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He blinked at her. “You won’t let me pay you back?”
Shit... Considering the situation, and the fact that he now had way more money than she did, pretending wasn’t believable, wasn’t even reasonable. The amount was too great. “To be honest, your sister paid me a long time ago, Keith. So, please, give the money to her.”
There went her promise but, short of accepting the money, which she didn’t want to do, she felt she had no other choice.
“Oh.” He frowned as he put away his wallet.
Eager for a shower so she could begin her day, Nancy nearly shut the door and let it go at that. She planned to forget she’d ever encountered him. But she did feel some sympathy for the loss he’d suffered. “I’m sincerely sorry about your mother. If there’s anything I can do to help out with the funeral, please let me know. I’m already doing the flowers—for free, of course.”
He studied her through the crack she’d left between the door and its frame. “You should get paid for that.”
“No. I’m happy to contribute. She was my employer for seven years. I learned a lot from her. I’m a much better designer thanks to...” her intense criticism “...her high standards.”
“Okay.”
“Enjoy your stay on the island.” No doubt she’d see him at the funeral, but she didn’t plan on speaking to him again. They’d both said all that needed to be said.
After she closed the door, she leaned against it and forced herself to stay put instead of hurrying over to the window so she could watch him return to his car. For five years she’d been telling herself she never wanted to see him again—and yet she craved a better look, a chance to study him without his looking back at her.
He’d changed as much as Maisey had said, she decided, picturing him in her mind instead. He’d filled out that tall, spare frame, packed a lot more muscle onto it, but he was still lean and wiry. He didn’t have a weight problem like she did. His face, once so exaggerated, so angular, had softened, as well. He no longer appeared gaunt, which suggested he was eating—something he didn’t do enough of when he was on drugs. His eyes were clearer and brighter, too, his whole bearing more confidence.
That he was doing so well made her breathe easier. But that in itself concerned her. If she didn’t care about him anymore, why would she feel such relief?
“Damn you,” she muttered, but she wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself, for still being so susceptible to the attraction she’d always felt, or him, for not feeling any attraction at all.
* * *
“Nancy’s lost weight,” Keith said over a Beatles song that was playing on the radio.
The way Maisey fidgeted with her seat belt gave Keith the impression she didn’t want to discuss Nancy. “A few pounds,” she finally said.
“She looks great.”
His sister folded her arms as he came to a stop at the light. “She’ll never be model-thin.”
Her comment struck him as odd. Her weight had never bothered him before; why would it bother him now? “Who says she has to be?”
“No one. I’m just making an observation.”
“And that is...”
“She’s never been your type.”
“I have a type?”
“Yes. Skinny, blond and beautiful. More like the police chief. She’s pretty, don’t you think?”
She was pretty, but that was beside the point. “Not everyone I date is blond—or skinny,” he said. “I was with Nancy before, wasn’t I? And she was heavier than she is now.”
“You can’t use Nancy as an example.”
The light turned green. He made a left, onto the main drag. “Why not?”
“She was a divergence. Even she was surprised when you took an interest in her.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not. You’re used to getting whoever you want. And when you can have anyone, you typically don’t choose someone who’s a few pounds overweight.”
“She’s not that heavy!” She thought she was, and had always been self-conscious about it. The first night they’d made love, he’d had a hell of a time getting her to trust him enough to take off her clothes. But it had been worth the battle. She’d given him intimacy and warmth, someone to cling to when he had needed it most. And once she grew comfortable, there’d been plenty of physical attraction and enjoyment. He’d liked the softness of her curves and the fact that she was exactly as nature had made her. Although he wouldn’t be vulgar enough to say it, especially to his sister, she had the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen. Her legs weren’t bad, either. She just carried a little extra weight around the waist.
“Name one other woman you’ve dated who’s been overweight,” Maisey said.
“Maybe I wasn’t initially attracted to Nancy, but the more I got to know her, the prettier she became.” She just couldn’t compete with the cocaine that’d kept him going back then. No one could.
