Making this more so, before finding her own seat, she’d leaned in and murmured, “Take care of Chloe.”
Which brought to mind…
He looked to his right and saw Chloe sitting beside him.
Pure Chloe, she’d worn a dramatic black hat. A mournful number angled perfectly on her head with a wide brim that sloped theatrically down in a wide bell shape that covered her eyes. Though the black of the hat had an expensive sheen, the brim, also black, was transparent, making it reminiscent of a mourning veil.
There were two people in this world that could pull off that hat.
Chloe.
And Marilyn.
This thought took Corey’s attention to the front of the room, where there was a magnificent funeral spray of ivy, other greenery, blush-colored roses that were so pale, they were nearly cream, and more blush roses tipped with the most vibrant of pinks. All of this was interspersed with blooms that were a bold green peppered with small, fluffy white blooms along the stems. And in the midst of the spray, a massive pale pink satin bow with curling, trailing ends.
Beside it was a large picture of Marilyn Swan.
Imogen’s mother.
Chloe’s grandmother.
Corey’s godsend.
Genny had selected a photo of her mom of which Marilyn would approve.
Not a shot from weeks or months or even a few years ago, when, due to the magic wielded by a stylist, she still had her lustrous dark hair, but regardless of how hard she fought against it, she showed her age.
No.
Genny had picked a picture of when Marilyn was young and beautiful. Smiling candidly, sitting outside in the sun at a table with a coupe glass filled with pink liquid held in her hand. Her lips were her signature perfect red, her lush, seductive eyes that came from her Italian heritage slightly narrowed with laughter. A devil-may-care aura around her that was so strong, it was captured on film.
That was the Marilyn he remembered.
That was the Marilyn who would idle in her car at the curb an hour to midnight on his birthdays while Genny and Duncan would creep up his lawn and free him of the hell that was his home. That was the Marilyn who had a birthday cake waiting for him at her house. Where they sang the song to him and he blew out the candles. And even when the years had passed and it was Duncan who was driving, because he’d gotten old enough to do it, Gen as always at his side, they’d come get him, but it was Marilyn who made sure there was cake.
Candles.
Ice cream.
And presents.
That was just one of the many things she did in the decades Corey had known her that made Marilyn more precious to him than his own mother.
Because his own mother had done none of that.
Not on his birthdays.
Not ever.
Indeed, he had an enormous cache of memories of the woman in that picture. A woman who got more out of life in a small town in Illinois than practically anyone he’d met in all his dealings and travels, outside her daughter, her son-in-law and her grandchildren.
Because she’d taught Imogen right.
Life was meant to be lived.
And along the way, you took care of the people that mattered.
Imogen, like her mother, was a master at both.
He stared at that portrait and then he looked left.
Tom was in the end seat of their row, by the aisle, but Genny had leaned forward to dab her eye with a handkerchief.
Tom didn’t miss it and he turned to his wife, his broad back blocking Corey’s view of Gen but exposing Matt and Sasha on Genny’s other side.
The rest of that row was empty.
A familiar feeling rushed up his throat, filling it, temporarily causing him to experience blind panic that it would suffocate him as he returned his attention to Marilyn’s portrait.
They were one down.
One down.
Someone should be there, and he was not.
He should be there.
Marilyn adored him.
She’d want him there.
Genny needed him there.
Corey needed him there.
But Duncan was not there.
Because of Corey.
The feeling in his throat cleared when he felt a touch on his hand.
He turned to his right to see Chloe gazing at him from under her hat-veil.
“She liked you,” she said, and it was not lost on him what she meant.
She wasn’t being cruel.
As was her way, she was being honest.
In his entire world, only four people had truly liked him.
Genny.
Marilyn Swan.
Robert Swan.
And Duncan Holloway.
Until he made that last person walk away.
And stay away.
“She loved you,” he replied.
It was the wrong thing to say.
If a single look could share the world had just ended, Chloe’s did right then.
He’d forgotten.
He’d forgotten how close those two were.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “of course, you already knew that.”
“It’s all right,” she whispered, having turned her gaze to the spray of flowers.
“Did you pick those?” he asked.
“I said red. Blood red. Like her signature lipstick. Mom picked those,” she told him. And then, “Of course, Mom was right. Gram would love that arrangement. Particularly the fact there are about a hundred more roses than are needed and Mom asked for it to be broken down when this is all done and the bouquets made from it sent around to the local nursing homes.”
He was not surprised at all that Genny requested this.
At this juncture, it seemed the low drone of voices in the packed space (save the front row, it was just Genny’s immediate family…and Corey in the front row) was dying away, so Cory looked over his shoulder to see the pastor making his way down the aisle.
The service was about to begin.
The man stopped at Genny and Tom, bent and took Genny’s hand, held it, speaking to her at the same time nodding, like he was agreeing with his own self.
Corey wanted to tackle him, demand he not touch her, just get his ass up front, say his words and get this done so Gen was not sitting in front of a room full of people. Some of them family. Some of them friends. Marilyn was social and popular.
