by Kitt, Sandra
He grinned at her. “You’re right.”
There was a thoughtfulness to his good looks that had always attracted her. Even when he made her mad or disappointed her, Dallas had always believed that it wasn’t deliberate. But her smile was forced. “I just wish we didn’t use sex as a way to make up every time we have a fight.”
Burke raised a brow. “Works for me. Last night I was pretty sure you thought so, too.”
Dallas nodded. “It was consensual …”
“And damned good,” he added with a growl of satisfaction.
He shouldn’t have said anything. Dallas didn’t want to be reminded that it had been the wrong decision. Her annoyance grew and she again pulled away from him.
“Look, we only made love last night. That doesn’t mean I forgive you for standing me up.”
Burke pursed his mouth. “Why not?”
“Because it’s just not that easy, that’s why. And I don’t have time to explain it to you. You have to go to work and so do I. I have to put some things together if I’m going out to the Island tomorrow night.”
“Your family?”
“No, it’s not family.”
“Does it have to do with the phone call you got?”
“It was Val. Someone we both knew growing up died yesterday. I have to go out for the services and pay my respects,” Dallas informed him. “I can at least offer you coffee and orange juice.”
The look Burke gave her almost made Dallas regret the offer. As if he was considering other options. She was trying not to rush him out the door. She was trying not to negate what had happened between them the night before … but it was over.
“Sounds good.” Burke nodded, gathering up the rest of his things as Dallas donned a sweatshirt and leggings and headed out of the bedroom.
In the kitchen she had a sudden sensation of déjà vu. A feeling of unease settled on her spirits. Dallas thoughtfully filled the coffeemaker with water and placed the filter in its proper canister. She was doing this for Burke as she used to do for Hayden. She didn’t drink coffee.
Dallas heard Burke’s soft whistle from the living room as he turned on the television low and listened to the early morning news. He was getting comfortable, making himself at home. Apprehension welled up so quickly in her it lodged in her throat until she felt as though she were suffocating. But she wasn’t even sure why. Dallas was just pouring the juice when Burke came into the kitchen.
“I like waking up with you,” he said behind her.
Dallas did not turn around to acknowledge his observation. She didn’t want to encourage his fantasy. And yet there was a sense of the familiar. It made her nervous. It reminded her of Hayden.
“The muffins are in the toaster …”
“When are you getting back from the Island?” he asked, putting the warmed muffins into a small wicker basket.
“I don’t know. I might stay at least overnight. Maybe longer.”
Burke sat and began peeling a banana. “Call me when you get back.”
Next week was a long time away. It would take care of itself, she thought uneasily. “I hope everything works out with that contract you talked about,” Dallas said, not encouraging any discussion that remotely opened up an opportunity for more intimacy between them.
“It will,” he responded. He began talking knowledgeably about a new record deal he was negotiating for a client, then a new promotional tour he was organizing. He never asked her to go along.
But Dallas only half listened. It was a good distraction. The desultory talk allowed her to relax over the orange juice and the muffins. She felt completely comfortable with him for the first time since he’d arrived at her apartment the night before. Or maybe she only felt this way because he was about to leave.
At the door, Dallas let Burke kiss her lightly. And once he was gone, her attention shifted abruptly from his concerns to her own. She absently cleaned the dishes from breakfast, showered, and made her bed. Then Dallas sat at her computer to write a commentary about death. It was not what she’d promised her editor, but she was able to keep the tone thoughtful and questioning. Exploring whether or not someone’s passing away was a time for sorrow, reflection, jubilation, guilt, or forgiveness for those left behind. She resolutely kept her mind away from the inappropriate anticipation that developed at some time during the morning as she made her plans for attending Nicholas Marco’s wake and headed into her office.
Dallas recalled that she had only been to two funerals in her life. One for her mother when she was only five years old. The other for her paternal grandmother. Both occasions had seemed dark and scary. One because of the sense of having been left behind. Abandoned. At the other she’d felt lost in a sea of unknown faces. She was a stranger to everyone. But Friday was going to be different. Not because of death … but because life went on.