“She’s not capable of dealing with someone like you. That’s all.”
“You remember what I was like back then, Mais. I wasn’t capable of having a relationship with anyone. Even you. But I’m clean now. Things are different.”
“She’s still outgunned, doesn’t have nearly as much experience with men as those women you’ve been dating in LA. You need someone more...sophisticated.”
He turned down the radio. “You mean someone who can’t get hurt because she doesn’t know how to care in the first place? Someone more like Mom?”
“Of course not! But what you had with Nancy wasn’t a real relationship, either, so don’t try to pretend it was.”
Keith told himself to relax so this wouldn’t explode into an argument. He understood why she might be protective of Nancy, but he didn’t need Maisey piling on. He already felt like shit because of what he’d done. “How was it not a real relationship? I liked her. A lot.”
He’d never been around anyone less like his mother. She’d been exactly what he needed at the time. He still wasn’t sure what he would’ve done without her friendship and support. But she’d definitely given him the cold shoulder a few minutes ago. She hadn’t been happy to see him; he could tell.
“You’ve liked plenty of women,” Maisey said as if that was meaningless.
He shot her a scowl. “I’m not going to hurt Nancy. For your information, I just apologized to her.”
His sister’s attitude seemed to improve. “That was nice of you.”
“You don’t think I have a conscience?”
“I think you can be devastating, even when you don’t mean to be.”
He’d never live down his reputation. He’d earned it too honestly. But, in his own defense, he hadn’t been ready to settle down—with anyone—and he hadn’t presented himself in any other way.
Regardless, there wasn’t much point in continuing the conversation. They were driving to the morgue in Charleston to view the body of their dead mother. He didn’t need to make this day any worse. “That was five years ago,” he said calmly. “I’m not the same person.”
“You have the same gorgeous face. The same disarming smile. The same appeal to women,” she said. “I’d rather you didn’t rekindle your relationship with Nancy while you’re here. It’s not like you need her—or would ever take her seriously even if you did start seeing her again. There are too many other women out there who’d suit you better.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Nancy again. But it upset him to hear what Maisey had to say. He was used to having his younger sister on his side. They’d always banded together. They’d had to—to survive their childhood. “She’s an adult. I’m sure she can take care of herself and doesn’t need you to run interference for her. Anyway, stop worrying. I won’t be here long enough to start seeing anyone.”
She sighed. “It’s not like I want you to leave. I’m just asking you to stay away from Nancy. As a personal favor to me.”
Her earnest expression irritated him even more. “You’ve gotten that close to her?”
“Yes! She’s someone I trust and confide in, someone I enjoy working with.”
He turned toward the ferry, which would take them to the mainland. “Is that why you paid her the money I owed her?”
The way Maisey fiddled with her purse told him she was suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry if you’re mad that I got involved. But she’s never had much money. I made sure that what she lent you came back to her sooner rather than later, that’s all.”
“I tried to pay her myself,” he said. “Less than a year after I left.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“She didn’t mention it?”
“No.”
“So you thought I never tried.”
“I wasn’t worried. I’d already taken care of it.”
“I gave her a car, too—something to make up for how I treated her. But she wouldn’t take it.”
“You can’t be surprised she’d say no. That was an expensive present.”
“Wow. You are defensive of Nancy.”
Maisey reached out to squeeze his forearm. “Not really. I love you, too. It was very generous of you.”
He pulled into the line of cars waiting to cross over. “She didn’t mention that, either? The car?”
“We don’t talk about you. I mean, I do sometimes. But if I bring you up, she just listens. She never says anything herself.”
He adjusted his windshield wipers to handle a fresh deluge. “She hates me that much?”
“I wouldn’t call it hate. She’s...moved on.”
The ferry captain approached the car in front of them. “Who’s she dating now?”
“Some guy from Charleston.”
“Is it serious?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked over and found her glaring at him. “Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he muttered and lowered his window to pay the fare.