But a lot of them, he knew, were craning their necks to get a good look at Imogen Swan, Tom Pierce…
And Corey Szabo.
“This, she’d hate,” Chloe said, and Corey returned his attention to her.
“She would,” he agreed, moving his gaze back to the pastor.
“She was religious and everything, but she told me she just wanted us to cremate her, have a big party, no tears, no ceremony, lots of booze and fattening food, and when we got back home, throw her ashes in the ocean.”
The ocean.
Corey actually had to close his eyes for a moment as that memory assailed him.
Though, only a moment.
“It’s good I have a driver,” he noted as they both watched the pastor leave Gen and Tom and start to move to the front of the room where the lectern was next to the spray and the picture.
“Why?” Chloe asked.
“Because, if your mom and dad don’t already have said plan, you and I are going out to get shitfaced drunk.”
Chloe snorted, and startled, because Corey did not often (as in hardly ever) make anyone laugh, he slid his gaze to her.
Her lips were trembling with the effort it took for her to stop smiling.
“Are you in?” he asked.
“Can we drink pink ladies?” she returned.
Marilyn’s preferred drink.
In fact, the portrait before them shared that.
“You can, I will not,” he refused.
He caused no offense. Quite the contrary, her lips were trembling again.
“I will also buy you two dozen of the
m, if that’s what it takes,” he offered.
“If you’re buying, you’re on.”
“Excellent,” he muttered just as the pastor cleared his throat.
The man started speaking, and the good news was, he knew Marilyn and he liked her. Therefore, even as he began, his tone was warm, and it was clear he was feeling his own grief.
Excellent.
That would soothe Genny.
Chloe leaned into Corey so far her arm was pressed to his.
“Uncle Corey?”
He turned his head and tipped his chin down to catch her gaze.
“Thank you,” she said.
He stared into her pretty brown eyes, wondering what another girl who had a different father but the same mother might look like.
He then shut that thought away, grabbed Chloe’s hand and faced front.
He would feel it minutes later, and in doing so, it would make him again turn his head left.
To see Gen angled a bit forward, her eyes aimed at Corey holding her daughter’s hand.
She caught his attention on her, lifted her gaze to his and gave him a small, grateful smile that did nothing to alleviate the anguish on her face.
That smile made Corey feel good.
Even so, he was shocked that, with Chloe’s fingers curved around his, that made him feel better.
Genny returned her focus to the pastor, and Corey gazed at Marilyn’s picture.
If it were him, there would be a million roses crammed into that room, and he would not give that first fuck what anyone thought of the gesture, the largess, or the excess.
Because, growing up, there was one woman on this earth who made Corey feel loved.
And now…
She was dead.
* * *
In the end, sitting with Chloe at a local bar, he drank pink ladies.
Because it made Chloe laugh.
And it would have made Marilyn smile.
Chapter 4
The Party
Chloe
Now…
“Holy crap,” Sully said, eyes on me as he walked into my room at Bowie’s house.
Well…
If I must.
Sasha and my room, since, like now, when we were both there at the same time, we shared it.
However, even if Sasha was up from Phoenix visiting Mom and Bowie more often than I was, I liked to think of this lovely little mountain-chic suite as mine, since I’d claimed it first.
Though, Sasha being up here all the time concerned me, and not because it meant she was stuffing the room with plants and had added a hideous piece of macramé to the décor (though, mark me, that also was a concern—please, Lord, take me back to when she was preppy and sporty, I could work with that—there were very few style trends I could not spin, and therefore could not embrace, Sasha’s boho was one of them).
No, what concerned me about Sasha being up in Prescott all the time was that she wasn’t up here doing a job, or looking for employment, or volunteering at a youth center or taking pottery classes or anything even remotely worth her time.
In fact, except hanging with Mom and Bowie, and playing poker with Bowie and his buds, she didn’t do much of anything at all.
So obviously, that was concerning.
“Totally already told her, Judge is gonna be on his knees begging, he sees her in that getup,” Gage replied to Sully’s opener.
“She says she doesn’t care.” Sasha entered the conversation, bouncing onto her knees on the bed next to where Gage was lounged across the foot of it, drinking a glass of champagne.
My youngest new “brother,” Bowie’s second son, had wholeheartedly embraced his newfound quality of life (that being the soon-to-be-official stepson of a ridiculously famous, insanely wealthy movie star), something I wholeheartedly adored.
I turned my attention to Sully, who was older and most assuredly already his own man.
I had time to mold Gage.
Sullivan was…
Sully.
To that end, my second youngest new “brother” had a bottle of beer in his hand.
Sullivan and Gage were Bowie’s sons. And since Mom and Bowie (what I called Duncan, because he gave me the famous “Bowie Story,” and he told me to call him that) were getting married (they’d become engaged a week ago, on Christmas, but we’d learned not too long ago that it was a long time coming (decades)), we were all going to be family.
