Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But we just have to. There’s a baby who needs us all.’
Yes. Sophie. Darling little Sophie. She would need them. Mitch couldn’t do it on his own. Not while grieving. Not as a new parent with no experience.
‘This is not how it’s meant to be.’
Tom sighed. ‘No, it’s not.’
Amy breathed in and dragged her heavy limbs from the cold, tiled floor. ‘I better give Rachel’s mum a ring. She’ll want a say in the funeral arrangements.’
Chapter 11
Thursday was an exquisite, sunny day, not too cold, not too warm. A cruel contrast to the black cloud of emotion that washed through the funeral procession, coating everything in a dark, sticky gloom that never left.
Mitch had agreed that they had to tell their mother about Rachel’s death. Aunt Grace collected her from the nursing home and brought her to the vineyard, though Mum didn’t understand why she was home.
The problem with dementia was that it killed off your short-term memory and every half hour, sometimes less, Mum would ask why she was there. For a husband who had recently lost his wife, having that fact repeated over and over again wasn’t, in any way, wanted or needed.
After the fifth time, Mitch had lost his teetering composure. Tom told Aunt Grace to take Mum, as much as it pained him to do so, into the other room away from Mitch. Witnessing the quick demise of their mother and seeing it in action on a day like today, compounded the stress and heavy emotion the day already evoked.
The funeral was simple but beautiful—in a small ceremonial hall brimming with Rachel’s favourite flowers and music. With the amount of people bundled into the hall, some bursting outside unable to find a seat, Tom figured the entire town had come to say goodbye to Rachel.
Eulogies were read by Rachel’s father, Amy, and Mitch, each accompanied by photos of Rachel flashing on a big projector screen. The words spoken were almost unbearable in their tenderness, playing on Tom’s heartstrings like a saw.
Mitch stayed for a couple of hours at the wake, which was held at the vineyard’s restaurant. He didn’t touch a drink. Barely spoke.
Tom had never seen someone so hollow as his brother. Like he was no longer there. He didn’t care about anyone or anything but Sophie. Tom was grateful that there was something in his life that kept Mitch moving forward.
That afternoon, Tom stood with Mitch as he packed a bag of clothes into his car.
‘You sure you don’t want to spend the night at home?’
Mitch shook his head. He was still dressed in his pale blue shirt, silver tie, long black pants, and polished shoes. A bundle of pain wrapped in finery, Tom thought as he watched him.
‘I need to get to Sophie. She’s the only living piece of Rachel I have left. All of this other bullshit,’ he said, waving his hand in the air, screwing his nose up, ‘it’s just stuff that smells like her. It’s just reminders of what I don’t get to hold again.’ He stopped speaking when his voice cracked. Hands on hips, his head drooped. ‘I can’t tell stuff that I love it or that I miss it.’
‘No. You can’t,’ Tom agreed.
Mitch’s shoulders shook as tears fell onto his face. He’d done well today to hold it together, but the cracks were bursting open.
Tom went to hug him, but Mitch pulled away.
‘I better get going,’ he said.
Amy came down the hill, dressed in a long black dress. She looked stunning despite the trauma of grief etched into her features. ‘You want me to come with you?’
They’d spent all week in Melbourne with Mitch, afraid to leave him alone, until yesterday when they had to drive back to finalise details for the funeral.
Mitch shook his head. ‘I just want a little time to myself. I haven’t taken a goddamn breath since she … since …’
‘I understand,’ Amy said, frowning. ‘You do what you need to do.’
‘Call if you need me,’ Tom said, shutting the door behind Mitch as he jumped in behind the steering wheel.
Mitch nodded, started the engine and drove off up the road, a trail of dust flinging out from under the tyres. Tom presumed the real reason Mitch was heading back now, and why he’d arrived this morning for the funeral, rather than last night like the rest of them, was that he couldn’t face the house just yet, filled with its remnants of a life that was no more.
Regardless of what Mitch said, all Rachel’s belongings contained a sentimentality and lingering representation of who she was.
