by Keary Taylor
“You should know that this isn’t going to be easy,” he suddenly says, and I internally flinch at his rough voice. “For either of us. It’s going to open old wounds for you, bring everything back to the surface. It’s going to exhaust me, finding him, holding on to someone I don’t know.”
I don’t know what to say.
It’s much I’m asking.
But I’m asking.
“I’ll need something personal of his that I can hold,” he says as he finally looks up, meeting my eyes. “It needs to be something that had some kind of meaning to him, something he touched or used frequently.”
I nod. The item instantly comes to mind. “I can get that.”
Sully nods, the look in his eyes growing darker and more distant by the moment. “It helps, too, if you tell me about him first. It can be a little difficult to find them at first, if they aren’t waiting on the other side to talk to us. If I know about him, it makes it easier to recognize him.”
I nod once more. Something swirls in my stomach: anticipation, nerves, the old excitement he used to unleash in me. The aching. The longing.
Sully stands, rising his hulking form to its full height. He’s dressed for the day already, wearing jeans once more and a button up blue shirt. Same boots as yesterday. A denim jacket with white fuzzy lining.
He crosses the space, and sits on the first row pew. Resting a hand along the back of the bench, he looks in my direction, though his eyes land generally in my lap, unfocused.
“What was his name?” Sully asks quietly.
I swallow once, my throat already tightening. Excitement prickles along my skin, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
“Jack Caraway,” I breathe, and I swear the temperature in the church drops ten degrees.
“How did the two of you meet?”
“At my father’s funeral.”
Chapter Eight
IONA
My father was a police officer for twenty-five years. He’d spent his life protecting the people of Ander and they loved him for it. So when he died in a hunting accident only one year after retiring, the entire town came to his funeral.
Mom was absolutely crushed. Some people react like that when they lose a loved one; they just completely shut down. Their brain turns off to protect themselves. That’s how she handled it.
So, it fell to us—my sisters and I, and the community, the force—to find the burial plot, pick a casket, and arrange the service that we knew would be attended by over a thousand people.
It was the worst time of my life, up to that point, but finally I made it to the day of the funeral. I survived hearing all these people say all these wonderful things about the man who raised me. And there I found myself standing in a line for the final viewing.
My father, resting in uniform in the casket. My mother, with a constant stream of tears down her face, her lip quivering, unable to say anything to the people trying to offer her some tiny bit of comfort. Then my oldest sister Cressida, me, and then Viola, the youngest.
All the Faye women, in a line, on display for everyone to see our pain.
Toward the end of the viewing, my emotional energy was nearly drained. Up until about halfway through I’d been able to return the hugs and handshakes and tell everyone “thank you for coming.” But now I was exhausted, each of those people took a little piece of me with them and now I was just depleted.
I’d been staring at the floor, not really responding to the individuals who walked by. But suddenly Viola elbowed me, sending a sharp pain through my ribs. I glared in her direction, prepared to chew her out, but she nodded her chin down the row of people, a twinkle in her eye, and a coy smile on her lips.
“Finally, a little reason to look alive,” she said quietly.
I looked generally in that direction, and it didn’t take more than two seconds to know exactly what she was referring to.
Or rather who.
Just four people down, staring down at my dead father, was the most incredible man I’d ever seen.
His face was all sharp angles, from his jawline to his nose. His tight lips, and the drawn expression on his face. Thick dark blond hair was styled to absolute perfection. Gray eyes like a storm.
All accompanied by a body fit for a catalogue, dressed carefully in a well-tailored suit.
I could have stared at him for days.
Were I not at my father’s funeral.
“You’re the worst,” I breathed to Viola, turning my attention back to the man shaking my hand without really looking at me. “Our father is dead, and you’re looking for your next man toy?”
“I miss him too,” Viola said, “but I’m certainly not dead. I think even he could probably bring the dead back for one last lookover.”
Absolute horror ripped through me at her words. I turned to get physical, but a woman suddenly pulled me into her arms, tears rolling down her face.
She blubbered on and on about how my father was the most wonderful, selfless man, dampening my dress, while I glared death at my youngest sister.
But still, my heart rate spiked when the next man moved on and suddenly a warm, large hand was closing around mine.
“I’m so sorry about your father,” a smooth voice said.
My eyes rose up to meet his—finding a storm and sunlight as if reflecting off a lake. His eyes were captivating.
“Thank you,” I barely managed to breathe out.
“He was such a leader in our community,” the man said, still holding my hand. “He will be greatly missed.”
I nodded, completely stunned and dumbfounded. He offered me a sad little smile, and released my hand. I hadn’t even realized for a moment that he’d moved on, politely conversing with Viola, who was smiling far too brightly.
Shaking my head and blinking three times fast, I refocused my attention on Lieutenant William’s wife, who had just moved in to embrace me.
Chapter Nine
SULLY
“It’s quite the grim beginning to a love story,” I say as I stand and begin blowing some of the candles out as the sun begins to rise.
