Page 14 of The Woman at the Funeral

When I met Matthew, I’d been working as a curator at The Halberstam Gallery. While also working on a fun side project: anonline social media platform and blog about art that I’d named “The Tenth Muse.”

I never meant for it to go viral. But slowly but surely, I started to amass a following. Then a name for myself that allowed me to write for magazines. And, of course, supplement my income enough that I got to get myself a really nice apartment and expensive furniture.

All with my love of art.

Eventually, after I got married, I decided to step back from the gallery with the hopes of quickly starting a family of my own.

Thanks to my blog and social media presence, I managed to segue my career toward private art consulting and curating private collections for old money, hedge funders, and nouveau-rich crypto guys.

It wasn’t long before I’d almost doubled what I was making before. While working half the hours.

It had been perfect.

A great career for a mom.

But then months ticked by, and there weren’t even any signs of a baby. Test after test to see if something was wrong with me that wouldn’t allow me to get pregnant, only to be told everything was working as it should. And I just needed to give it time and enjoy the process.

The “process” had gotten less and less frequent over the past year, though, as the cracks in our marriage became chasms.

So I eventually doubled down on work. I started making more and more money. While Matthew sat around talking about his schemes and telling me he was going to retire me.

Retire me to do what?

Sit at home and do his laundry?

Cater to his ever-changing emotions?

Reflect on how miserable I was?

I shook those thoughts away. There was no use harping on all of the broken promises, the failed potential of our lives together. It had been over long before Matthew’s death. We’d just both been dragging along the corpse of our relationship because neither had been brave enough to say we were done.

I moved toward the kitchen, listening to the sounds of their voices but choosing not to hear the actual words as they dug through my closet and drawers.

I don’t know if they were thinking they’d find something worth anything in Matt’s belongings. They wouldn’t. The only expensive thing he’d owned was a watch I’d bought him for our first anniversary.

He’d forgotten the day.

I hadn’t even gotten apology flowers.

They could have the watch if they wanted it. Matthew didn’t like to wear it anyway. He said it made him feel like less of a man, knowing his wife bought it for him.

I was more worried that one of them might walk off with some of my things instead.

But not worried enough to confront them or even watch what they were doing. Whatever went missing, I could replace. The only thing that had sentimental value was the locket I had around my neck.

I put my glass down, and my hand went there, sliding across the old cold oval that was worn smooth from my fingers playing with it over the years.

There was another knock—softer this time—at the door.

I groaned, wondering which other family member would be traipsing through my home now.

But when I opened the door, it was Nico standing there.

“Nico.” His name almost sighed out of me. I wanted to suck the sound back in, worrying he might somehow be able to infer from it that I’d had more than a few sweaty dreams about himsince the funeral. Ones that made me wake up overheated and ashamed, but pulsing with desire.

He looked as good as my fantasies made him out to be. Wide shoulders, great hair, a gray suit that was tailored perfectly to his frame. A gold cross around his neck. A watch that matched, but was different from the one at the funeral.

I was so laser-focused on him that I saw the quick movement of his stormy eyes as they moved from my face and glided over my mostly bare body. I’m not proud to admit the way each inch his gaze moved over flamed to life.

---