by Melissa Marr
But here I am.
The difference was that this time he was standing outside her room, not in it.
At the top of the stairs, he asked, “Are you sleeping in your old room?”
She paused. “I can stay in Maylene’s room, so you ... that way you have a bed, too, or ... I could sleep in Ella’s—in the other room so ... you—”
“No.” He put a hand on her forearm. “You don’t need to sleep in Maylene’s room or in Ella’s room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She shook her head. “You don’t need to ... I’m okay. I mean ... I’m not , but—”
“It’s fine.” Gently he put a hand on either side of her face and looked at her. “You need to get some sleep.”
Indecision flickered in her expression, but after a moment, she nodded and went into her room. She pushed the door partway closed, but it was still open enough that he could follow. He considered it. In the past, he would’ve. She needed him, and he had repeatedly told himself that need was enough. With any other woman, it was all he wanted.
With Amity, it is enough, but Bek is not Amity.
Resolutely Byron pulled her door shut and went back downstairs. He sat on the sofa for a minute, lowered his head to his hands, and thought about everything that they needed to talk about, about all the things that were a mess, about the reasons that he wasn’t going to go right back upstairs.
He couldn’t sleep in Ella’s old room. She had been gone a long time, but sometimes he didn’t think Rebekkah would ever truly her let go. In death, Ella stood between them in a way she never would have in life. That, like so many other topics, wasn’t something Rebekkah was willing to discuss. Of course, there were also plenty of topics he was grateful not to discuss tonight. He was dreading telling Rebekkah that Maylene was murdered—and that Chris seemed unwilling to investigate it.
Byron thought about the homeless girl he’d seen lingering at the house yesterday afternoon and again tonight. She was young, a teenager, and too slight to have inflicted the injuries he’d seen on Maylene. He wondered if she traveled with someone, maybe a man. Byron checked the windows and doors again, but saw no sign of intrusion. Probably just hungry , he decided . She’d known that the house was empty, and when a person has no home, finding an empty house is surely tempting. He made a mental note to suggest that Chris talk to the girl. Maybe she’d seen something. Even if she hadn’t, letting her wander around alone in town without resources was a sure way to turn her into a criminal. Claysville took care of its own. Whether she had been born here or not, she was here now, so she’d need looking after. Which I should’ve thought of earlier. Right now, he suspected that the worst she was guilty of was theft of milk from Maylene’s porch. If she had nowhere to go, no food, and no family, there would be more serious problems in time.
Chapter 11
O NLY A FEW HOURS LATER, REBEKKAH WOKE AFTER A FITFUL SLEEP IN her old room. It was technically a guest room now, had been since she’d stopped spending summers there, but it was still hers. She showered, dressed, and went downstairs to find Byron rubbing his eyes.
He didn’t say anything about the half-assed invitation he’d refused last night, and she didn’t tell him it didn’t freak her out to walk downstairs and find him waiting for her today. Instead, for a moment, neither spoke, and then he said, “I hate that you don’t have time to get your feet under you, but the final viewing will have started, and if we want—”
“Let’s go.” She motioned to her black dress and shoes. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. What do you need to do?”
He held up the key to her rental car. “Walk out the door.”
Byron drove her to Montgomery and Sons. They pulled around back and went in the kitchen door. He must’ve phoned ahead because William was waiting. Over his somber suit, the older man wore a frilled apron covered in pictures of bright yellow ducks. He held a wooden spoon in one hand.
“Go on.” With the spoon, he motioned at Byron and then at the stairs. “I’ll look after her.”
William turned to Rebekkah and gestured to the table.
She sat, and he poured her a cup of coffee. Momentarily she could hear the shower upstairs. It felt comforting to be there, like being in a real home—as long as she didn’t think about the other part of the house where mourners were gathering around Maylene’s body.
William set down a plate he’d just filled with scrambled eggs and bacon. “If you want to see her, you can. I know you and Maylene had your traditions, though, so we can wait till the rest of them are gone.”
Rebekkah nodded. “Thank you. I’m not going to hide all day, but the ...” She felt the tears build up again. “I’ll be fine at the service. I’ll handle the funeral breakfast. I can do this.”
“I know you can,” William said. “Can I tell the ladies that they can get the meal set up at your house?”
Rebekkah paused. My house. It was still Maylene’s house. Calling it “hers” felt wrong, but arguing semantics wouldn’t help.
William looked at her expectantly.
“Sure,” she whispered. “That’s the right place to have it. I just ... They took care of everything already, didn’t they?”
“Everything but bringing it into the house. They are efficient,” William said. “They have to be with the short time between death and burial.”
His words weren’t cruel, nor was his tone, but it still made her chest tighten. “I just heard yesterday and then the flight and coming home and ...”
She heard herself, listened to the excuses pouring from her lips. The truth was that she didn’t want to see Maylene in her casket, still and lifeless, and she surely didn’t want to do it around other people.
“And there’s the jet lag,” William added. “No one will fault you for not being out there. Not many folks even know you’re home yet.”
“Thank you. For everything. You and Byron are both being so ... I’d be even more lost without you.” She offered him a smile, a watery one, but a smile nonetheless.
