My boss was part of the first wave to arrive. Miles was skipping a hearing on financial literacy and retirement, but he said it was fine, nobody would miss him. He took Cricket’s blue-veined hands in his own, looked into her eyes, and told her how sorry he was for our loss, before solemnly choosing a seat in the sanctuary next to the junior senator from Arizona.
Following Miles was the rest of the staff. L.K. complimented me on my dress; Bo said I cleaned up nicely. A handful of years ago, after I’d spent thirty minutes in a fast-fashion fitting room agonizing over the flashiness of a single blouse, I decided only to buy clothes that were white, black, gray, or cream. Little did I know I’d been meticulously preparing my closet for interments.
It wasn’t until the secretary of defense and his wife showed ten minutes later—she standing mute as her husband gave Cricket a brief hug, pursed his lips, and squinted his eyes to assume the look of condolence—that the three of us dropped our formal facades.
“Asshole,” Cricket whispered as he disappeared inside, though her smile remained broad. “Has some nerve showing up here, when he’s been going all over town saying Gregory Richardson owed him money.”
“Dad owed someone money?” Wallis asked.
I glanced at my mother as she reached for another close family friend. My parents had never wanted for anything in their adult lives, but rumors spread like the flu in this town, and I didn’t want a bad germ to spoil her day. The friend, a governor, pecked her on the cheek, then did the same to me and Wallis.
“Of course he didn’t,” Cricket said, turning back to us. “Secretary of defense! Unbelievable. Couldn’t find his own ass with a map, let alone lead the armed forces into battle. It’s like he’s spitting on your father’s grave. And now I’ll have to smile and serve him pound cake at this afternoon’s reception.”
Yes, the reception. I still had questions about the final guest count, what she’d arranged for parking. Had she given the caterers the check? They’d left me a voice mail that morning wondering when—
Wallis’s abrupt squeal of joy interrupted my thoughts. “He made it!” she cried, and Cricket and I spun toward the narthex stairs in time to see Atlas taking them two at a time. My best friend, whom I hadn’t seen in close to a year, was back stateside, and the sight of him in his favorite tailored, dark blue suit had me teetering close to the edge of grateful, sloppy tears. The months since my father had passed had been grueling, and I’d wished countless times that Atlas hadn’t been three thousand miles away.
He reached Cricket’s open arms first, bending from the knees to envelop her as she mumbled something about delight and my name, Daisy, into his narrow suit lapel. Then Wallis hugged him tightly and all but threw me into his arms.
“Hi, Daisy,” he said softly, pulling me close and resting his cheek on my hair, his hand on the back of my head in the way that made me feel delicate.
“I can’t believe your adventure getting here,” I said when he released me. “What a debacle.”
“One canceled flight, another delayed, and a couple of British Airways agents who would do well never to see me again. You should’ve been there when they called my name from the standby list,” he said. “I shrieked like a little girl. I didn’t know my voice could even reach that high.”
“Sounds like a thrilling performance,” I said. “Will you stage a reenactment for us at the reception?”
“Certainly,” said Atlas. “I just need my own trailer to get into character.”
Behind the altar, the organist began to play a dirge. I wanted Atlas to keep us laughing but, sensing his time was up, he squeezed my hand and left to take his pew.
Cricket and Wallis looked at each other and then at me.
“He came all the way from London,” Cricket said, as though I didn’t understand how travel works.
“He was moving back anyway, Cricket,” I said quickly, anticipating where this conversation was headed, wanting to cut it off at the pass. “He didn’t come here just for us.”
“And is he back for good?” Cricket procured a vial of lip gloss from the pocket of her full, black skirt and aimed it at my face.
“Atlas is hard to pin down,” I said, swatting her away, “when it comes to long-term plans. He gets restless. London is where he was born and raised. I can’t imagine he’ll stay away from it forever.”
Another couple, Georgetown doctors both, hustled in, and Cricket was forced, reluctantly, to abandon her beautification efforts. The pair seemed to appreciate that the service was about to start; from the sanctuary doors they blew us kisses and mouthed talk to you after.
“People leave their hometowns all the time, Daisy,” said Wallis, holding her smile and waving. “That’s a thing that happens. And, anyway, I think the timing is right for you and Atlas.” She turned to me, then said bluntly: “Finally.”
“He has a girlfriend,” I reminded her as the last guests receded inside.
“In London,” Cricket said.
“How long do you think that will last now that he’s back in DC?” Wallis asked.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Our soft-spoken pastor, out of nowhere, made Wallis jump. Thankfully, he was not there to judge our unchurchy topic of conversation, only to borrow Wallis; he wanted a few words about her eulogy.
As I watched them review her script and the funeral program, I had to note that my sister wasn’t wrong. Long-distance relationships were tricky. But this was Atlas—steadfast, loyal, undaunted by things like time differences and the Atlantic Ocean. And I was just a friend. How far would he go for a lover?
While I still had Cricket beside me, I diligently tried to ask her about the caterers, the reception. But she wanted to talk about none of these things. Instead, she chatted easily about how well Atlas looked. How tall. “His shoulders look broader,” she said. “He looks fit. Was his hair always that blond?” She liked that he seemed to be letting it grow. “It works,” she said. She agreed with Wallis, that the timing for the two of us might now be perfect.
I considered walking away because it pained me to hear the hope in her voice. I’d been trying to fall out of love with the man for approximately fifteen years. But my father was gone, and she was my only parent left, so I stayed beside her, and listened, and tried to forget the feel of Atlas’s fingertips in my hair.
Don’t miss Ladies of the House
From Graydon House
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Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Edmondson
ISBN-13: 9780369704931
So Not Single
First published as Slightly Single in 2002. This edition published in 2021.
Copyright © 2002 by Wendy Corsi Staub
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