Tom sighed. He had been dreading today more than anything, but there was a murmuring of relief in his limbs that the funeral was now over. That blurry confusion and shock had lifted from his mind somewhat these last couple of days, though the sorrow still very much remained in his heart.
‘You heading back to the wake?’ Tom asked. He felt like he’d not spoken more than a couple of sentences to Amy since the night of Rachel’s death.
Amy nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Come, I’ll walk with you.’
Amy slid her heels off and held them in her hand as they strode across the lawn towards the main building. Soft music played from the restaurant. People’s laughter drifted on the wind.
Anyone would have thought it a party rather than a wake. But he was grateful for that. And he was sure Rachel would have wanted it this way too.
Tom led Amy to a cluster of chairs where Sam and a few friends of his sat. Dark rings circled the skin under Sam’s eyes. The events had stolen his sleep too.
‘Sam,’ Amy said, ‘I have to compliment you on the flower arrangements today. They were so beautiful. And billy buttons are Rachel’s favourite.’
‘It was the least I could do.’ Sam ran a hand through his dark hair and presented a coy smile. ‘She would come by the house when she dropped in a box of cupcakes and always casually hinted if I had any in bloom.’ He shook his head and grinned. ‘She was a wily one. Had the best methods of getting you to do what she wanted, and made you love her for it.’
Amy laughed.
Sam blew out a long breath. ‘The place won’t be the same without her. She’s been out here, what four? Five years? But she was a part of this family …’ He stopped when his voice cracked. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
Tom sighed. ‘No. None of us can.’
‘Oh, man, I don’t know how Mitch will ever get over this.’
Tom frowned. ‘Neither do I.’
Sam had a swig of his beer, composed himself. ‘So, you’re going to be staying in town for a while longer, Amy?’
‘I want to help Mitch out as much as I can.’ Her voice lowered, possessed a sad undertone. ‘Rachel wanted me to be here for him, so that’s what I’ll do.’
Sam nodded. ‘I think Mitch will need it. Me, I’ve got no idea what to do with a baby. I don’t know how the hell I can lend a hand other than easing the load for him around the vineyard.’
‘I don’t either,’ Tom said and looked across the hall to his mother who was sitting with Aunt Grace. She had a glazed look in her eyes; was so much older even in these few weeks since he’d last seen her. ‘Mum’s no help these days. Such a fucking shame. All of it.’
Amy sat taller and strained a smile. ‘We’ll cope. We’ll get through this.’
Her words sounded sincere, but doubt was clear background noise. He understood. It was too soon to even glimpse how they would get through something like this. At this stage, it was all false bravado and little clue as to how to proceed.
‘Excuse me,’ Amy said, standing. ‘I’m going to talk to Rachel’s parents.’
Tom watched her walk away, hating himself at that moment for the stirring of desire always present when he was with Amy.
‘Get an eyeful?’ Sam said with a teasing grin.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Tom bit back.
‘Whatever. I’m your brother, you can’t hide from me. I know everything.’
Tom smiled. ‘You do not know everything. You think you know everything. There’s a big difference
.’
Sam shrugged as he had a sip of beer. ‘Maybe. But you don’t look at a woman like you just did with your jaw hanging open, drool dripping everywhere if you don’t like what you’re seeing.’
Tom grinned, and he glanced sidelong at his brother. ‘That obvious, eh?’
Sam pretended to wind something up between his hands and hand it to Tom. ‘Here’s your tongue back. You left it on the floor.’
A laugh burst from Tom, shaking up the painful sensation that hadn’t left his chest since Friday night. ‘Can you blame me?’
Sam shook his head as he glanced in Amy’s direction. ‘Not one bit.’
‘She’s not interested,’ Tom said.
Sam arched a brow.
‘She’s not in a good headspace to start anything that doesn’t have a future …’ His words clogged up in his throat. For a brief moment, he had forgotten all that had happened. He still thought as though Rachel was alive. His chest burned. Every damn time he remembered the truth, it was like a punch to the heart.
‘No chance now,’ Sam said.
