What choice does she have? She’s done enough damage.
Overwhelmed suddenly by the effort it takes to smile and make small talk, Tessa excuses herself. She needs a quiet moment alone. Her feet take her to her mother’s bedroom door.
She pushes it open, and Jane’s faint scent welcomes her inside. In her creased black dress and heels, Tessa drops slowly onto the edge of the bed and runs a hand over the quilt that drapes it.
Tessa pulls her feet up and lays her head on her mother’s pillow, the linen cool against her cheek. Ivory drapes flutter in the breeze from the open door that leads outside where guests are milling about, speaking to one another in somber, hushed voices.
The world has tipped on end, and all the things Tessa once believed true have been lost in some negative space where black is white, up is down, and her mother is gone forever.
When the door opens quietly and her sister walks in the room, Tessa sits up, bracing herself. Margot drops onto the bed beside her, and her eyes roam around the room, searching for somewhere to land other than Tessa.
They sit side by side. Whatever else is between them, in this moment, they share a loss that only the other can comprehend. Margot laces her fingers through Tessa’s and they hold on tight.
It can’t last. They both know this, but their grip is fierce despite that knowledge. Or because of it.
After a time, the sound of raised voices drifts through the open door, incongruous on a day filled with quiet condolences. Tessa tenses, even as Margot’s hand loosens, and she fights the urge to squeeze tighter, to prolong a connection that can’t be forced.
Her sister’s hand slips from hers as Margot rises to move to the door.
“What now?” Margot says under her breath.
Shaking off the fresh wave of loss, Tessa stands and walks to her sister’s side. In their mother’s backyard, friends and family are gathered near the giant oak that still has a rope and board swing tied to one of its sturdy, fat branches. A picnic table is loaded with food, but Aunt Nan’s broccoli and rice casserole isn’t what holds everyone’s attention.
Across the yard, where a gate opens to the circle drive, three men are arguing.
“Who is that?” Tessa asks.
Two of the men are recognizable. It’s Ben and Uncle Rob, their father’s youngest brother. Rob is shaking his finger in the face of a third man while Ben holds an arm across Rob’s chest, trying to defuse whatever situation is brewing.
The stranger holds up both hands but doesn’t retreat. Instead he pulls a small notebook from his shirt pocket and flips it open, which sets Rob off again.
“I said get the hell out of here, you slimy bastard.” Rob’s voice carries across the green grass, upsetting the quiet stillness of the scene. “This is private property. You have no business here. Have some goddamned respect, why don’t you? And that you can quote me on!”
Tessa’s heart drops.
The press.
She’s out the door, hurrying across the lawn as fast as her heels can take her.
Ben sees her coming. “No,” he says, holding a hand up in her direction. “Stay back. I’ll get rid of him.”
“Ms. Shepherd,” the reporter calls over his shoulder. “Ms. Shepherd, would you care to comment on the Oliver Barlow situation?”
Rob draws back a fist, but Ben steps between her uncle and the reporter, gripping the older man by the forearms. It’s the opening Tessa needs and she rushes forward, grabbing the reporter by his arm.
She pulls him quickly away from the gathering, toward the privacy of the driveway lined with cars.
“Ms. Shepherd, are you aware that a body was recovered from the Barlows’ property earlier today? Given the latest developments, do you stand by the work you did to help Oliver Barlow gain his freedom?”
Now that she has him away from the crowd, Tessa has no idea what to say. If she defends her work, the public will crucify her. If she doesn’t, they’ll crucify her anyway.
And none of that matters right now.
“I buried my mother today,” Tessa says carefully. “This is not the time or the place for an interview. I’d like you to leave. Now.”
“The longer you wait, Tessa, the more people are going to talk,” the reporter says. She notices the way he’s switched to her first name. He can’t be a day older than twenty-five. “Public perception is hard to change once it takes hold, and right now you look like you’re hiding from a situation you created.”
Tessa would like nothing more than to wipe the smugness off his face, but she’s in no position to do that. It doesn’t help to knows he’s right.
“Just one quote. Come on,” he says.
She’s tempted, if only to get him to leave. My heart goes out to the friends and family of Valerie Winters during this difficult time. They are in my prayers.
Two things hold her back. Firstly, the Winters family doesn’t give a shit about her thoughts and prayers. No amount of either will bring their daughter home. As far as Lloyd Winters is concerned, Tessa has a seat reserved in hell next to Oliver Barlow. Platitudes would be nothing but a self-serving attempt to salvage her image.
Secondly, though not necessarily of equal importance, she doesn’t like him. There may come a time when she speaks to the press, but it won’t be to a reporter brazen enough to gate-crash her mother’s funeral.
“No comment,” Tessa says through gritted teeth. “Now leave, or I’ll call the police.”
“This isn’t going away, you know.”
She crosses her arms and clenches her jaw. Seeing she’s not going to budge, he shakes his head and tucks his notebook back into his pocket.
“Fine, but—”
“I’m going to get my phone,” she says and turns her back on him.
“I’ve got mine.”
Tessa hadn’t realized Margot followed them, but she’s glad to see her standing a few yards away, holding a cell phone in her hand.
“Call the police. Tell them we have a trespasser.”
“Fine,” the reporter says. “I’m going. No need to be like that.”
The sisters stand shoulder to shoulder until he climbs into his vehicle and reverses down the long driveway.
“Margot, I’m sorry—”
“He’s right. It isn’t going away.” Her sister’s voice is hard again. Their fleeting moment of solidarity is gone. “And now you’ve brought it here.”
“Margot—”
Her sister turns on her heel. Ben is standing at the gate, watching, but Margot brushes past him. He tries to speak to her, but she walks by him like he doesn’t exist.
He waits while Tessa follows at a slower pace.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I’ll leave tonight,” she says.
He frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. “How’s that going to help?” he asks. The frustration in his voice surprises her.
“That reporter won’t be the last to show up, not as long as I’m here. Once I go, there’s no reason for them to bother any of you again.”
He stares as if he’s trying to work out if she has any sense at all.
“What?” Tessa demands.
But Ben shakes his head. “You. You and Margot both. You Shepherd girls are pretty good at running away.”