“Just stretching my legs.” It was a lie, and a bad one at that. He’d been looking for Patrick. He wanted to talk with him, ask him to…to…? Spend time together. Socially. That was a thing, right? How did one do that? It was so much easier when he was in school. You sat down next to a kid, traded food out of your lunch bag, and you had a best friend. Now all he could think to say was—
“So, do you want to go out with me?”
Patrick’s eyes widened considerably, and for a moment Aidan noticed how green they were. Like emeralds but with flecks of gold and chartreuse. Unique eyes. Haunting. Expressive. Almost like a painting and—Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, did I really just ask him out?
“Oh, I don’t mean out-out, not like that.” Aidan spoke so quickly it was a surprise the words came out in the right order. He shifted, the rocks underneath his heels shifting with him. A look crossed Patrick’s face for half a second, one Aidan didn’t quite recognize, and then it was gone and the groundskeeper was simply bemused.
“You’ll be wanting to go for a beer sometime then?”
“Sure,” Aidan said. “Y’know, just hang out. I mean, we keep running into each other. We could maybe get together not in a graveyard or a grocery store?”
Patrick’s bemused look turned into a full-fledged smile and Aidan’s heart gave one strange, extra-hard thud. Somehow, impossibly, it was working. He was being a total idiot about it, but he thought it was working.
“We could even do dinner,” Patrick said. “What do you like?”
“Anything,” he replied quickly. “Anywhere.”
“Had a cravin’ for some good French food lately. There’s this place Max goes on and on about. Starts with a B. Fancy joint on the Square—”
“Berringer’s?”
“Sounds about right. It’s always booked, but every once in a while she does manage to get in.” Patrick stopped and mused, “I don’t even know why I brought that place up. You mentioned wantin’ to grab a beer, and I’ve gone and made it all date-like.”
“Friendship date.” He didn’t want Patrick to feel bad about his slip-up. After all, Aidan had, not two minutes before, made it seem like he wanted to go out on a real date, too. He smiled in a way that he hoped showed he understood. “And I could get us reservations to Berringer’s.” Aidan said this with a lot more confidence than he felt. He couldn’t get jack, but he knew someone who could. Of course, he wasn’t exactly on Jill’s good list right now, and even if he was, would she consider calling in one of the many favors owed to her by the city’s elite, for him?
“Seriously?” Patrick asked, and his surprise and apparent delight made Aidan a little stupid with sudden pleasure. He went for broke.
“And do you like comedy? Jay Joseph is—”
“Jay Joseph?” Patrick’s pretty eyes widened. “You like comedy? Ah, but he’s sold out. Max and I checked when they announced. Sold out in a matter of minutes.”
That might be true, but Jill kept all sorts of tickets in the office: comps and front row seats and VIP passes to shows, music events, games, and… Jay Joseph. Aidan had seen them when he was getting the keys to the basement.
“So are you free this weekend?” Aidan asked, using all his powers of self-control to keep the near reverberation of excitement squarely inside his chest. “Berringer’s and Jay Joseph?”
“You’re on. But, Aidan? If you can’t make it happen, it’s okay. We can always just watch a movie at my apartment. It’s not so grand but—”
“No, I’m going to make it happen, I promise.”
Chapter Eight:
Feel the Rain
Babyland.
It was the only place in the cemetery that made Patrick feel uneasy, and he usually avoided going there, unless he had to. On his first day, when Arthur had showed him around, he must have picked up on Patrick’s change in demeanor, because he chose to share his own story. Patrick assumed it was intended to comfort, and it was kind of comforting, bonding the two through how personally important it was to them both to do the job right. So, Arthur had told Patrick of the death of his first- and third-born, both to the same genetic condition. Arthur and his wife went on to raise four healthy children. After he’d watched first one, then another tiny coffin pass beyond the crematorium curtain, Arthur said he could cope with anything, including the wee boys and girls at rest in Babyland.
