Page 14 of Fierce Love
With more confidence than I feel, I follow one of the funeral home workers to the reception. There, finger foods and drinks are being served by wait staff that are milling around. I can’t help thinking that my aunt could have easily been one of the servers.
I grab a glass of water off the tray, and I down it in three gulps, pretending it’s something much stronger. Kinsley takes one beside me and sips at it, gazing around the crowd.
It doesn’t take long before people start approaching, telling us stories of how they knew my aunt or when they knew me as a child. Some of the stories are nice, heartwarming, and others are strange, as though the person hadn’t been sure of what to say and then proceeded to insert their foot into their mouth.
A few times after someone leaves us, Kinsley leans over and says, “What the fuck?”
Normally I’d laugh with her, not caring about her phrasing, but the day has been overwhelming, and so I chastise her for swearing instead. It’s not the time or the place, and I’d hate for anyone to overhear, to think we’re just like our parents.
“Hollyn?” A tall, lithe woman, maybe a bit younger than me, approaches with her hand outstretched. Her brown hair is pulled back, bouncy and shiny under the light. “I’m Posey Jensen. Your aunt was the sweetest, kindest woman. I was so unbelievably sorry to hear she’d passed away. I live in an apartment down the street from the deli she worked at for years. I loved her. Really, really loved her.”
There’s something so genuine in her demeanor that I can’t help feeling a little comforted by her words. “She was one of the best,” I agree. “This is my younger sister, Kinsley.”
They shake hands, and Posey doesn’t miss a beat. “She talked about you and your sister a lot. She was so proud of you, Hollyn, for being the first in the family to get a college degree. Interior design, right?”
“Yep,” I say feeling a rush of warmth for Posey and her keen memory. Aunt Verna had somehow cobbled together enough money to come to my graduation. I still remember seeing her beaming in the crowd.
“I’m also in interior design, so I always thought it was funny we had that in common.” She gives me a sunny grin. “She said you’d gotten a scholarship to attend school, which is amazing. You must be a hard worker.”
“She is,” Kinsley grumbles beside me.
But I shift on my feet, antsy at the mention of the scholarship. It’s true and untrue, and the only person other than me who would ever understand the intricacies of my college journey is gone.
“She works at a fancy firm in New York City,” Kinsley says. “Maybe you’ve heard of it,” Kinsley continues in the tone of voice I use when I’m about to name-drop. “Reyes and Cruz?”
Posey straightens, and she eyes me with curiosity, but she doesn’t ask if it’s true. “That’s impressive,” she says. “Really amazing. Such an opportunity.”
On someone else, those comments might seem disingenuous, but it’s the opposite with Posey. She comes across as the type of person incapable of bullshit, as though it would tarnish her shine. She talks like someone raised with wealth on the island, but not like everyone else is beneath her. Definitely an art not many rich people on this island possess.
When I first arrived in New York, I’d loved how big the city felt, so different from anything in Bellerive. Bellerive’s population is the same as a midsized city. New York felt like a whole new world.
But lately my life has become dominated by people who care more about how things appear than how they actually are. Maybe that’s the price of climbing the ladder in the company. Many of the people I meet are screwed up in some way by extreme wealth. Not that far, after all, from the wealthy in Bellerive. Just took me longer to see it.
Bellerive’s rich-poor divide should have prepared me for those clients, but other than the brief time I spent with Nate’s family and friends, my interactions with rich people before taking the job at Reyes and Cruz had been limited. Even in college, I seemed to naturally gravitate toward others on scholarship or financial assistance.
“Look,” Posey says, digging into her purse. “I know now isn’t the time, but I wanted to chat with you about something. Maybe we could grab lunch? When do you head back to New York?” She passes me her card.
I took all the bereavement leave I could—which was only a few days—and I paired it with all my banked vacation. In theory, I could be on the island for weeks, but I didn’t intend to stay that long. My clientele in NY would collapse or be consumed by another designer if I stayed too long. Not enough people know who I am yet to make up those lost commissions with ease.
“Next week,” I say. “We’re leaving next week.”
Kinsley slumps beside me, as though she’d been hoping for another answer.
“Tomorrow?” Posey suggests. “I can come to you, wherever you are.” She smiles again, as though she realizes it has magical properties.
“We’re at the Eastgate Smith-Wesley hotel. What about tonight?” I turn the card she gave me over in my hands, happy for the momentary distraction, the focus on what comes next.
“Seven? I can meet you in the lobby, and we can find somewhere to go. You’re welcome to come, Kinsley,” Posey says. “I’m sure it’s been a hell of a few days. Excellent food and strong coffee are good temporary Band-Aids.”
“Hollyn doesn’t cook much, so anything other than mushy mac and cheese sounds great to me.” Kinsley brightens for the first time all day.
“Mushy,” I say with a scoff. “You try making it.”
“I do.” Kinsley’s tone has a touch of sharpness. “You’re just not there to see it.”
Posey lets out a little laugh. “I have a sister.” She flicks her finger back and forth between us. “So I get this.”
I wish I did. Lately it feels like I can’t do anything right, and I’m not sure if it’s teenage angst from Kinsley or if I’m really a terrible replacement parent.
