Page 81 of Sinfully His

After the funeral, several people called to offer their condolences and check on how I had been doing, for precisely three days. One woman, whom I didn’t know very well because my mother stuck up her nose at the woman’s “new money,” sent over an entire catered dinner. It was unusual; not just the act itself, but the food was almost entirely simple carbs, which were practically outlawed for women to eat, and different soups and stews. I didn’t understand the gesture, but it saved me from having to feed myself, and I may have let the plastic tub ofmacaroni and cheese provide more comfort than was probably healthy.

After that, it was silence.

It seemed as if society was ready to move on from my mother’s reign and decide who the new queen bee was going to be. It took less than a week for another one of the society women to run circles around everyone else. I stayed back, receiving updates on the carnage through the other daughters, who were fascinated by their mothers’ escapades. Unlike their mothers, however, these girls had figured out the brilliance of group chat.

It didn’t matter how many times I left those chats. Despite the fact I didn’t consider a single one of these women as friends, they put me right back in, saying things like, “It’s really important to be around people you care about in times like these,” or “I know you’re grieving, but locking yourself away from your friends and family will only make it worse.”

Never mind that I hadn’t locked myself away from my family at all. In fact, my father and I were growing closer. I also spent more time with Amelia at her school while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

Still, I had separated myself from most of the society women and was slowly pulling away from what could only be described as the world’s most toxic, Chanel-wrapped people on the planet. It wasn’t until Mrs. Donahue contacted me about the Christmas bazaar that I was forced to rejoin society.

That woman would not take no for an answer.

First, she sent a message via courier because apparently we lived in the year of our Lord 1735, asking for my help running the Christmas bazaar. When I said no, she just took it upon herself to show up at my door to check on my well-being. She forced me to serve her tea and entertain her while she went on and on about how tragic my mother’s death was, her garish orangelipstick staining the bone china tea set that had been in my family for generations.

Still, I politely refused her request, stating that I simply was not up to running social events at this time. I thought she would allow me the time to grieve properly, even if my grief was over my own soul being tainted by my hand in my mother’s death and not by the loss of a motherly influence, as Mrs. Donahue kept saying.

The way she kept repeating the words “motherly influence” and taking me under her arm made me nauseous and wonder if her ploy wasn’t about getting me to help but rather an attempt at trying to sink her claws into my freshly widowed father. After all, her husband left her a year or two ago for a much younger woman.

I genuinely did not care who my father dated, or even if he dated, but I certainly would not let this woman control me like my mother had.

I was about to tell her just that when she pulled out a manila envelope and showed me the brochures and flyers that she had created. The beautiful gold script at the top stated that the Christmas bazaar was being dedicated to Mary Quinn Astrid. There were even a few lines about her dedication to charitable work and how her loss would be felt for generations.

I had never wanted to roll my eyes more in my life.

“I understand this might be hard for you, sweetheart,” she said, patting my hand condescendingly. “But I think doing this in your mother’s name might help you heal.”

She had a point.

Maybe doing this, in my mother’s name or whatever, would help make up for the fact that I’d had a hand in her death. I wasn’t expecting it to cleanse my soul or erase my sins, but maybe it was a start?

“Besides,” Mrs. Donahue said, interrupting my thoughts. “I simply just don’t have the time right now. There are so many galas and other things that require my full attention, and even if I had the time, I’m afraid I’m unable to read your mother’s handwriting.”

She pulled out another envelope with the church basement blueprints and an outline of where specific tables and set ups were supposed to go. My mother’s distinct chicken scratch in her favorite fountain pen ink, Herbin Emerald of Chivor, feathered on the cheap paper she had written on.

I never understood why she insisted on writing with a fountain pen on paper that wasn’t fountain pen friendly, leaving her writing nearly impossible to decipher.

Montblanc made rollerballs too.

I pushed that annoyance aside, realizing that because of her terrible handwriting, the bleeding of the ink, and the feathering on the cheap paper, I really was the only one who could decipher the notes my mother had all but scribbled. Even then, it was because she had trained me to know what she wanted, more than any ability to read her handwriting.

My refusal was on my lips when Mrs. Donahue kept talking.

“I’m afraid that if we don’t get your help, the Christmas bazaar may not happen at all. Father Manwarring was the one in charge of seeing us through and doing the day to day, but he got called away on some type of assignment, and I don’t even think he’s in the city anymore.”

“Father Manwarring won’t be there?” I asked a little too quickly. If Mrs. Donahue noticed, she said nothing.

“He won’t be, which is really just putting us out so much. Between losing your mother and now losing him, the other volunteers simply don’t have the required breeding and taste to truly make this event something your mother would have beenproud to have her name on. Not to mention the charities that count on this?—”

“What do you need me to do?” I interrupted with a defeated sigh.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” She clapped her hands as she stood, gathering her purse and brushing the wrinkles from her pantsuit. “I’ll tell the church’s secretary now. Really, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

She pulled out a few more files and left them for me to figure out on my own as she rushed out.

That lying bitch.

When I got to the church, I headed down to the basement where the bazaar would be held, expecting to see a room with bored-looking teenagers and boxes of things that needed to be sorted and organized. Instead, when I got there, the room was already full of energy and people were running around getting things arranged.

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