Chapter 7 - Meet the Hawkins FamilyI had negotiated a hundred-million-dollar acquisition without losing sleep.
I had presented to rooms full of investors who considered smiling a sign of weakness.
I had survived being caught passionately kissing a printed photograph of my boss.
None of those experiences prepared me for meeting Elliot’s mother.
“Why do you look terrified?” Elliot asked.
We were standing outside a mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut, large enough to have its own weather system.
“I’m not terrified.”
“You’ve checked your dress seven times.”
“I’m making sure it isn’t wrinkled.”
“You checked your teeth in the car mirror four times.”
“Food could mysteriously appear.”
“We haven’t eaten yet.”
“Exactly. Mysterious.”
He smiled.
“You’re terrified.”
“I’m about to meet the woman who raised Elliot Hawkins.”
“She barely raised me.”
The humor disappeared immediately.
I looked at him.
He said it casually, but I knew enough about his childhood now to hear everything underneath.
Expensive boarding schools.
Nannies.
Parents who measured success in financial statements and family dinners in quarterly appearances.
His father, Richard Hawkins, had died five years earlier.
His mother, Victoria Hawkins, lived primarily between Connecticut, Paris, and whatever luxury resort happened to be socially relevant that season.
They spoke regularly enough to maintain the appearance of family.
Not enough to actually be one.
“She called me three times after the engagement announcement,” I said.
“Only three?”
“She asked for my birth date.”
“Background check.”
“My parents’ occupations.”
“Definitely background check.”
“My college GPA.”
Elliot stopped.
“She asked your GPA?”
“Three point eight.”
He looked impressed.
“That’s attractive.”
“This is not helping.”
The front door opened before we could ring.
A woman in her early sixties stood there wearing cream trousers, a silk blouse, and the expression of someone who had never once in her life been required to wait for anything.
Victoria Hawkins was beautiful.
Not warm.
Not cold exactly.
Perfect.
Controlled.
I suddenly understood where Elliot had learned his emotional defense mechanisms.
“Elliot.”
She kissed both his cheeks.
“Mother.”
Then those gray-green eyes turned toward me.
“Alexia.”
“Mrs. Hawkins.”
“Victoria, please.”
She looked at my ring.
Then at me.
A long assessment.
“Come in.”
Excellent.
I had passed the doorway.
Progress.
Dinner began politely.
Painfully politely.
Victoria asked about the acquisition.
I answered.
She asked about my childhood.
I told her about Ohio.
She asked about my mother.
“Elementary-school teacher.”
“And your father?”
“He died when I was sixteen.”
Something briefly softened in her expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Then she asked about the wedding.
Which was interesting because Elliot and I had barely discussed anything beyond the fact that we eventually intended to have one.
“Have you selected a venue?”
“No.”
“Season?”
“No.”
“Guest count?”
“No.”
“Designer?”
“For the venue?”
“For the gown.”
“Oh.”
Elliot hid a smile behind his wineglass.
I kicked him under the table.
Victoria noticed.
Of course she did.
“You haven’t planned anything?”
“We’ve been busy.”
“With work,” Elliot added.
Victoria looked at him.
“You have an entire executive team.”
“I like working.”
“I remember.”
The two words carried an edge.
I looked between them.
There was history there.
A lot of it.
Victoria returned her attention to me.
“Our family traditionally uses St. James for weddings.”
“Mother.”
Elliot’s voice had changed.
A warning.
“What?”
“We’re not discussing family traditions.”
“I’m merely informing Alexia.”
“You’re informing Alexia of expectations.”
Victoria’s spine straightened.
“And would expectations be unreasonable?”
“If they aren’t ours, yes.”
Silence.
I suddenly wanted to crawl under the table.
“I’m sure we’ll decide together,” I offered carefully.
Victoria looked at me.
“Of course.”
But the temperature of the room had dropped approximately fifteen degrees.
