Page 5 of The Woman at the Funeral

CHAPTER TWO

Blair

I had no idea how someone was supposed to mourn the death of the man she’d just kicked out a few days before.

But, clearly, the way I did it was wrong according to Matt’s family.

To be fair, everything I did was wrong to them. How I dressed, the way I cooked, how I decorated and kept house, the way I’d text him asking where he was when he took off to their houses for hours without saying a word to me about where he was going.

I was “controlling,” and “manipulative,” and “a princess” simply for my wardrobe and a styled apartment and not being as rowdy and emotive as the Ferraro crew were.

And don’t get me started on the fit Ronny had thrown when she’d learned I’d hyphenated my last name.

“Langston-Ferraro, what is she, a law firm?”

It was useless to try to impress upon her that I simply wanted to maintain some part of my identity in my marriage. All she would say to that was that I had a new identity.

Matthew’s wife.

Golden boy Matthew.

Never did anything wrong in his mother’s eyes.

And also never learned to be a fully functioning adult because of her either. He didn’t know how to wash his clothes, load a dishwasher, feed himself if it didn’t include a menu, or check his own bank accounts.

I’d been married for two weeks when I learned that my mother-in-law was the only one with the log-in details to my husband’s bank account.

I’d caught snippets of conversation when he’d called her to ask for the details.

“What does she need access to your account for? Isn’t she insisting on keeping her own account?”

I had, in fact, kept my own account.

And I’d been smart enough, even in those early days, not to give Matthew direct access to them.

Did I often pay for things around the house and a lot of the bills? Sure. Did he sometimes take my credit card and pay the tab at restaurants? Also, yes. But something about giving him unfettered access gave me pause. I mean, this was a man who once spent his last penny buying stuff at estate auctions, swearing out that he was going to make a fortune reselling them online.

All that venture ended with was a storage unit I’d been paying for, full of all the junk.

I was half-tempted to tell Ronny that Matthew left the storage unit’s contents to her.

Only I couldn’t bring myself to be that petty about it. Not even after the way the whole family came into the church, completely ignoring my existence, and sitting apart from me.

I’d like to say it didn’t sting.

I was used to being alone, after all.

I’d been that way for several years before Matthew came along.

But then there he was, talking about how close his family was, and my heart swelled at the idea of being able to belong to one again. Or, really, for the first time. Only to have that hope dashed the first night he brought me over there to meet them, and I overheard Ronny telling her sister that I seemed like a “Class A Bitch.”

The sad thing was, I got it. I’d always been a little standoffish, hesitant to share too much about myself, unsure how to insert myself into a group’s dynamic.

I thought I’d been doing a good job with Matthew’s family. Apparently not. And it only got worse from then out.

Right up until the bitter end, it seemed. And beyond.

I’d resigned myself to being the odd man out at the service.

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