Patrick moved through the gate and felt the sadness descend over him. If it was hard to bury a parent, what must it be like to bury a child? He took a couple of steps forward, stopped, half-turning back, tempted to just forget it; walk away, back to the other side of the gate, where those who had passed had a lovely memory or a funny tale for those left behind to tell. But these babies—what legacy had they left? Just an unmendable tear in their mammies’ and daddies’ hearts. It was so tragic.
But Patrick was nothing if not a man of his word, even if that promise was only to himself. He was going to find out why Aidan had been there the day before. In spite of the overwhelming bleakness Patrick felt whenever he entered Babyland, his smile broke of its own accord, thinking about Aidan getting all flustered and making up reasons for why he was so far from his sister’s grave. Just walking around, he’d said, but Patrick had seen him heading over, with purpose, almost as if something inside that he could neither control nor resist was pushing him to this place. And for whatever reason—perhaps because he already cared deeply for Aidan—Patrick needed to know.
“Little stone lozenges…” Patrick whispered as he traversed the rows, his mind casting back to childhood stories that told of infant mortality as if it were trivial, and he supposed in days gone by it was. Back in Ireland families were still big, but nothing like they had been once. His great-grammy was the youngest of eleven, and three of them died before the age of five. Even his grammy was one of six, but it was hard to imagine a time when children were not precious gifts deserving of so much more than a little stone lozenge in a tiny corner of the cemetery, albeit a truly beautiful tiny corner.
Where Patrick usually coped with Babyland by ignoring the inscriptions and imagining he was wandering a playground full of laughing happy kids, today he was going to have to look at those markers, with their balloons and teddy bears and sweet little rhymes. Today he was going to have to face the reality of where he was, though it threatened to deplete his bounce-backability and there were two burials to get through later. He could do this—he would do this—so that he could be prepared. He would do it for Aidan.
The problem was that Patrick had no idea who he was looking for. It could be a baby brother or sister, a nephew or niece, but how long since they came here? Starting in the oldest part of Babyland, Patrick walked slowly along the path, pausing at each grave to quickly read the name and as little else as possible—this one two weeks old, that one a month, the next not even a day, and another not so much as a breath taken. Patrick’s heart ached, his throat tightened, maybe I should forget it, just ask Aidan the question…
But what a question that was. Who is he or she, Aidan, my love? This child that brings you so much pain you cannot bear to grieve? No, that wouldn’t do, especially the my love part, sneaking in there as if they were more than just friends. Were they even that much? After all, they were only going for dinner and to watch a comedian, and he got the feeling he’d press-ganged Aidan into that, let his stupid big Irish mouth canter off like a runaway horse. Just go out for a pint, that’s where they’d started from. But anyway, it was done, and tomorrow they were going on their…friendship date. Patrick had never heard of one of those before.
None of the headstones in the older parts of Babyland offered any clues, but it was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Maybe he was wrong and Aidan really was “just walking around,” although there was still so much left to search and work to be done. Patrick stopped to gather his thoughts and his strength, just for a few moments closing his eyes and listening to the peace, for it was the same here as on the other side of those cherub guardians.
“Son?” A
woman’s voice.
Patrick opened his eyes, no idea he’d had them closed for so long.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes. I’m fine, thanks. I was just…praying for the little ones,” he said, feeling dreadfully guilty about telling such a lie, though he did pray for them often enough for it to be only the smallest white lie.
The woman leaned closer and read the embroidered letters on Patrick’s coveralls. She looked up at him and gave him a weary smile. “I just wanted to check you worked here before I mentioned it, but one of the graves—” she pointed to the far corner of Babyland. “It’s in such a terrible mess.”
Patrick nodded. “Okay. I’ll get on it right away, ma’am. Thanks for letting me know.”
The woman offered that same weary smile again. Patrick stepped off, glancing back at her. She was holding a small brown teddy bear, hugging it close. Patrick quickly turned away and headed off to see what the problem was with the grave in the corner.
“A-ha!” Well, that was easy fixed. He’d been thinking the very worst—cruel, heartless vandals—instead it was just one singular vandal, of the feathered variety. Patrick shook his head and chuckled. He could totally understand why someone had left little sweeties for their babby, and the crows were no doubt very understanding too. Now to get the so-and-so away without upsetting him, because they had good memories, did crows, and excellent social networking skills. The last thing Patrick needed was a gang of feathery foes on his case because he stole away their treasure. What he needed was a decoy, something more tempting than shiny sugar-coated treats, and he had just the thing in his pocket: the peanuts he brought to snack on.