Dallas couldn’t help herself, and she wasn’t going to apologize. She was not going out to Long Island to pay final good-byes to Nicholas Marco. For if the truth be known, she had a sense that the death of Nicholas Marco, childhood nemesis and unrepentant bigot, had set her free. His wake was going to be more than a closure on the past. Unconsciously Dallas was also wondering if it would generate a new beginning.
Chapter Two
DALLAS WAS SORRY SHE’D come.
She had forgotten that funeral home parlor rooms were small and crowded. Narrow and dim, brightened only by the profusion of floral bouquets that only made the room seem more claustrophobic. Chairs were arranged in a theaterlike fashion, all facing front with the expensive coffin placed center stage complete with soft lighting overhead. It seemed a bizarre setting, as if everyone were waiting for a performance to begin.
Standing just inside the entrance, Dallas took a brief cursory glance around. She noticed that the family of the deceased was seated on one side of the room, and on the other side was everyone else. She noticed that people sat whispering in clusters. Some were reminiscing about their pasts with Nicholas, but as she turned to sign her name in the guest book, she caught snatches of conversation that had to do not with life or death but personal problems. Someone was going over the itinerary for a planned trip to Bermuda. Someone else was discussing the results of a recent surgery. And still another was offering opinions on a friend’s recent divorce.
No one seemed particularly broken up by the tragedy that gathered them, Dallas guessed. No one was crying. Not even Lillian Marco, Dallas observed as she walked down the center aisle toward the gathered family. In a way she wasn’t surprised by the amount of strength and control the middle-aged woman displayed. She would have to have a certain amount of fortitude to have had a son like Nicholas. Lillian seemed more dazed and tired than anything, but even in mourning Dallas was amazed at her graciousness and her ability to put other people at ease with their awkwardly uttered condolences. Lillian smiled and thanked them for coming to say good-bye to her Nicky.
Then Lillian saw her, and Dallas felt put on the spot. Suddenly she didn’t know what to say to this woman, who’d always been a special friend, about the loss of her only child. Given her feelings about Nicholas, Dallas was sure Lillian would see right through her, and she’d be caught in a lie if she tried to express something she didn’t genuinely feel. No matter what she said, it wasn’t going to be the right thing, and it wasn’t going to be enough. And it wasn’t going to be the truth.
She was conscious of the body of people seated around Lillian who watched her approach. Vincent Marco was somber and pensive as he sat next to his wife. He turned his attention on her, and acknowledged her by a small nod of his head. Unlike his son, Vin Marco didn’t dislike her, but nevertheless he maintained a certain distance between them. Lillian had once told her that Vin didn’t like change. Then Dallas could well imagine that a black family moving into North Lakewood might have set him back on his heels a bit. Yet one winter afternoon when she was returning home from Valerie Holland’s house, he’d stopped to give her a ride.
She had done the tw
enty-minute walk before by herself, sometimes encountering her father or another neighbor for a ride. But this time when a car had driven parallel to her, slowing its speed to pace her, someone had yelled out the window, “Hey, you.” She had been taught not to respond to “Hey, you,” and she didn’t even turn to look at who the driver was.
“Aren’t you that girl, Dallas? You know my wife, Lilly.”
Dallas stopped abruptly and swiveled her head. It was Vin Marco calling out to her. She couldn’t even answer him. Dallas was just trying to remember if Vin had ever spoken to her in the five years she and her family had lived on Chatham.
He stopped the car and gestured toward her impatiently.
“Don’t you know who I am? Vin Marco.”
Dallas nodded. “I know.”
“Where you headed?”
“Home.”
He beckoned. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.”
She hesitated.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like me or something?” Vin asked with a laugh. “Lilly says you’re scared of me. What did I ever do to you?”