* * *
Their mother was on a gurney in the back end, where the corpses were weighed and tagged. A sheet covered her from the neck down, but her arms had been taken out from under it and folded beneath her breasts—probably Dean Gillespie’s attempt to make her appear “at peace,” for their sake.
But there was nothing peaceful or consoling about any of this; Josephine’s death felt wrong in so many ways, beginning with the fact that she’d never looked worse. Her hair fell away from her face exactly as it had dried when they’d pulled her from the tub, and dark circles underscored her closed eyes—the eyes that so many people had admired.
As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, her skin was so waxy Keith barely recognized her. He was tempted to check the name on the tag attached to her big toe, just to be sure. His mother didn’t have age spots or wrinkles. His mother didn’t have dull, lackluster hair. But this person did.
Her body wasn’t the same, either. Although Keith had heard his mother described as a bombshell on more than one occasion, she looked frail and insignificant under that sheet, as if she’d never been a singular beauty.
This was what it took to finally get the better of Josephine Lazarow, Keith decided. Age alone wasn’t enough. Age conquered everyone else, but not her. Only death could win.
“She would hate that we’re seeing her like this,” Maisey whispered.
Keith wished he hadn’t come. She might have been his greatest stumbling block, his greatest challenge, but she’d also been a constant he could rely on—someone who stood firm in her convictions, commanded respect, lived by her own rules and made damn sure everyone around her did, too. He’d known that if he ever really needed her she might give him hell, but she’d come through in the end.
“We’ll hire a good makeup artist for the funeral,” he said, but only to comfort his sister. Makeup wouldn’t help now. His mother had lost that vital essence that’d made her so magnificent.
Maisey didn’t respond.
“Her death feels so...premature,” he added.
When Maisey put her hand over his in a show of understanding, he wished he could shrug her off. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted answers. Who had felled their powerful mother? She must not have seen whoever it was. The person who’d killed her had to be someone she would never, in a million years, have expected to do her wrong.
“The various funeral homes usually engage someone who specializes in hair and makeup,” Dean told them. “All you have to do is bring in a picture, and they’ll do their best to make your mother look like you remember.”
“I’ll ask her regular hairdresser to do her hair,” Maisey told him. “And I’ll try to manage her makeup myself.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” Dean said. “Just keep in mind that those services are available if you need them.”
Keith couldn’t imagine being asked to do something like that, but maybe all stylists knew that preparing a client’s hair for his or her funeral was a possibility. The last dead person he’d encountered had been his father, and even though they’d never been particularly close, that loss had hit him hard, since Malcolm was the only calm parent of the two...
Trying to shrug off the feelings any memory of his father—or his past, really—evoked, he studied his mother’s throat. He thought he could discern a faint tinge of blue, where a strong pair of hands might’ve cut off her airflow, but he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining things. Her whole body looked blue...
“Have you seen enough?” Maisey asked.
Keith didn’t answer. “She has no marks on her anywhere?” he asked Dean.
“Marks?”
“Injuries?”
Dean shook his head. “None that I’ve seen, but I haven’t examined her. They’ll do that during the autopsy. Record every bruise or blemish.”
But things could change from day to day, couldn’t they? Even if she was dead? Keith had learned that the signs of strangulation typically didn’t show up during the first twenty-four hours, so it was reasonable to assume that they also might disappear after a certain length of time. “Would you mind removing the sheet and taking a look now?” he asked. He didn’t feel he could do that. It would be the ultimate invasion of his mother’s privacy at a time when she couldn’t defend it. But he felt someone should check her corpse before the autopsy was performed. Having more than one person provide an opinion could prove useful later on—although he had no idea how or why. He was just trying to document everything he could before it was too late, trying to use simple logic.
“Um, sure,” Dean said. “But...can I ask why?”
“I’d like to know what you see.”
The coroner’s technician had been quite solicitous. At this, he hesitated, as if it was pretty far outside his expectations. But then he acquiesced. “Of course. If it’ll help.”
“You look, too,” Keith told Maisey and turned away while Dean peeled back the covering.
