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the same age as the twins.
    Drew,
on the other hand, had always been Drew…with his carefree manwhore ways, his
lack of commitment to any deep relationships, his devil-may-care attitude. He
had shown another side to him these past couple of days when we finally made
love. It was as though he was waiting to reveal this part of himself to me…the
serious side of Drew, the masculine and sophisticated side of him.
    Drew
took my hand in his and led me into the mansion. It was the second time I’ve
been to the Donovan’s castle-like mansion, complete with turrets, a circular
driveway, heavy stonework, ornate iron gates, and marble everywhere. The Donovan
Mansion was a stately masterpiece of architecture, which would make anyone
proud to own, but when Nat first took me to visit, he said it felt like a
prison. He felt suffocated at the family home, because he was far away from the
place he loved – the beach at Malibu, and the person he loved – me.
    No
matter how luxurious or grand a house was, if you weren’t with your loved one
there, it still wouldn’t feel like home.
    “Summer,”
Drew said, leading me into the kitchen, the living room, the theater, and finally
into a room I was familiar with…Nat’s room. It was so Nat…from the straight
no-nonsense lines, the dark heavy wood furniture and floors, the grey linen on
the bed. Masculine chic. Nat had taste, yet it was down-to-earth and livable.
“This is Nat’s room. I’m sure when you last visited San Francisco with him,
you’ve been here before.” He looked at Nat’s bed and visibly twitched his jaw.
No doubt Drew had just picture me lying on Nat’s bed while Nat made love to me.
Drew’s seen it once or twice before by accident.
    I
looked at the bed, and I remembered Nat lying on top of me there, kissing me,
and telling me how sorry he was for hurting me years ago by not keeping in
touch with me, acknowledging me for years. The memory made me tear up, and I
had to wipe away a few teardrops.
    Drew
went over to Nat’s dresser where there was a photo of Drew, Nat, and Rachel
together. Then there was a photo of Nat with me when I was thirteen and he was
fourteen…the year the Donovans moved away to San Francisco, while I remained in
Malibu, never seeing them again until three years later. Drew opened up the top
drawer of the dresser and took out a small beautiful teakwood box. He handed it
to me. “Open it, Summer.”
    “Is
this from Nat?” I asked.
    “No,”
Drew said. “It’s Nat’s. But I think you should see it.”
    I
held the teakwood box gingerly in my hands, rubbing my thumb over the
intricately-carved woodwork on the box. What was in this box that was so
important for me to see? Without anymore delays, I opened the box and looked
down.
    Nestled
in the box amongst royal blue silk was a silver harmonica. I lifted it up and
held it in my hand. Polished to perfection, the harmonica looked almost new,
but upon closer inspection I could see it was an antique. Engraved on one side
were the words, Joseph A. Jones, 1912.
    I
looked up to make eye contact with Drew. What did this mean?
    “There’s
more,” Drew said, taking out the blue silk lining. There was a small piece of
paper folded inside. I pulled out the paper and gently unfolded it.
    The
handwriting was familiar as I read on…
     
    Dear
baby son, 
     
    I
wanted to hand you something very special that belonged only to very special
boys…boys who are descendants of Joseph A. Jones, a jazz musician
extraordinaire, who pioneered music early in the nine-hundreds. You will one
day be a pioneer, and I want to encourage you to reach out there, grab destiny,
and hold on. I will miss being your mother, but you are in good hands. My best
friend will be your mother, and she is married to a wonderful young man who will
love and take good care of you as his own. Someday you will understand why I
did what I had to do. I will always love you.”
     
    I
will always be your mother,
     
    Suzanne
     
    I
nearly