Dallas shrugged. She couldn’t say. It seemed like he was teasing her, and she finally got in on the passenger side next to Vin.
The inside of Vin Marco’s car smelled like flowers. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a wrapped bouquet of purple irises on the back seat.
“For my Lilly,” Vin said proudly. “Every week I bring her flowers.”
“They’re pretty,” Dallas murmured.
She looked at Vin’s profile now, studying him closely. She didn’t know why seeing the flowers made such a difference, but it changed everything she felt and believed about him. Suddenly she no longer felt wary of him. What was there to fear in a man whom Lillian loved … and who brought her flowers to show it?
Lillian stood up to greet her, and for the first time since entering the room Dallas could genuinely smile. Lillian was a small lady and when they hugged affectionately her head was somewhere near Dallas’s chest. She had to bend down to kiss the older woman’s cheek and be kissed in return. Her small, cool hands framed Dallas’s face, and her expression became soft and concerned, her smile sad. Dallas was surprised at the sudden welling of tears within herself, though her sympathy was for Lillian and not because of Nicholas.
“Honey, I’m so glad you could come. You didn’t have to, you know. That trip from Manhattan …”
Dallas took Lillian’s hand and squeezed it gently, looking into her hazel eyes and admiring her strength. She felt herself struggling, nevertheless, to say the right thing. She cleared her throat.
“Of course I had to come. I … I’m so sorry for you and your husband … for your family,” Dallas said.
Lillian made a kind of gesture, as if accepting the formality of the sentiments, but not wanting to know anyone’s feelings about her son.
“Thank God he didn’t suffer. He was killed instantly. The doctors say if he’d lived he would have been paralyzed. Nicky couldn’t handle that.” Lillian shook her head, with a telling knowledge of her son’s limitations. “Look at how many people came today for him,” she sighed.
It made Dallas wonder if perhaps Lillian knew, and had always known, the effect her son had on people. Lillian patted the back of her hand and, still holding it, turned Dallas to face the rest of the family.
“This is Dallas. She’s the little girl I talk about all the time from the neighborhood. Isn’t she pretty?” Lillian boasted.
A few people murmured hello, but Dallas was more aware of the awkward silence and stares of appraisal. Her gaze quickly swept the faces of the family members. There was no one here that she really recognized. Vin had turned away, facing forward again to stare at the open coffin of his son. His silence was understandable and seemed like a signal to Dallas that she should retreat. She turned to Lillian again.
“I’m going to sit across the room and say hello to some of the others. I’ll be here for a while.”
“Thank you for coming, hon.”
“If there’s anything I can do …” Dallas mouthed automatically.
“Call me sometime,” Lillian whispered as she looked at Dallas. “I haven’t seen you for so long. You kids grow up and move away and forget about all us old people.”
Dallas grinned. “I don’t know any old people.” She was gratified when Lillian blushed and smiled briefly, shaking her head.
“You’re a good girl,” Lillian murmured and then gave her attention to another group arriving to pay their respects.
Dallas turned in relief to the opposite side of the room, where she immediately saw Valerie raise a hand to get her attention. Dallas slid into the row of chairs and sat next to her. They greeted each other with cheek air-kisses.
“I thought you were going to stand me up,” Valerie said.
“I didn’t come out here to see you,” she countered dryly. She peered into Valerie’s face. “Have you been crying again?”
Valerie shook her head. “No. But I haven’t slept well since I called you. I’m just tired. What about you?”
Dallas raised her brows. “Do I look like I’ve been crying?”
Valerie looked her over critically and grimaced. “You look wonderful, as usual. Are you over the shock, yet?”
“Sorry, but I was never in shock,” Dallas answered truthfully.
“He looks terrible,” Rosemary Holland stage-whispered as she took her seat again next to her daughter. “Hi, Dallas. You just get here?”
Valerie glared at her mother. “The man is dead. What do you expect him to look like?”
