Page 8 of The Woman at the Funeral

Then he was moving around the counter toward me.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice soft. He reached for my elbow and gently walked me over toward the couch, helping me lower myself down, then pulling the throw down over me.

He sat down on the coffee table and reached down for my leg. Before I could ask what he was doing, he had my ankle propped up on his thigh and was at work on the clasp of my shoe.

I pretended not to notice the way something sizzled across my skin at the brush of his fingertips as he slid my heel off my foot.

I sat there, immobile as a doll, as he placed my foot back on the floor then reached for the other, repeating the process. He even pulled the blanket down so it covered them before moving away.

I heard him clanking around in the kitchen, but I had no idea what he was doing until he came back a few minutes later with a steaming mug of tea in his hand.

I reached for it with my brows knitted.

“How did you know I like tea?”

To that, I got the smallest of smiles—one that didn’t reach his eyes, where there was sadness pooling. “I figured Matt wasn’t the one drinking it.”

“Right. Of course. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he said, waving toward the seat beside me. “Mind if I sit with you? At least until the food arrives.”

I gave him a nod, then watched as he undid his suit button before joining me.

“Do you want to talk?”

“About what? The debilitating guilt I feel about the last few days of Matthew’s life?” I asked, wincing as soon as the words were out of my mouth. “No, I don’t want to talk.”

“Then we won’t talk,” he said, reaching for the remote instead. “But I will say one thing before we stop talking. Youhave absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. You made a decision that was right for you. And I think we both know that Matt was… doing fine.”

A part of me ached at those words, despite knowing how true they were. Matthew was nothing if not a roll-with -the-punches kind of guy. Not much got him down. Least of all in any sort of lasting way. He’d probably been pissed and hurt when I’d turned him out. But he’d likely gotten over it before the end of the night.

It didn’t mean he didn’t care. He did. As much as he was capable. He just didn’t feel things as deeply as I did. He didn’t attach to anything or anyone that he hadn’t met before he was five years old.

So losing me, while a blow to his ego, didn’t seem like it was going to throw his entire world off its axis like it did for me.

“Nothing ever got him down for long,” I agreed.

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t care.”

I watched as Nico flipped through the channels, landing on the home improvement channel. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he liked it himself, or if he thought—correctly—that I would.

“No, you’re right. He cared.”

“Just not enough,” Nico said, giving me a sympathetic look.

“No.”

It felt wrong to speak negatively of the dead. But Nico was maybe the only other person in the world who understood Matthew’s strengthsandflaws. Because it was always Nico Matthew went to when he got himself into some sort of trouble and needed someone to lend a hand. Or money. I hated to think just how much money this man had given my late husband over the years.

To the Ferraro family, Matthew could do no wrong.

Nico and I could see him for exactly who he was.

Charming, enchanting, contagious in his joy, sycophantic in his praise. But moody, unmotivated, and so focused on himself that he often missed everything and everyone around him.

“It’s okay to mourn the man you wanted him to be… and the man he actually was. There’s no right way to go about this.”

I opened my mouth to respond. Just when there was a buzz from the intercom.

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