Page 7 of A Brilliant Spring

“Elissa, is that any way to greet your mother? I taught you better than that!” A shrill voice screeches through the line. My eyes fly open, and I shoot up to a sitting position. “It’s six in the morning. Shouldn’t you be up and getting dressed for work already?”

I groan at her chilly words.

“I don’t go into the office until nine. I still have at least an hour to sleep,” I grumble into the phone. In the background, it sounds noisy, like a bunch of people are murmuring and moving about. Clinks and scrapes and all kinds of ruckus. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like my mother is getting ready to throw some kind of party.

“Well, get up. I am calling to inform you that we are having your father’s funeral service today, at eleven sharp. I expect you to be at St. Patrick’s just before ten. The company’s publicist has written a eulogy for you to speak. Please look presentable.” When do I ever not look presentable? I roll my eyes, knowing full well she can’t see me, so I stick out my tongue like a child for good measure.

“Yes, Mother,” I croak, and the line goes dead.

I tap the email app on my phone to send Lori, my assistant, a note to say I won’t be in today. But, when my inbox loads, there’s a company-wide email letting all the staff know of the funeral today at St. Patrick’s Church, in downtown Toronto. The board has apparently elected to close the whole building in honour of Harold. With a heavy sigh, I slink out of my bed, my feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and shuffle off into the bathroom to get ready for this long and torturous day.

•••

Riley slides out of the car first, smoothing down her black mid-thigh dress and fluffing her black curls. Her hair has grown out over the last few months and is no longer in a lob anymore. I like the new look; the long, curled strands frame her heart-shaped face. It suits her. Her warm breath billows in the cold air as she waits for me to get out of the car.

“Are you coming, hun?”

“In a second,” I murmur to her. The driver looks at me from the rearview mirror.

“Ma’am, where would you like me to park?”

I sigh. “You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am,’ Arthur. I’ve known you since I was ten. You can just call me Elissa.” A small chortle bubbles out of me. “But if you want to go and grab a coffee, I’ll message you when we’re done.” Arthur nods his head and I slide out of the black sedan. When my red heels hit the cold pavement, a powerful urge to run, and keep running, overwhelms me. As if sensing my flighty moment, Riley hooks her arm through mine, and she leads us up the steps of St. Patrick’s Church.

The tall, beige stone stairs lead to a flat patio before continuing toward the front wall of the church, with its three sets of double doors, each decorated with crosses. I stop and stare up at this magnificent church. One large arched window stands tall, stretching up the face of the church, with two shorter ones on each side. Underneath the windows is a row of small, narrow, arched cutouts that look like they were retrofitted with more modern window panes.

The main building has two wings on either side, with more cutouts that also look to be paned after the fact. Each tall peak of the building is topped with a stone cross. Ivy coils up the right side of the building, weaving across the beige bricks. I take a deep breath, squeeze the crook of my arm on Riley’s, and we head into the church together.

The church is quiet as hushed, reverential tones murmur and bounce off the walls. Whispers are mixed in with the natural hum of the church’s atmosphere. When Riley and I get to the main entrance for the chapel, I notice my mother right away. Her copper locks coil into a tight, neat French twist, and her bangs are perfectly curled and fluffed. Her makeup is minimal, but flawless as always. And, even with the makeup, her eyes are still puffy, and the creases of her nose are splotchy and red. My heart pangs as I feel a rush of guilt settle in. Maybe my mother is actually sad about Harold passing.

When my mother spots me, a wide, warm smile passes over her face and she steps toward me and Riley, the clicking of her heels echoing in the chapel. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes on us as she nears, arms wide open, tissue wadded in her hands. Her arms clasp around me, pinning my arms to my side and pulling me in for what feels like a genuine hug. My arm bends upward awkwardly, and I pat her side.

“Hi, Mother,” I say, keeping my tone level.

“Hi, baby,” she says, then steps back and looks at Riley. She pulls her in for a hug as well, and places a kiss on Riley’s cheek. “Good to see you, Riley. So glad you made it.”

Riley gives my mother a tight smile. “Of course, Mrs. Black.” My mother stands tall, but a tiny flash of shock crosses her face. A thick, warm arm snakes around the right side of my waist and the familiar cool richness of Brandt’s wintry scent wraps around me like a blanket. I feel him lean down, and when I look at him, he places a soft kiss on my lips. My insides instantly heat and my heart hammers in my chest as our first public display of affection is here, at my father’s funeral.

My mother clears her throat. “A-hem.” Her shrill, prickly voice interrupts the moment.

“Mrs. Black, I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” Brandt’s words are like warm butter as he steps forward and offers my mother a kiss on her cheek. She whispers a “thank you” and gives me a look. A look of what, I’m not quite sure, but it almost looks like approval.

“Well, I better get going and see that the priest is ready to go. Elissa, please join me in a moment to grab your speech.” She turns away with one last smile and saunters off to find the priest. Riley slinks off to find a seat in a pew near the front. I turn my gaze to Brandt.

“Thanks for coming,” I murmur. His face brightens as his lips twist into a soft smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if Harold wasn’t a partner, and the email that was sent out made it seem like this was mandatory for all staff,” he says, chuckling quietly. My heart swells at the sound of his laughter and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Well, I suppose I should find my mother and this speech I’m supposed to recite,” I grumble with a roll of my eyes. Two warm hands clasp my face and I find two beautifully dull green eyes staring back at me (I’m choosing to believe they’re beautifully green because of my colour blindness, and well, just look at the damn man). His gaze never wavers as he looks into my eyes and draws my face closer to his. My hands find purchase on his chest, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until his lips touch mine, and I gasp for air.

His tongue swipes across my lips and I instantly grow hot. I realize this is wholly inappropriate, kissing like this in a church, but I can’t stop. His tongue flicks and rubs against mine, and I resist the urge to deepen the kiss. My hands slide along his silky smooth charcoal suit, grasping the lapels, ready to dive in, when he breaks the kiss. A sly smile sprawls across his face as his eyes look past me.

“Oops…sorry, Father,” he murmurs in my ear. And I nearly snort. My hands fly to my mouth, stifling the noise threatening to come out. A devilish glint sparkles in his eyes as he straightens his jacket and places a kiss on the side of my head. “See you soon.” He maneuvers around me and stalks off, stopping a few times to talk to some of our coworkers before finding a spot near the front with the rest of the board members.

Air rushes into my lungs as I try to calm my nerves and prepare to find my mother for the eulogy I will need to deliver. Hopefully, it will be believable. I look around me, taking in the beauty of the church. The cathedral’s tall arched ceiling features beautiful pendant lights dangling down over the two main rows of pews. In between the outer wings of pews and the centre ones are tall cream and white marble pillars. Discreet speakers adorn each pillar along with tasteful, but ornate, flower arrangements — red and white roses and sprigs of baby’s breath.

Beautiful stained glass windows line the outer walls of the chapel, each depicting a different biblical scene, and little stonework pictures hang on the wall of the stations of the cross. The altar is smooth white granite and is lined with a white cloth with golden crosses on either end. The air smells of burning candles and that unique scent that all churches have. You can never quite name what it is, but they all smell the same.

Despite the reason for gathering, I feel calm. I feel…at home here. It feels warm and inviting, so unlike my father. It’s ironic that such a cold and distant person is being celebrated and mourned in a place that is so warm and welcoming. I grimace as I shake myself from my thoughts and head toward the front of the church to find my mother and the publicist.

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