After dinner, Elliot disappeared with the house manager to discuss some old documents Victoria wanted him to collect.
Which left me alone with his mother.
Naturally.
She led me into a sitting room overlooking gardens that probably required an annual maintenance budget larger than my childhood home.
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
A housekeeper poured it, then left.
Victoria crossed one leg elegantly over the other.
“So.”
There it was.
The interrogation.
“I imagine you know my son is difficult.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s one word.”
Her lips twitched.
Barely.
“He was difficult at six.”
“I can imagine.”
“Actually, no. You probably can’t.”
Something almost fond entered her expression.
“He refused to attend a school recital because he believed the teacher had scheduled rehearsals inefficiently.”
I blinked.
“How old?”
“Seven.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Victoria stared at me.
Then, astonishingly, she smiled.
“He prepared a revised rehearsal calendar.”
“That sounds exactly like him.”
“It included color coding.”
“Of course it did.”
For the first time all evening, the atmosphere relaxed.
Then Victoria set her cup down.
“You love him.”
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“He loves you.”
“I believe so.”
“He hasn’t loved anyone before.”
Her voice became quieter.
“That worries me.”
I was not expecting that.
“Why?”
“Because Elliot does everything absolutely.”
She looked toward the window.
“Work. Loyalty. Anger. Withdrawal.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the saucer.
“Love will be no different.”
I chose my next words carefully.
“I’m not planning to hurt him.”
“No one plans to.”
There was sadness in the answer.
And suddenly I understood.
This was not a wealthy mother assessing whether the assistant was socially suitable.
This was a mother who had failed her son emotionally and knew exactly how deeply that failure had shaped him.
“He told me about his childhood,” I said softly.
Victoria looked sharply at me.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
The controlled mask returned.
“I suppose he made me sound terrible.”
“He didn’t.”
That was true.
Elliot rarely blamed.
He stated facts.
Almost clinically.
Parents traveling.
Nannies.
Boarding school.
Empty holidays.
Success rewarded with gifts instead of attention.
Victoria looked unconvinced.
“He didn’t need to.”
That surprised me.
She stared down at her tea.
“I was twenty-four when I married Richard. By twenty-six, I had Elliot. Your father-in-law believed children should be prepared for independence early.”
“Very early.”
“Yes.”
Pain flickered across her face.
“I convinced myself structure was good for him. Boarding school made him disciplined. Tutors made him exceptional. Independence made him strong.”
She gave a small, bitter smile.
“And one day I realized I had raised a son who could manage a thousand employees but didn’t know how to ask anyone to stay when he was lonely.”
My heart squeezed.
“He’s learning.”
Her eyes met mine.
“With you.”
I nodded.
“With me.”
Something changed between us then.
Not affection.
Not yet.
But recognition.
When Elliot returned, he immediately looked from me to Victoria.
Suspicious.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Victoria sipped her tea.
“Alexia and I were discussing your childhood.”
His face changed dramatically.
“No.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your mother told me about the rehearsal schedule.”
He closed his eyes.
“Mother.”
“You were very organized.”
“I was seven.”
“You included an appendix.”
I laughed.
Elliot looked betrayed.
“This meeting is over.”
It was the first time I saw Victoria Hawkins laugh.
A real laugh.
And Elliot stared at her as though he had forgotten she could.
The evening could have ended well.
It should have.
Then Victoria said, “Before you leave, I’d like to show Alexia something.”
Elliot immediately became wary again.
“What?”
“The family bridal collection.”
I nearly choked.
“Mother.”
“What bridal collection?”
Victoria stood.
“The Hawkins women traditionally preserve wedding gowns.”
Elliot looked at me.
“Run.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“Elliot.”
“She’ll have you in Great-Grandmother Eleanor’s 1924 dress before midnight.”
Victoria ignored him.
“Come.”
Curiosity betrayed me.
I followed.
Upstairs, an entire climate-controlled room held preserved gowns, jewelry, photographs, and family heirlooms.
