I’m deeply touched by the outpouring of sympathy—the lush bouquets of flowers and the endless platters of cold cuts and casseroles—not only from friends of the family but from Dad’s coworkers as well. When the head of the English department cancels classes on Wednesday, the day of the funeral, faculty members and hordes of students pack the church for the service and migrate to Magnolia Cemetery for the burial afterward. I’m humbled by these kids who care enough about my father to attend his funeral. I’m studying their youthful faces gathered around the perimeter of the tent at our family gravesite when I notice an elegant woman at the far edge of the crowd. She’s dressed in black, from the hat and veil covering her head down to her spike-heeled boots.
“Who’s that woman with the veil?” I whisper to Trudy, with a slight nod in the woman’s direction.
Trudy lifts her hand to shield her eyes, and I feel her body go rigid. “What woman? I can’t see without my glasses.”
I cut my eyes at her. Trudy wears glasses to read, not for distance. I’ve never known her to lie. And I can’t imagine why she is now. I lean in close, preparing to interrogate her, when the minister announces the benediction. The mysterious woman in black slips from my mind as the assembly begins to disperse and I’m besieged by people.
Layla has arranged a catered reception at the house after the funeral, and the place is already mobbed when we arrive. I’m pleased to see my friend Bert Edmunds, the owner of the art gallery where I work . . . worked . . . whatever . . . wearing a slim-fitting black suit and standing just inside the drawing room.
He envelops me in a hug. “Lil, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a tough road for you.”
Fresh tears fill my eyes. “Everything happened so fast. I’m grateful he didn’t suffer for long.” I draw away from Bert. “How’re things at the gallery?”
He runs his hand across his slicked-back dark hair. “Busy. We have three openings scheduled for October. We could really use your amazing organizational skills whenever you’re ready to come back to work.”
I chew on my lip. I hate disappointing him. “I’m sorry, Bert. You’ve been so understanding, but I need a little more time.”
“No worries. I get it.” He gives my arm a pat. “Your apartment’s still available too, if you’re interested in moving back in.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. Everything about my life is so uncertain at the moment. I need to sort a few things out.”
He raises a hand. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Think about it, and let me know when you decide.”
“Has anyone shown any interest in my work?” Bert has three of my paintings for sale in the gallery. A marsh view from our family’s cottage on nearby Wadmalaw Island. The steeple of St. Phillips church at dusk. And the famous Rainbow Row on a sunny day.
“Everyone who comes into the gallery expresses interest. But no one has made an offer. At least not yet.”
“Because you have the paintings priced too high.”
He fingers a lock of hair off my cheek. “Come on, Lil. We’ve talked about this ad nauseam. We’ve priced them appropriately for the quality of your work. You are one of the most gifted young artists I’ve ever encountered. Your paintings will start to sell, and when they do, you’ll be an overnight success. You have to trust me on this. I know what I’m doing.”
Tingling feelings of excitement dance around in my belly at the prospect of someone buying my work. “I do trust you, Bert. No one knows the art business better than you. I’m just impatient.”
“Tell you what. Let’s give it a few more months. If nothing’s sold by“—he glances upward, as if to find the right date written on the ceiling—”say February, we’ll consider lowering the prices.”
February is four months away. Which, at the moment, seems like an eternity. “All right, then. You have until February first. But not a single day longer.”
Bert’s green eyes grow wide as he spots someone behind me. “Ooh, I see the McGees across the room. I need to speak with them. Stay in touch, Lil. Too-da-loo.”
He leaves me standing alone in a sea of people. The sickly sweet scent of a gardenia plant overpowers the room, and while I find the fragrance suffocating, it stirs in me some emotion I can’t identify. What will we do with all the flower arrangements sent by well-meaning people after today?
Eyeing the staircase, I consider sneaking up to my room. Then I remind myself these people are here for my father. I owe it to them, and to him, to be cordial. I have countless brief conversations as I make my way through to the dining room. There’s very little food left on the table, and I’m snagging the last broken pieces of cheese straws for my plate when I sense someone behind me. “Hello, Lillian,” a familiar voice says near my ear.
I turn to face the man I almost married ten years ago. His face has matured, his jawline stronger and auburn hairline receding slightly. But his penetrating green eyes haven’t changed. He looks at me now, and it’s as though he knows everything I’m feeling. “Marcus. I heard you’d moved back to town. So nice of you to come.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
We step away from the crowd at the table for privacy. “I’m sorry about your father, Lil. I admired Graham a great deal.”
I offer him a polite smile. “And he thought a lot of you as well.” Until you broke my heart by hooking up with my sister.
He tosses a quarter-size sweet potato biscuit into his mouth and sets his plate on the sideboard. “Normally I wouldn’t bring this up at a time like this, but I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you. I’m a junior partner at Cross, Ball, and Stanley, and your father specifically requested that I be assigned to his team. We need to meet with you and Layla sooner rather than later.”
I frown. “If this is about his estate, can’t it wait? We only just buried him today.”
His hand grazes my arm. “I’m sorry, Lil, but the matter is pressing. I’ve spoken with Layla. She’s planning to return to Atlanta on Friday, so we’ll have to meet tomorrow. Three o’clock in our office. Trudy will need to be there as well, since she’s mentioned in the will.”
What is wrong with me that I care that he spoke to Layla first? He’s successful and good-looking, living proof that ginger men are sexy as hell. But is he married? While I’d overheard my friends talking about him being back in town, no one mentioned a wife. I risk a glance at his ring finger, and a wave of relief washes over me when I see that it’s bare.
Don’t go there, Lil. He broke your heart once. He doesn’t deserve a second chance.
Our minister appears in the doorway, providing my escape. “I’m sorry, Marcus, but I need a word with Reverend Lewis.” I walk away without so much as a goodbye.
I thank the minister for the flattering things he said in his eulogy about my father and move into the drawing room where Roger is offering drinks to our few remaining guests. From the slur in his words, he’s poured himself a few too many already. Even though Layla and I had agreed to no alcohol at the reception, I accept the glass of red wine he offers me and take it out to the piazza. I’m a million miles away, lost in my own thoughts, when a woman who looks vaguely familiar but I can’t quite place approaches me.