“He looks too fleshy and puffed out. They put too much of that stuff in him. You know what I mean,” Rosemary continued, speaking her mind as always.
“Embalming chemicals,” Dallas helpfully supplied with a grin. She’d always liked Rosemary Holland, who had learned in her life not to take anything too seriously.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Rosemary nodded. “Don’t you think so, Dallas?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go up to view the body,” Dallas replied.
“You should,” Valerie admonished. “This is the last time you’ll get a chance.”
Dallas wisely remained silent.
“You know, when your father passed, it looked like they glued his lips together so his mouth wouldn’t drop open. You remember how Daddy used to sleep with his mouth open and you kids were always dropping things in?” Rosemary reflected, her ample bosom heaving in silent laughter.
“Ma …” Valerie whined in annoyance.
“Remember how Aunt Bea got drunk and started singing at the wake, and telling dirty jokes, and then she passed out?”
Valerie’s exasperation grew. “Do you mind?”
“Well, it’s true. I think they put too much pancake on Nicky.”
“Pancake?” Dallas asked.
“Yeah. Makeup. To cover up the scratches and bruises from the accident.”
Valerie groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I should have disowned you years ago,” she sighed.
“I feel sorry for Lillian,” Rosemary continued, ignoring her daughter. “Nicky was a boy only a mother could love. Maybe his mother knew that. Lord knows Lillian and Vin tried.”
Dallas turned with a frown to Rosemary. “What do you mean? Lillian did love him.”
“Oh, sure … sure,” Rosemary said quickly. “What I mean is that it didn’t help.”
“I didn’t know you didn’t like Nicholas,” Dallas said.
Rosemary shrugged. “It’s not that I didn’t like him, but he was so full of himself. Vincent Marco spoiled that boy, and look what it got him. And I didn’t appreciate how he treated people.”
“Was he ever rude to you?” Dallas asked.
Rosemary glanced at her. “No, not really. But I know the way he acted to you and your brother. Tate used to tell me.” She shook her head and tsked sadly. “I never understood it. Vin and Lillian are decent people. They deserved better than Nick.”
Dallas
turned her attention again to the woman seated on the other side of the room.
Lillian was now in conversation with her estranged daughter-in-law and grandson. Dallas didn’t know much about them except that Lillian almost never saw the boy and had never been able to form a relationship with him. Dallas had also not known much about the brief marriage of Nicholas Marco to Theresa Cicone, other than it had been born in lust and forced into a ceremony when Theresa, the youngest daughter of a local politician, got pregnant. Doomed to failure because they both wanted their own way, they had separated shortly after their son had been born. Acrimony between the two became legend, the fights and disagreements growing to include both families. Theresa got the upper hand, however, keeping her son Justin as far away from his father and grandparents as she could. Nicholas retaliated by not caring … and taking up with a string of other women.
A boy of about nine, Lillian’s grandson was overweight and sullen, as if he would rather not be there for his father’s service. Again Dallas was struck by the lack of sorrow and loss that anyone, other than Lillian and Vin Marco, was feeling or expressing for the dead man.
Dallas recalled the funeral when her grandmother had passed—her father’s mother. The neighborhood Baptist church in Philadelphia was jammed with people from Mother Oliver’s community. Ladies in their extraordinary hats and veils, the men in their good suits, sitting stiffly and respectfully until the service began. The church choir sang, and the lead mezzo-soprano put the spirit of God into everyone in the congregation. “Amen, Jesus” and “Yes, Lord!” and “Sing it, Sistah” jumped out during the eulogy. Everything about the church, the ceremony of death, the energy of the parishioners, had a deep, soulful poignancy. All of that was missing for Nicholas.
Dallas felt a pair of thin arms circle her from behind, and small hands lightly covered her eyes. She smiled and reached for the young body standing behind her chair.
“Hey, Megan! I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
The child giggled and then hugged Dallas around the neck. They were pressed cheek to cheek.