Tom nodded. ‘And isn’t that the irony? Nothing puts life into perspective like death. My heart and brain are saying, ‘don’t waste time.’ ‘You like her, make it happen.’ ‘Life is too unpredictable for games.’’
Sam held his beer in the air. ‘Hear hear.’
Tom clanged the neck of his beer against Sam’s and sighed. ‘What a big fat fucking mess. This whole situation is so screwed up.’ He drank his beer, kept swallowing until there was nothing left, overtaken by the urge to not think anymore and not feel anymore. He just wanted this crappy feeling to ease up for a while.
‘I hear what you’re saying. And I second that.’
All the guests had left by early evening. Tom kissed his mother goodbye with more presence than he had for many years, and told her that he loved her. He ignored the ache in his heart when she called him Mitch—she didn’t know, it wasn’t her fault.
Tom sighed as the taillights of Aunt Grace’s car faded into the darkness. One thing he’d learned in life is you just never know. Never. One minute everything is fine and next …
‘Tom?’
Tom spun at the sound of Amy’s voice. He smiled, or tried to.
‘How are you holding up?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’ He sure as hell didn’t feel fine, though. He had this achy, confused, agitated sensation that vibrated all through his body. He needed something to stop it, to fill it up, but he didn’t know what it was.
‘Yeah,’ she said, a single word that showed her disbelief but also that she, too, felt the same.
‘You want me to walk you back to your place?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
Tom reached for her hand; she allowed him to grip it and weave his fingers through hers. Her touch eased through him, scattered relief across his skin.
They didn’t speak on the way home. Wasn’t awkward. Sometimes after devastating events, useless talk just didn’t cut it anymore. Togetherness, friendship, being there, was plenty enough.
Tom led the way up the stairs and opened the door for Amy, turning on the lights as they headed through the house. He wanted her to ask him to stay so much he ached.
‘Have a good night,’ he said as he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She smelled so wonderful, not like perfume or other unnatural scents, but of clean, feminine skin, and the sensation of the soft flesh of her face pressing against his lips stirred his bounty of desire.
Not the right moment, he knew that, but he couldn’t help how his body reacted to her.
‘You too,’ she said.
He smiled and started towards the foyer.
‘Um, Tom?’
He spun to face her.
‘Thanks for your help this past week. I’m not sure I could have gotten through it without you. With Rachel gone … I don’t have many close friends …’ She lowered her head and groaned. ‘So stupid to have wasted my life, pushing everything and everyone else away, chasing a stupid dream.’
Tom went to her. ‘Hey,’ he said rubbing her arm. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. We do the best we can.’
Her nod was solemn. ‘I guess so.’
‘And I’m here for you. I’ll be sticking around for a couple months helping out around here until Mitch is back on his feet. If you need me at any time …’
‘Thanks.’
He smiled. ‘You have a good sleep. I’ll see you later.’
She nodded. ‘See you.’
Tom left through the front door and sucked in big gulps of the cool night air. If he didn’t walk away from that house, from Amy, he’d go back there and end up saying something stupid like admitting his feelings for her. Again.
Chapter 12
Rachel was everywhere, in the lingering caramel scent, the sweet décor, the perfectly chosen kitchen wear. The moment Amy had stepped inside Sugar Cakes, Rachel’s presence hit her like an icy splash of water to her face. It thieved her breath away.
Amy closed her eyes and inhaled. This place was the last lingering remnant of what was uniquely Rachel. Back at the house, her clothes, the décor items, rugs, and ornaments, were blurred with Mitch. But here in Sugar Cakes, this was all Rachel, a physical representation of her heart and soul.
An overwhelming sense of comfort cradled Amy—the first she’d felt since Rachel’s death. It was as though Rachel had embraced her, telling her it was all going to be okay. Amy sank to the floor and closed her eyes.
