Free Dreams Die First by Harold Robbins Page A

friend’s.”
    “That Mexican girl that answered your phone this morning?” she asked suspiciously.
    “No, Mother.” I laughed. “She’s got a beat-up old Valiant that would never get past the guards at the main gate.”
    “You don’t want to tell me,” she accused.
    “Okay, Mother. If you really want to know, it belongs to a boy who’s living with me. He wants to be my slave.”
    She didn’t have a clue to what I was talking about. “Slave?”
    “Yes. You know, cook, clean, everything.”
    “And he has a Rolls-Royce? Where did he get it?”
    “He also has a rich father.”
    The light suddenly dawned. “Is he—uh?”
    I supplied the word for her. “Homosexual? Yes, Mother, he’s gay.”
    She stared at me, her glass of wine frozen halfway to her lips.
    “Dinner is served,” the butler announced from the doorway.
    I smiled at my mother. “Shall we dine?”
    Silently we went into the dining room. Mother had pulled out all the stops—the gold flatware, the Coalport china and the Baccarat crystal. The candles were glowing in the tall candelabra, the bases of which were covered with flowers.
    “The table is just beautiful, Mrs. Brendan,” Eileen said.
    “Thank you,” Mother answered absently. We didn’t exchange another word until the butler had placed the salad in front of us and left the room. Then Mother broke the silence. “I don’t understand you, Gareth. How can you do such a thing?”
    “I’m not doing anything, Mother. All I said was that he is living with me.”
    Mother stood up suddenly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
    “Margaret!” My uncle’s voice was sharp. “Sit down.”
    She stared at him for a moment, then sank back into her chair.
    “You invited him for a quiet family dinner,” Uncle John said mildly. “And you’ve been on his back from the moment he came in the door.”
    “But—but, John.”
    Uncle John didn’t let her continue. “Now we’re going to have a nice quiet dinner just as you said. And if you need any testimonials to your son’s manhood, let me tell you that he is more of a man than his father ever was.”
    “May his soul rest in peace,” I said, putting on a slight brogue. I turned to Eileen. “It’s really been nice seeing you again.” Then I got to my feet. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Uncle John, but it doesn’t help. I don’t belong here and I haven’t for a long time. I’m sorry, Mother.”
    Uncle John caught up with me at the front door. “Gareth, don’t be a child.”
    My voice was bitter. “I’m not being a child. A child would sit there and take that shit.”
    His voice was patient. “She’s upset. You know how important this dinner is to her. Please come back to the table.”
    I stared at him. I don’t think I had ever heard him say “please” before.
    “Let it slide,” he said. “Being angry with her won’t make things better. For either of you.”
    I nodded my head. He was right. I was acting like a child. Exactly the way I had always acted toward her. When it would get to be too much, I would go off and sulk. I went back to the table.
    “I’m sorry, Mother,” I said again and sat down.
    We had the rest of the meal without further bloodshed.

CHAPTER 12
    After dinner we went back into the library for coffee. The coffee was served in demitasse cups, and the cognac in preheated giant brandy snifters.
    “Your father loved to have coffee in here,” Mother said. “He liked to sit on this couch and look out at the fountain and the lights in the pool.” Suddenly she began to cry.
    Eileen put her arm around her shoulders. “You mustn’t cry, Mrs. Brendan,” she said. “It’s all in the past.”
    “Not for me,” Mother said in a tight, almost angry voice. “Not until I know why he did this to me.”
    “He didn’t do it to you, Mother,” I said. “He did it to himself.”
    “I still don’t understand why he did it. All they wanted him to do was to answer some questions. The investigation