“It didn’t look like it was going to be a love story,” Iona says quietly as she looks down at the ring on her finger and twists it around. It looks far too loose for her tiny finger.
“Morning details first,” I say, walking past her, back into the hallway. “We’ll continue the riveting story in a little while.”
The fawn scrambles to follow after me. The clock shows 5:43 as I walk into the kitchen. I pull out the ingredients needed to start the oatmeal and light the stove.
Sometime during the night it stopped raining, but now it is bitterly cold. I stoke the fireplace with more wood while the water boils, and then return to the kitchen.
“What brought you to this place?” Iona asks, leaning against the counter and watching me work.
“Birth,” I respond simply. I pour in the oats and stir, staring into the mush.
I hear her nod. “I saw the family names out in the graveyard. Have you lived your entire life here, then?”
“Most of it,” I tell her, but her questions are causing irritation to rise in my blood.
“Where did you live when you were away?” she asks.
“It’s a Friday,” I say, cutting her questions off. I look over my shoulder at her. “Don’t normal people normally work on Fridays?”
Her eyes widen and she leans back from me just a touch. It’s easy to startle fawns. “I, uh…” she struggles to change her line of thought. “Yeah, normally I do work Fridays. I took yesterday through the weekend off.”
“What kind of work?” I ask, turning the tables.
“I’m a data analyst for a big power company.” She takes a few steps back, retreating to the table as if she’s afraid I’ll attack. “There’s a whole team of us, so it wasn’t a big deal to take some time off.”
“Data analyst,” I repeat, not quite connecting the words with a contributing occupation. “That’s a real job?”
Iona nods, only slight offense showing in her expression. “I’ve been doing it for six years, so yes.”
I grunt and turn back to the stove.
When it’s done, I scoop it into two bowls and add the brown sugar and milk. She picks at it again, not really eating. I stand at the sink, eating as I stare out the window.
Heavy fog sits low on the trees, spilling down the mountain. It only settles just higher than the church’s steeple. My lungs feel tight already, just imagining how cold and damp it must be outside.
When we’re finished, we leave the bowls soaking in the sink. Iona runs to her car and returns with a change of clothes and I silently wonder just how long she plans to stay here.
Dawn breaks past the trees just as we step outside the church and head down the road, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of us, gloves at the ready.
I didn’t even hear the wind last night, but branches are scattered everywhere. They litter the road, and have fallen on…well, I wouldn’t call them lawns anymore, but the property that surrounds the crumbling and abandoned homes. She gives me a look, but Iona follows my lead, gathering the limbs, and throwing them in the wheelbarrow.
“Is there someone who lives here?” Iona asks as we finish clearing one plot.
I shake my head. “Not in about seventy-two years,” I say as we cross the road to the empty lot where I dump the branches.
“Then why are you going to all this effort?” she asks.
“Because Mrs. Granger will yell at me if I let her property turn into a mess,” I say as I make my way to the house two doors down. “So will Mr. Darrok. He’s a mean old bastard.”
The gears turning in Iona’s head are practically screaming as she turns the meaning of that over. The homes are obviously in disrepair. It’s clear no one lives in them, and haven’t in quite some time. Yet I’m taking this time to clean them up.
“Do you live in the church all the time?” she finally asks some time later.
“Yes,” I huff as I haul a huge branch.
“Then why are you letting it fall apart?”
Annoyance flares in my chest as my eyes flick over to her. “Because no one will be living in it soon.”
“Are you moving?” She looks back at me over her shoulder while her hands continue scraping the small twigs together.
“More like moving on,” I huff and carefully step over the line of pennies that run across the sidewalk before going to gather more fallen limbs.
“You met Jack at your father’s funeral,” I say, tired of her endless questions. “Where did it go from there?”
She takes a moment to respond. “Downhill. At first.”
Chapter Ten
IONA
The weather had been so nice I decided to walk to and from work that day. It was April first. I remember, because our meeting seemed like such a joke.
It was three weeks after the funeral and things were finally kind of starting to feel normal. Mom was coming back to her senses. Cressida had stopped calling every single day, going back to taking care of her husband and their three kids. Viola was back to inviting me out for drinks every weekend with her and her silly friends.
It seemed like a good day to walk in the crisp weather and clear my head. To take a breather and reset.
My work is just five blocks from my apartment, but I cut right through the middle of town. I thought I’d been paying attention to the hustle and bustle, but as I watched a fighting couple walk down the other side of the road, I suddenly ran smack into someone.
I went down to the ground, scraping my elbow pretty bad, and twisting my knee awkwardly. The individual I walked into dropped their briefcase and was thrown off balance, but I was the only one on the sidewalk.
“I’m so sorry,” a smooth, panicked voice said. A hand instantly appeared in my vision, hauling me up to my feet before I was even quite ready. Strong hands steadied me by my shoulders.
My eyes finally settled onto a face. Cut and chiseled and perfect.
