneath his fingers, offered a quiet resistance before surrendering to his intentions.

Time slipped by unnoticed as he lost himself in the methodical movements.

Press, turn, shape, smooth. The world outside his home felt distant, almost unreal, as if the only reality was the evolving form before him and the soft strains of music weaving through the air.

Here, in this small sanctuary, he was both creator and creation, his worries dissolving with every rotation of the wheel.

Finally, satisfied that he had a work of art, he stopped and stepped back to view the heavy stoneware he had created.

Placing a hand at the small of his back, he rubbed absently and stretched to get rid of the kinks.

A glance at the clock showed that it was almost two in the afternoon.

And he was out of coffee. Of course, he had forgotten to eat anything, which accounted for his belly complaining.

He shuffled over to the kitchen, hands still streaked with remnants of clay, and poured himself the last dregs from the coffeepot.

The bitter taste was a small comfort, grounding him after the hours lost in creation.

As he sipped, he glanced back at the piece on the table, the satisfaction of a job well done mingling with a quiet hunger.

Maybe he'd make a sandwich, or just stand there a while longer, letting the music and the sense of accomplishment linger a bit more before stepping back into the demands of the world outside his studio.

He should call Sadie. Let her know he was still alive.

Walking out of the room, he went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, noticing to his surprise that it was well stocked.

Someone - the new housekeeper his mother had hired - had gone shopping, which meant he would not starve to death.

He was just taking out the stuff to make a huge sandwich, when his phone rang. He had left it on the kitchen counter.

Grabbing it with the hope that it was Sadie, he hid his disappointment when it turned out to be his mother.

"I'm in the middle of—"

"You're needed at the main house immediately."

"Mother, I'm—"

"Now, Nico. It's extremely important."

Before he could say anything else, she hung up.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he was sorely tempted to ignore the command, because hell!

That's what it was. He was goddamn thirty-five years old and did not need his mother to be summoning him as if he was a child.

Staring at the items he had taken from the fridge to make a sandwich, he decided to leave them on the counter.

Whatever it was that was so important, he would go over there and be right back.

He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, resigned.

With a final glance at his unfinished sandwich, Nico grabbed a clean shirt from the back of a chair and slipped into it with practiced ease.

Whatever was waiting for him at the main house, he doubted it would be anything he wanted to deal with, but there was no ignoring his mother when she used that voice.

Reluctantly, he slipped on his shoes, pocketed his phone, and headed out the door.

The lingering aroma of coffee and the echo of Mozart trailed after him as he made his way up the gravel path toward the looming house on the hill.

He had grown up here, he thought as he loped along the winding pathway that led to the manor.

The grounds were immaculate as usual, with two gardeners snipping away at dead leaves and watering plants.

It was fall and the air was crisp and clean, with leaves carpeting the ground in a dazzling array of colors.

Lifting a hand in acknowledgement to the men working the grounds, he moved past the magnificent fountain, spewing crystal clear water and past the clump of his mother's stunning rose gardens.

An arbor was to the right, with vines clinging to the intricate latticework.

A stream whispered over smooth stones in the background and the treehouse he had played in when he was a boy was still high in the bosom of a towering oak tree.

Bounding up the steps, he pushed open the smooth and glossy mahogany double doors that led to an elegant foyer.

It was as quiet as a church, and he wondered what his mother was doing home at this time of day.

A uniformed maid hurried up the curved staircase, carrying fresh linens folded in both hands.

Water silk wallpapers, polished board floors with chandeliers dripping from a carved ceiling, and various expensive paintings covered the walls. Some of which he had painted.

The housekeeper, Henrietta Campbell, looking tidy and neat in her trim black dress and keys hanging from her waist, came forward with a smile. The woman had been with the family since before he was born and ran the household with a rod of iron.

"Mr. Nico." She beamed. Even though she had seen him sometime last week, the woman greeted him as if it had been ages since his last visit.

"Henry, how's it going?" Bending from his lofty height, he kissed the weathered cheek and inhaled the familiar scent of fresh apples and lemon grass.

"It's good to see you." Her smile faded as she stared at him. He had always been her favorite and she wanted to give him a heads up for what he was about to face, but it was not her place. Squeezing his hand, she stepped back. "Your mother is in the blue drawing room."

His brows lifted. "Anything I should know?"

She cleared her throat and shook her head. "She asked that you go right in."

Nico watched with a puzzled frown as she hurried towards the opposite direction.

Squaring his shoulders, Nico crossed the gleaming floor toward the blue drawing room. The echo of his footsteps mingled with the faint ticking of a grandfather clock and the distant clatter of china from the kitchen. He paused outside the closed door, took a steadying breath, and knocked softly.

"Come in," came his mother's voice, poised, every syllable clipped with expectation.

Pushing the door open, he stepped into a room washed in morning light.

Azure drapes framed tall windows, casting a gentle glow on the antique settee and the delicate porcelain vases arranged on the mantle.

His mother stood near the window, her posture regal, her gaze fixed on the gardens below.

She turned as he entered, her expression unreadable.

"Nico, thank you for coming so promptly." Her tone was formal, but her eyes searched his face for something. Reassurance or resolve.

He closed the door behind him, feeling the old house settle around them. "Of course, Mom. What's going on?"

"We have company." She gestured with one elegant hand to the woman and child seated on the royal blue loveseat.

Recognition speared through him as he stared at the petite blonde with the liquid brown eyes. And was taken back to two years ago.

"Brigette?" He gave her a puzzled look. "What're you doing here?"

"I—"

"We should have a seat." His mother interrupted. "And have some refreshments." She started to ring the bell when he shook his head.

"I'm not in the mood for anything."

"I am and believe me, you're going to need it. Sit darling."

The housekeeper came into the room with a loaded tray as if on cue.

"It's fine, Henry, I'll pour." She glanced over at Brigette.

"Ms. Jackson, I suggest you let the housekeeper take the child into one of the rooms where she can sleep without interruption.

" Without waiting for the woman's assent, she gestured to Henrietta who crossed to Brigette and held her arms out.

"I'll have one of the maids keep an eye on her." She offered the woman a reassuring smile as Brigette handed her the toddler.

"We're waiting for your father." Linda poured tea into the delicate cups. "Darling would you please do the honors?"

Still puzzled, Nico rose to take the tray from her. Crossing over, he handed it to Brigette who was staring at him with a pleading look on her face.

"Mother, I really have to insist that you tell me what's going on."

"In due time." Refusing to be rushed, Linda crossed her elegant legs at the ankles and sipped her tea as she eyed her son. "You knew Ms. Jackson."