William smiled gently at her. “Montgomerys will always look after Barrows, Rebekkah. I would’ve done anything for Maylene, just as Byron would do anything for you.”
Rebekkah didn’t know what to say to that. She wondered if William thought she and Byron had stayed in touch. Really not what I want to ponder. She pushed that topic away and looked at the elder Mr. Montgomery’s tired eyes. The dark circles under them could be normal, for all she knew, but his red-shot eyes revealed that he’d been crying. He and Maylene had been friends forever, and they’d been in love almost as long.
Rebekkah realized that she was staring at him. “Are you ... doing okay?” she asked—and then immediately felt like an idiot. Of course he wasn’t doing “okay.” If anything happened to Byr— She shook her head as if it would erase that thought.
William patted Rebekkah’s hand and turned away to refill her coffee cup. “As well as you are, I imagine. The world is lot less worth being in without her here. Maylene has meant the world to me for a long time.” She heard the threat of tears in his voice as he said, “I need to go out front. You stay in here and eat. When they go, I’ll come fetch you, so you have a few private moments with her.”
At the thought of suddenly being alone, she blurted, “Do I need to do anything? I mean, are there papers or ... something? Anything?”
He turned back to face her. “No, not now. Maylene’s orders were very precise. She didn’t want you to have to deal with those things, so we made sure everything was taken care of in advance.” William brushed Rebekkah’s hair back as if she were still a small child. “Byron will be down in a few moments, and if you need him you are welcome to go upstairs. The house hasn’t changed. I’ll be out there with Maylene.”
“She’s not here,” Rebekkah whispered. “Just her empty shell.”
“I know, but I still need to look after her. She’s gone to a well-earned rest, Rebekkah. I promise.” He had tears in his eyes. “She was more amazing than most anyone we’ll ever meet
. Strong. Good. Brave. And she saw all of those traits in you. You need to be brave now. Make her proud.”
Rebekkah nodded. “I will.”
Then William left her in his kitchen alone with her grief. Her first instinct was to find Byron.
Coward.
Being alone was wiser. She’d lived alone for years; she’d traveled alone. The problem was that it was easier to keep her grief at bay when she had witnesses. Maylene had taught her the importance of hiding the hard parts years ago: Don’t let the world see your soft underbelly, lovie , she’d reminded when the barbs of strangers and classmates had hurt . Part of being strong is knowing when to hide your weaknesses, and when to admit them. When it’s just us, you can cry. In front of the world, you keep that chin up.
“I’m strong. I remember,” Rebekkah whispered.
Byron hadn’t come down by the time she finished breakfast, so she walked through the door separating the private part of the house and the public space and joined the crowd of mourners, accepting their nods and hugs without a flinch as she approached Maylene’s body.
I know you’re gone. I know it’s not really you.
But the body still looked like her grandmother. The familiar keen gaze was absent; the smile was absent; but the form was still Maylene.
Rebekkah knew what she needed to say. The flask was in her bag, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Not in front of everyone. There were words, traditions that she’d observed with Maylene time and again. Soon.
Rebekkah leaned down to kiss Maylene’s cheek. “Sleep now, Grandmama,” she whispered. “Sleep well, and stay where I put you.”
Chapter 12
R EBEKKAH WENT THROUGH THE MOTIONS, ACCEPTING CONDOLENCES AND listening to the reminiscences of strangers and of those vaguely familiar. She did so alone.
Byron had come down to the viewing area, now dressed in one of his dark suits. He and William both kept an eye on her, and she knew that at any time they would extricate her if she sent them a pleading glance. Instead, she gave Byron a small shake of her head when he started to approach her.
I am Maylene’s granddaughter, and I will do as we have always done. Together with her grandmother, she’d gone to innumerable viewings and funerals. She politely nodded and calmly accepted hugs and arm pats. I can do this. She was only there for the last hour of the wake, but it felt longer than any she could recall. Even Ella’s.
Thankfully, Cissy and her daughters had left just before Rebekkah had arrived. Overcome by grief , William had said with a stoic expression.
Then the viewing was over. William took charge of the mourners, and Byron came over to her side.
“Do you want a minute with her?” he asked.
“No. Not yet.” Rebekkah glanced over at him. “Later. At the gravesite.”
“Come on.” Byron deftly avoided several people who wanted to speak with her and led her back into his home.
“I could’ve stayed,” she murmured as he closed the door behind them.
“No one’s doubting you,” he assured her. “We have a few minutes before we go to the cemetery, and I thought you might want to catch a breath.”
She followed him into the kitchen. Her dishes still sat on the table. “Thank you. I know I keep saying it, but you really have been better to me than I deserve.”
To avoid looking at him, she busied herself rinsing her cup and plate.
“Our ... friendship didn’t die for me,” he said, “even when you decided to stop returning my calls. It never will.”
When she didn’t reply, he came over and took the cup from her hand.
“Bek?”
She turned, and he folded her into his arms.
“You’re not alone. Dad and I are both here,” he said. “Not just last night. Not just today. But for as long as you need.”
