Page 7 of Fierce Love
We follow behind him, and I make noises of agreement as he weaves through rooms and down halls. Beside me, my little sister, Kinsley, says nothing. If I don’t dwell on why I’m here,I’ll be fine. Except for the design choices, I try to keep my mind blank of any real thoughts, but they creep in anyway.
Quick or slow, the death of my aunt is definitely the worst kind of loss. No comparison. Since I was a little kid, she’s been my second mother, and so much better than my first. The person who taught me what it means to mother someone else. Whenever I needed her, she came running. From providing a roof over my head when child protective services seized me to coming to New York for long weekends when she could get the time off, to supporting me when I went after primary care of my sister, she’s been my constant. The anchor in any stormy sea.
Losing her is a kind of untethering I didn’t even realize could happen to a person. Both my parents, but especially my mother, never tied me to anything but chaos.
My Aunt Verna’s death leaves a gaping hole in my chest and a crushing weight on my back. As soon as I got the call about her heart attack, I took a hasty leave from my job as an interior designer, packed bags, pulled my sister out of school, and headed home. Maybe I should have returned years ago, but I rarely felt strong enough to face this place, face what I left behind.WhoI left behind.
At thirty-two, I’m being forced to confront the choices I made and the decisions that changed my life forever.
Or maybe I can get out of Bellerive again before I have to do any of that. One can hope. God knows I do not want Kinsley growing up here.
“What do you think?” Otis asks outside the final room in the wide hallway. “Will this suit your needs?”
It’s the biggest and most expensive funeral home on the island. My aunt’s meager life insurance will cover the cost, but her funeral is the first time Aunt Verna will be on equal terms with the people she served most of her life, or the ones whose houses she cleaned for extra cash when I was a kid, desperate forsomething she couldn’t afford. The divide between the haves and the have-nots in Bellerive has always been wider than it should be, as far as I’m concerned.
“I’ll e-transfer the money today.”
Otis should have had little doubt about what I’d do. I called his funeral home to collect my aunt’s body before I left New York. When she was alive, I wasn’t able to give her the best, but I was damn sure going to make sure she got the greatest sendoff possible.
“I’ll take care of all the details,” Otis assures me.
That’s another thing about pretending to be rich. People look after you as though you’re incapable of doing things for yourself. In this case, I’m happy for him to take control. The minute I have to ponder caskets or urns or flower arrangements, I’m on the verge of sobbing. Otis took my budget, and when I said I didn’t feel capable of making sound decisions, he promised me the world.
After having very little most of my life, the world is a pretty great deal, regardless of the cost.
“Your aunt was well respected in Bellerive,” he says as he leads us toward the front entrance, and it’s then that I realize he’s probably around my aunt’s age. Twenty to thirty years older than me. Portly and balding but still dignified in a way that only people with money can be. “What are you up to now?” he asks. “Never returned to the island to work?”
“My opportunities were better elsewhere,” I say. “I work for one of the top interior design firms in New York.” Name dropping would probably be wasted on him.
“Must have gone to a pretty fancy school.”
I did. Not at all the school I intended to go to, and my life has been on a trajectory I never imagined as a result. “Hard work pays off,” I say. The truth is complicated, and it makes me feel a strange mix of shame and pride. When our backs were againstthe wall, I did what I had to, and I can’t regret that. I won’t let myself.
“She’s really busy all the time,” Kinsley says, a familiar bite to her words.
Her teenage attitude is poking out. At thirteen, she hates how much I work, but living in our shoebox apartment in New York is expensive, and I’m still building my client list. Being in Bellerive is bad for both of those things—paying my bills and keeping my clients happy—but I owe my aunt my time and attention. They’re the things I should have given her more of while she was alive too. But I thought we’d have lots of time, so much more time. It seems wrong that my parents are alive and healthy, given the lifestyles they’ve both led, and my aunt—my sweet, strong Auntie Verna—is gone too soon.
“Thank you for your time,” I say to Otis, placing my hand on Kinsley’s lower back to move her along.
She leans into the touch. We’re both heartbroken in our own way about Aunt Verna’s death. I lost my mentor and the woman I wished to call mother, and Kinsley lost the equivalent of a grandparent. Whenever she thought I was being unreasonable, she reached out to our aunt for sympathy or to talk through her feelings. We were a three-wheeled scooter, rushing through life, and it feels unstable to have lost one of our wheels. We’re going to have to learn to balance without her stabilizing influence.
We’re almost at the high-ceilinged foyer when the front door opens with a whoosh, bringing in a rush of hot air. With the door open and the person lit from behind, all I can determine is tall and broad, but when the shoulders rotate to close the door, a sense of familiarity rushes through me. That movement—it’s not the first time it’s happened—where I caught a glimpse of a stranger in a crowd and my brain filled in details, made connections that floated away on the wind. But when the suitedman lingers with his hand on the doorknob before turning around, I scan his wide back, narrow hips.
It can’t be. Fate cannot hate me that much.
Pinpricks dart along my skin.
Oh god.
“Otis,” Nate Tucker says, barely sparing me a glance. “I have a few things I’d like to discuss.”
Otis lets out a deep sigh behind me, but I can’t tear my gaze from Nate’s face.That face. Everything in me aches, as though I’ve suddenly caught the worst flu.
“I’m in the middle of a client showing,” Otis says, gesturing to us.
“I can see that,” Nate says, but he doesn’t acknowledge me or Kinsley.
There are laugh lines in the corners of his eyes now—lines he earned with someone else. The realization causes a flood of regret that only makes my physical aches feel watery and less stable.