Sasha, Matt and I had just gotten a running start at creating that with Bowie and his boys.
Sully and Gage fell in with our plans, and even though it hadn’t been long, we were already thick as thieves.
This made Mom and Bowie happy.
And that made me happy.
Even if, in a part of me I’d never share with anyone, it killed me.
But now, I focused on the three who currently shared the same space as me.
Sasha was in a glittery, slouchy, champagne sequined dress that was pinched in at the drop waist. It fell in an uneven hem around her mid and upper thighs as well as falling very far off her shoulder. It sported wide, flowing sleeves.
An unsurprising choice for Sasha, seeing as every edge, except her neckline, was trimmed in a short line of bone-colored fringe.
I could have done without the fringe, but the dress as a whole was celebratory and sparkly, and she had a stunning collarbone and shoulders, so it would do, and as ever, she looked gorgeous.
Sully was in monochrome: smart, dark wash jeans and a navy button-up. Gage was in light gray trousers and a midnight blue button-up.
The boys were casual-ish (as far as I could tell, this was dressed up for the both of them), but they were ludicrously handsome and had such good bodies they could be in ratty jeans and tees, and it would still work for a New Year’s Eve party.
As for me, I was in white satin.
High-waisted, flat front, wide-legged pants with a hidden button waistline and matching sleeveless top that was cropped on a curve—it just touched my back waistband, but in the front it went up enough to show a hint of the midriff.
One could, if one was not me, describe it as a classy tube top.
But I was me, so I did not.
“I haven’t seen Judge in months,” I reminded them. “I’m grateful for that. And the only part about Bowie’s yearly company New Year’s Eve bash in this palatial mountain manor that I’m not looking forward to is the fact that Judge RSVPed yes.”
“She’s totally lying,” Sasha stage-whispered to Gage. “One of the first things out of her mouth when she showed two hours ago was to ask Bowie if Judge was coming.”
Gage grinned as he sucked back three quarters of his glass of champagne.
I watched him do this and made a mental note to share with Gage at a later date that one did not chug champagne.
“I don’t know, Coco,” Sully said, using my nickname, which I had granted permission for them both to do, regardless of the fact that they would have done it anyway. He wandered in and threw himself on the bed with the other bodies already on it. “If you don’t care Judge is gonna be here, you tricked yourself out for nothing. This is not a fancy deal.”
“Anything is what you make of it,” I retorted.
“Well, what you’re gonna make of Judge in that getup is a mess. You’re my big sister and I half have the hots for you,” Gage declared.
I arched a brow. “Only half?”
He grinned at me. “Okay, five eighths.”
I allowed him a small curve of my lips as I shook my head and looked back in the mirror to try to decide if I should settle in with just the one delicate but dramatic gold, full-ear cuff that peeked out of the hair I’d left to hang loose (though I’d added curl) or if I should add more jewelry.
I was still doing this when there was a quick rap of knuckles on the door and then Bowie, keeping hold of the handle, swung his upper body in.
His eyes did a scan of me and widened before he muttered, “Shit.”
Well, that was a reaction.
“Judge is screwed,” he went on.
I blew out an exasperated breath.
I mean, as far as they knew, I’d had one singular confrontation with the man four months ago at Bowie’s store (no one knew about the coffeehouse scenario, because I told no one, not even Sasha, who I told almost everything, or Matt, who I told absolutely everything).
I was hardly pining for him (because I was so not interested, he was a cad).
And I knew men like Judge Oakley (Bowie had filled in his last name).
He didn’t go without for long.
He was probably coming with a date.
And no.
My heart did not just prick at that thought.
Absolutely not.
Really, it didn’t.
(Drat it, it did.)
Bowie’s lips twitched then he took in the rest of the occupants in the room.
“People are showing,” he announced.
“Cool, Dad,” Gage said, but didn’t move.
“Harvey and Beth showed ten minutes ago,” Bowie continued.
“Right, forgot to tell you guys when I got up here,” Sully shared, he then needlessly rectified that. “Harv and Beth are here.”
Bowie let out a beleaguered sigh before he concluded, “And right now, they’re down there, facing the onslaught, when no one used to show on time, but now everyone is showing on time. And they’re doing it pissed at me because I banned phones and they all wanted to ask Genny for a selfie that they could put on Instagram. Now, does anyone in here want to help me, Matt, Harvey and Beth run interference with the seventy people that are right now strolling through the front door making a beeline to Genny? Or do you all wanna party up here and leave her to the wolves?”
“On it!” Gage decreed, rolling off the bed.
Sully pushed off immediately too.
And of course they did.
They were good guys.
Like Bowie.
The best.
Also, in a swish of sequins, a noise that I found one of the top five sounds of all time, not to mention with the grace of an athlete, Sasha dropped to a hip and swung her legs over the side of the bed, putting her feet decked in ropy gold high-heeled sandals on the floor.
I was wearing a pair of sleek, pointed-toe, death-defying-heeled, white leather mules.
Chasing Serenity Page 6