Rebekkah rested her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes for a minute. It would be so easy to let herself give in to the irrational urge to stay next to Byron. In all her life, no one else had ever made her want to stay in one place; no one she’d met since she left Claysville had made her want to think about commitments. Only you , she thought as she pulled away. She didn’t admit that. Not to him. He wasn’t hers. Not really . Not ever.
Rebekkah smiled and said, “I’m going to freshen up before we go.”
She felt his gaze on her as she walked away, but he didn’t say anything as she fled.
When she returned from the washroom, William and Byron stood waiting.
“She didn’t want a procession. It’s just us. Everyone else has gone ahead.” William held out his hand. In it was the tarnished silver bell Maylene had carried with her to the graveside.
Rebekkah felt foolish for not wanting to take it. She’d stood here innumerable times when William wordlessly held that same bell out to Maylene. Slowly she wrapped her hand around it, tucking one finger inside to keep the clapper still. It was meant to be rung at the grave, not here.
She turned to Byron to escort her to the car for the graveside service, just as William had once escorted Maylene. Byron would take her where she needed to go. His presence at her side since she’d returned last night felt right, just as it had when she first moved to Claysville, just as it had when Ella died, just as it did every time she saw him.
I can’t stay here. I can’t stay with him. I won’t.
As she clutched the bell in her hand, Rebekkah slid into the slick black interior. She put a hand out for the door, effectively blocking him from joining her. “Please, I would prefer being alone.”
A flash of irritation flared in his eyes, but he said nothing about her rejection. Instead, his professional guise reappeared. “We’ll meet you at the cemetery,” he said.
Then he closed the door and went over to the waiting hearse.
I can get through this without him ... and then leave.
Without Maylene, Claysville was just another town. It wasn’t really home. She’d tricked herself into thinking there was something special about it, but she’d lived in enough places to know better: one town was no different from the next. Claysville had some odd rules, but none of that mattered anymore. Maylene was dead, and Rebekkah had no reason to keep returning here now.
Except for Byron.
Except that it’s still home.
Rebekkah watched out the window as the hearse pulled into the street; her driver eased out behind it, following William as he drove Maylene to her final resting place.
When the driver came around and opened her door, Rebekkah could already hear the overdramatic wailing. Cissy’s here. Ringing the bell as she walked, Rebekkah made her way across the grass to the chairs that were lined up under the awning. She reminded herself that Maylene would expect her to be on her best behavior. She’d arranged everything, no doubt hoping that easing the stress would make this moment more bearable, but even careful planning couldn’t negate the headache that Cissy would inevitably cause. Maylene’s daughter was contentious under the best of circumstances. Her venomous attitude toward Rebekkah had been a source of irritation to Maylene, but no one would explain to Rebekkah why the woman hated her so much. She’ll come around , Maylene had assured her. To date, that hadn’t happened; in fact, the animosity had grown to the point that Rebekkah hadn’t exchanged words with Cissy in years. Her absence at the end of the viewing had been a wonderful respite, but it wasn’t a kindness: it was merely a way for her to be first at the gravesite.
As Rebekkah approached the grave, she swung the bell more forcefully.
The volume of Cissy’s caterwauling increased.
One hour. I can handle her for one hour. Rebekkah couldn’t toss her out as she so dearly wanted to do, so she walked to the front and took her seat.
I can be polite.
That resolve lessened when Cissy approached the now-closed casket.
Lilies and roses swayed atop Maylene’s casket as Cissy clutched it, her short fingernails skittering over the wood like insects running from light. “Mama, don’t go .” Cissy wrap
ped her fingers around a handle on the side of the casket, assuring that no one would be able to pull her away from it.
Rebekkah uncrossed her ankles.
Cissy let out another plaintive cry. The woman couldn’t see a casket without wailing like a wet cat. Her daughters, Liz and Teresa, stood by uselessly. The twins, in their late twenties now, only just older than Rebekkah, had also gotten to the gravesite early, but they didn’t try to calm their mother. They knew as well as Rebekkah did that Cissy was putting on a show.
Liz whispered to Teresa, who only shrugged. No one really expected them to try to convince Cissy to stop making a spectacle of herself. Some people couldn’t be reasoned with, and Cecilia Barrow was very much one of those people.
Beside Maylene’s casket, Father Ness put an arm around Cissy’s shoulder. She shook him off. “You can’t make me leave her.”
Rebekkah closed her eyes. She had to stay, to say the words, to follow the traditions. The urge to do that pushed away most everything else. Even if Maylene hadn’t made her swear on it enough times over the years, preparing her for this day, Rebekkah would feel it like a nagging ache drawing her attention. The tradition she’d learned at her grandmother’s side was as much a part of funerals as the coffin itself. At each death they’d been together for, she and Maylene had each taken three sips—no more, no less—out of that rose flask. Each time Maylene had whispered words to the corpse. Each time she refused to answer any of the questions Rebekkah had asked.
Now it was too late.
Cissy’s shrieks were overpowering the minister’s attempt to speak. The Reverend McLendon was too soft-spoken for her voice to be heard. Beside the minister, the priest was trying again to console Cissy. Neither one was getting very far.