“Oh,” he said, the guilt and horror widening his eyes. “Hey. You’re, uh, one of the Faye girls.”
The devastatingly handsome man from the funeral.
“Yeah,” I said, wincing against my throbbing elbow. I took half a step backward, raising it up to inspect the damage. My shirt was torn and my skin was brilliant red, but it wasn’t dripping blood yet.
“I am so sorry,” he said, gently cradling my elbow, inspecting it for himself. “I just stepped out of the office. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“It’s okay,” I said, bending to grab my bag that I’d dropped. “I wasn’t looking, either.”
“Don’t know how I missed such a beautiful not-quite stranger,” he says, pulling off a cocky smile. “You’re hard to not notice, Miss Faye.”
I gave him a glare as I pulled the strap of my bag back up and over my shoulder. “Really?” I questioned him. “Flirting with a girl you met at a funeral?”
I started walking down the sidewalk, back in the direction of home. He quickly picked up his suitcase and hurried after me.
“We never even got each other’s names at that…particular event,” he says awkwardly, smart enough to not say funeral. “I consider that to be ‘meeting’ someone—obtaining their name. Becoming acquaintances. None of that happened before, so it doesn’t count.”
“You’re trying really hard,” I said, not looking at him, but a small smile cracking on my lips. “You realize that makes you sound pathetic, right?”
“Pathetic?” he said, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m just being polite. You’re the one being nasty now.”
“Nasty?” I nearly shouted, rounding on him, stopping us in our tracks. “Really? All things considered in this three-minute acquaintanceship, and you’re going to call me nasty? You really know how to burn a bridge fast.”
I turned and continued on my way, picking up pace.
“I’m sorry!” he called, jogging to catch up with me. “Nasty wasn’t the right word. Maybe just, unpleasant.”
“You’re not scoring yourself any points with your varying degrees of insults,” I said as I crossed the road with a small crowd of strangers.
“Then how about a do-over?” he practically begged as I continued down the road at a quick click. “I’m trying here, I really am. I’m sorry that my mouth got away from me. It happens sometimes when I’m self-conscious.”
“Self conscious?” I chuckled. “You?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he chuckled, though the look on his face said he had a pretty good picture of what I meant.
“Don’t pull that on me,” I said, rolling my eyes, despite the smile on my lips.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “Maybe I know a little what you’re talking about. But it’s true. I do get self-conscious. Are you judging me based on my looks?”
“I guess so,” I said, crossing another road. One more block until I reached my apartment.
“Look,” he said, gently grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop. “I’m really sorry, for everything that just transpired in the last five minutes. Will you please accept my apology?”
I studied him, mostly because he was so nice to look at. But he did seem to mean it, at least as far as I could tell, having only known him for a few minutes.
“Fine,” I said, feeling the annoyance lift from my chest. “I forgive you. For now.”
A smile cocked on one side of his face and all of my resolve cracked a little. Perfectly straight, white teeth shone out, the smile all crooked and charming.
“Thank you, Miss…” he dragged out, his expression hopeful.
I bit my lower lip, debating for a moment. Stranger danger and all that, but at twenty-eight years old, I figured I was a big girl by that point. “Iona,” I finally responded.
“Iona Faye,” he said, settling further into his casual smile. “I’m Jack Caraway. And I wondered if I could take you to dinner Friday night?”
His audacity startled a laugh right ou
t of me. But the look on his face told me he was dead serious. I just shook my head.
“Don’t say no,” he said, jumping in, like he could see that I was about to. “I promise, no more running mouth, no knocking you to the concrete again. Just a nice evening, some good food, and a perfectly pleasant conversation.”
I just stared at him for a moment longer, in disbelief at the turn of events this afternoon. “Maybe,” I finally said. “If I decide yes, then I’ll meet you right here,” I pointed to the ground at our feet, “at seven o’clock Friday night. And if I decide no—”
“You’ll just leave me standing out here on the sidewalk looking like a fool?” he asked incredulously.
I smiled and nodded. And without another word, I turned back for the sidewalk and crossed the road.
“I’ll see you on Friday!” he called as I walked away.
“Maybe!” I teased without looking back.
Chapter Eleven
IONA
“You met him on Friday, didn’t you?” Sully asks, giving me this look.
“I did,” I blush. “But only because Viola pestered me so much I thought I was going to kill her.”
“She did sound awfully interested in Jack at the funeral,” he says as he dumps the last load of branches and heads back toward the church. I follow beside him, pulling off the muddy and soaking wet gloves.
“She was. She almost didn’t believe me when I told her that I’d run in to him and he’d asked me out.” A smile crosses my lips, entertained by the memory.
Sully grunts, but doesn’t say anything more. I can’t imagine this is his favorite kind of story. He doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy silly love stories.
He heads for the shed off to the side of the church and parks the wheelbarrow in the corner, tipped up on end. Inside I also see a lawnmower, a variety of rakes, shovels, and trash bins that look like they haven’t been used in a few decades.