The Aston Martin’s engine purred gently in the circular driveway as Peter Lawson stepped out onto the polished stone entrance of his Los Angeles estate, carrying the fatigue of a demanding business trip along with the quiet satisfaction of another remarkably successful negotiation. Four days in New York had drained his energy yet rewarded his investment company with an acquisition projected to generate tens of millions in additional revenue.
He loosened the silk tie resting stiffly around his neck while imagining the familiar comfort awaiting him inside, picturing his mother’s tender smile and his wife’s affectionate greeting, both of which usually softened the sharp edges of his professional world.
Six months earlier, Peter had persuaded his seventy four year old mother, Margot Lawson, to leave her modest suburban home and move into the spacious guest suite designed specifically for her comfort, believing sincerely that he was finally repaying decades of unwavering devotion.