Page 53 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Ugh. Dog breath. Grimacing, I wave my hand in front of my nose. “Thanks for that.”
She falls perfectly still. Her eyes go wide. She looks at me with an expression of terror, as if she just realized who I am and where she is.
“Don’t freak out,” I say gently. “I’m not gonna yell at you.”
She looks at her paw slung over my waist, looks guiltily back at me, then slowly withdraws her leg.
It’s adorable. So of course I feel bad. “Did Beans kick you out of her room?”
Cornelia buries her face in the pillow.
“Yeah. She’s a real meanie, that one.”
Cornelia’s log of a tail starts to wag, tentatively at first, until after a few seconds it’s thumping the mattress so hard the bed jiggles.
I have a terrible feeling I’m going to be waking up next to this horse every day from now on, and sigh. “Okay, dog. We’ll be friends. But we’re not sleeping together. I’ll get you a proper doggie bed. Deal?”
Cornelia gets so excited I think she might pee herself. She leaps up onto all fours, wriggling like a puppy, panting and pawing at the covers, raining slobber onto my face.
“Gross.” I wipe my face with the sheets and flip off the covers. Cornelia jumps off the bed and waits in the corner, watching me with worry as I yawn and stretch. When I stand, she turns in a circle, knocking over a floor lamp. She’s so frantic with excitement she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
I look at her sternly and point at the floor. “Sit.”
She promptly falls down and plays dead.
“That’ll do. Good dog.”
I head into the bathroom and take a shower, wondering how I’m going to make it through this day.
The funeral is at eleven o’clock.
The only black clothing I brought with me is a pair of slacks. I had no thoughts of funeral wardrobes when I was packing in San Francisco. I have a gray cashmere sweater that will have to do for a top, but I don’t have heels, and there’s no time to go out and buy anything.
I would’ve altered one of the dresses at my father’s shop, but none of them were black. He always said a woman should never wear black unless she was grieving because it leeched all the color from her skin.
Papa.
Grief passes through me in a wave so strong it leaves me breathless. I have to flatten my hand against the shower wall to steady myself. I swallow hard, again and again, until the sob that wants to break from my throat subsides. Then I promise myself I’ll hold it together until I can be alone again. I refuse to break down in front of the WS.
Or him.
I turn off the water and dry off. After I’m finished blow drying my hair, I go back into the bedroom. Cornelia’s gone, but something new has appeared that makes me stop in shock.
Laid out on the bed is a dress. It’s black, made of stiff silk organza overlaid with lace. It’s knee length, with a sweetheart neckline, a nipped waist, a full skirt, and a matching jacket.
I don’t have to look at the tag to recognize it’s Dior couture.
“I thought you might need something to wear.”
The marchesa stands in the doorway of my bedroom. She’s pale and somber in a housecoat and slippers, both black. Her hair is down, and she doesn’t have any makeup on. Dark shadows lurk in the hollows beneath her eyes.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her look like a human being.
I don’t know what else to say except, “Thank you.”
She gazes at the dress. “It was my mother’s. Dior, circa 1950s.”
“The New Look,” I murmur, unsure how to act. She’s being nice to me!