‘I miss you,’ she whispered. ‘So much. I still can’t believe you’re gone because I feel and see you everywhere.’ A tingling spread over Amy’s arms and across the back of her neck. ‘So many times, I’ve reached for the phone to ring you only to realise I can’t. Sophie is so beautiful—she looks just like you. And she’s getting stronger every day. Mitch said she may even be able to come home in a few weeks.’ Amy wiped at the tears that had fallen onto her cheeks. ‘I’m going to be here for Mitch. And Sophie. I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to help out.’
Silence answered back, and Amy heard her own voice from an outsider’s perspective. But her voice didn’t sound like her own, too hoarse, too much pain in those words.
Yes, it was ridiculous, slumped on the floor, talking to someone who was no longer here, but knowing there was this private place she and Rachel could share plunged Amy into warm comfort.
Amy opened her eyes and stood, looking around the shop. Despite the nagging melancholy that sat deep in her soul, she had to treat today just like any other day. If she didn’t get on with things, she feared she never would.
Life had dealt blow after blow, but if she moped around any longer, she might realise there was no purpose to anything anymore. That insidious thought had struck out at her with venom a couple of times, but she had managed to ignore it so far.
At the end of the day, she was still alive, and there were people who needed her. And this shop was a way she could still let the spirit of Rachel, and her memory, live on.
The selection of cupcakes today were those that reflected Rachel the most. Recipes that possessed and demonstrated Rachel’s individual flare.
Amy tied on the apron Tom had given her and traced her name, which had been stitched into the gorgeous material, with her fingertip. He was so thoughtful. Kind and caring. It broke her heart in two to see the pain his family was in.
Music on softly in the background, she shoved aside her anxiety about cooking and her grief over Rachel as much as possible and set about baking. She whipped up peanut butter and chocolate, carrot and apple with cream cheese frosting, strawberry swirl, banana split, triple chocolate, and cappuccino cupcakes.
Then, as though Rachel whispered the recipe in her ear, she made light, fluffy vanilla cupcakes and frosted them in an array of pink, purple, blue, yellow, and red buttercream and topped each with a chocolate Cupid’s bow and edible paper love heart.
Amy stood back and peered at her creations—delicious symbolic tributes to Rachel’s most lova
ble side. She chose a few cupcakes of each variety and boxed them up for the delivery man, then presented the remainder in the big glass cabinets. So beautiful all lined up in a row—different colours and heights of whips and drizzles and pretty swirls.
No wonder Rachel had found peace in this shop; it offered the ability to be creative, artistic and, best of all, nobody disliked cupcakes.
Before opening, Amy spent a moment in the back to prepare herself. The entire town would know of Rachel’s death, and many would be offering their condolences today. If she ever heard a condolence uttered again, it would be too soon. But the townspeople had a right to feel sad over her much-loved best friend.
Amy had told herself a hundred times before she arrived today that she wasn’t to be afraid of crying in front of the customers. They would understand she was grieving. She had nothing to be scared of.
It offered some relief to accept that she may or may not cope today and that it didn’t matter either way.
The first few customers through the doors were tourists. They didn’t know Rachel, so Amy was able to settle into work, adjusting her mind until she was distanced enough from the cold depths of her grief to cope with the locals.
The Cupid cupcakes were selling fast. A little after midday, she had a dozen left when a red-haired woman, dressed in a long floaty dress and accessorised by long chunky necklaces and bangles, came into the store and asked for all the remaining Cupid cupcakes.
She smiled at Amy. ‘These are a wonderful idea. A great tribute to Rachel.’
Amy’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected anyone else to understand the connection. ‘You know about her matchmaker side?’
‘You haven’t been in town long.’ There was no condemnation in that statement, just a light-hearted utterance.
Amy shook her head. ‘A couple of weeks.’
She reached her hand up to shake Amy’s. ‘I’m Felicity.’
‘Amy.’
‘I work at the Women’s Health Centre the next town over. You’ll see me most Mondays. I like to pick up afternoon tea for the ladies I work with. They’ll love these,’ she said, pointing to the box of cupcakes Amy had placed on the counter. ‘There are a few single women among the bunch. And the married ones could do with a little romance injection, if you know what I mean?’
Bittersweet Page 11