It was beautiful.
Also deeply intimidating.
Victoria showed me her own wedding gown.
Ivory silk.
Long sleeves.
Structured neckline.
Elegant but severe.
“You were beautiful,” I said.
She looked at the photograph.
“I was terrified.”
“Of getting married?”
“Of disappearing.”
The words struck something inside me.
Because I knew that fear.
Not about marriage.
About identity.
About becoming someone’s wife and having that relationship consume everything else people saw.
Victoria glanced at me.
“You understand.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you understand why I asked about your career.”
I looked at her.
“I thought you were judging it.”
“I was.”
At least she was honest.
“But not because you were an assistant.”
She touched the glass covering the photograph.
“I wanted to know whether you had a life strong enough to survive marrying a Hawkins.”
That was not the explanation I expected.
She looked directly at me.
“Our name opens doors. It also closes cages.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t intend to become Mrs. Hawkins and stop being Alexia Summers.”
“Good.”
Her approval was immediate.
“Don’t.”
Elliot appeared in the doorway.
“I feel like I’m being discussed.”
“You are,” I said.
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
Victoria turned toward him.
“She’s keeping Summers professionally.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“We haven’t discussed names.”
“I’m informing you.”
“Mother.”
“I approve.”
“Of what?”
“Her keeping it.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
I started laughing.
Elliot looked at me helplessly.
“You’ve been alone with her twenty minutes and somehow you’ve formed an alliance.”
“Maybe.”
“This is deeply concerning.”
But I saw the relief beneath the sarcasm.
He wanted us to like each other.
Even if he would rather die than admit it.
We stayed another hour.
Victoria eventually showed us a box of childhood photographs.
Elliot at five in a tiny suit.
Elliot at nine glaring at a camera.
Elliot at twelve holding a mathematics trophy with the same serious expression he now used during acquisitions.
I secretly photographed several.
“For blackmail,” I explained.
“I’m calling my lawyer.”
“You’re marrying me. Your lawyer is my lawyer now.”
“That is not legally how it works.”
“Details.”
On the drive back to Manhattan, Elliot was quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Thoughtful.
“Thank you,” he eventually said.
“For what?”
“For trying with her.”
“I like her.”
He looked genuinely shocked.
“What?”
“She’s complicated.”
“That’s diplomatic.”
“She loves you.”
He turned toward the window.
“She has an unusual way of demonstrating it.”
“I think she knows.”
Silence.
Then quietly:
“She told you?”
“Enough.”
His jaw tightened.
I reached across the center console and took his hand.
“You don’t have to forgive everything just because she regrets it.”
He looked at me.
“But?”
“But you can decide what kind of relationship you want now.”
He looked at our intertwined hands.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
After several minutes, he squeezed my fingers.
“She laughed tonight.”
“I noticed.”
“I haven’t heard her laugh like that since my father died.”
Something in his voice broke my heart.
I lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
“Maybe we’ll make her laugh again.”
“We?”
“We’re engaged. You’re stuck with me.”
He smiled.
“There’s the commitment again.”
“Don’t.”
“Five seconds—”
“I will open this car door while we’re moving.”
He laughed.
Two weeks later, Victoria called me.
Not Elliot.
Me.
“I’m coming into Manhattan Thursday.”
“Okay.”
“I thought perhaps we could have lunch.”
I nearly dropped my phone.
“Just us?”
“If that’s acceptable.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Alexia?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell Elliot yet.”
I smiled.
“Why?”
“He’ll be unbearable.”
“I agree.”
Another pause.
Then something remarkable happened.
Victoria Hawkins laughed quietly.
And I realized that marrying Elliot would not simply mean joining his future.
It meant becoming part of the unfinished pieces of his past.
Not fixing them.
Not pretending they never hurt.
May you like
Just standing beside him while he decided what to rebuild.
And maybe, if we were lucky, creating a family that knew how to stay.
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