Crouching down low to the ground, Patrick eased a few of the nuts from his pocket and cast them to the right of the crow. It paid no attention, so he threw another, a little closer this time. It stopped its marauding and cautiously sidled over to investigate, pecking at the nut and then devouring it.
“You like that, don’t you, fella?” Patrick said, chucking a couple more its way and carefully shuffling around the side of the grave. With each nut the bird ate, Patrick threw another, gradually sending it away from the grave, at the same time gathering all of the candy together, which he then hid away in his pocket to dispose of later. The crow was happy with its substitute treasure, and left Patrick alone to tidy up the fallen toys and other knick-knacks on the grave of—he read the headstone—Mitch Somers, Born March 1 1997, passed into the light that same day. It didn’t bear thinking about.
With the grave tidied, Patrick rose to his feet again, his spirit replenished by the interlude the crow’s shenanigans had granted.
“Right. What do I know?” he thought aloud. What had Aidan said? Nadia loved flowers. So what if the baby… He surveyed his surroundings, a smile blooming as he saw it, for now he’d applied himself, it took no time at all, and he allowed Aidan’s words to lead him, through those many colorful tiny graves to the most colorful of all.
“Oh, gosh.” Patrick stopped before the grave and read the inscription, though he knew already.
Poppy Degas-Minor
Beautiful baby girl
with us for but a few precious moments
Be good for Mommy
Goodnight Godbless
Around the inscription, flowers had been engraved into the white marble and painted, by hand—daisies and poppies, lily of the valley and phlox—so many wildflowers in pink, yellow and lilac, intricately detailed and perfect. And the date, Patrick realized, was three years ago; the same as that on Nadia Degas-Minor’s headstone, made of the same marble but without the glorious adornments. Patrick rubbed his chin, making the connections in his mind. A car accident maybe? No: Poppy passed on the day she was born.
“So this must Aidan’s—”
“Niece,” someone behind him finished.
Patrick turned, startled. The young woman before him was tall and slender, with dark hair and even darker eyes. She was a fine-looking woman. She tilted her head to the side inquisitively.
“I was just admiring the headstone,” Patrick said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I…” He had no excuse. She’d heard him say Aidan’s name. She knew who Aidan was—that he was connected to Poppy, which meant she was connected to Poppy too. He started over. “I’m sorry. I’m Patrick Williams. I’m one of the groundskeepers.” He held out his hand. The woman studied it a moment and then shook.
“Lily,” she said. “Lily Degas-Minor.”
“Oh, right, so…”
“Aidan is my brother-in-law.”
“Right. And Nadia was your wife.”
“Yeah. And Poppy was our daughter.” Lily looked to the headstone. “You like the flowers, Patrick?”
“I do. They’re very beautiful.”
“Thank you. I painted them myself.”
She was lost in thought, and Patrick wasn’t quite sure what to do for the best. He’d got what he came for; he now knew why Aidan was heading for Babyland. Patrick had a reason to leave: the first burial was in less than half an hour, but he didn’t feel he could just walk away. More than that, he didn’t want to walk away. He wanted to ask Lily about Nadia, and Poppy. And Aidan. But before he could formulate any kind of sensible, sensitive question, Lily zoned back in.
“Aidan visits Poppy?”
“I don’t know, to be honest with you. I’ve seen him visiting his sister many times lately, and then we bumped into each other at the store.”
“I didn’t know he’d been here. He’s so…uncommunicative. They were twins. Did you know that?”
“Yes. He told me.”
“It’s been real hard for him. He just seemed to give up living, and Nadia would never have wanted that. I try so hard but he pushes me away.” Lily chewed her bottom lip and a little worry line appeared between her eyebrows. “I don’t mean to be bitchy or self-obsessed when I say this, but I think he resents me for taking Nadia away from him, and he has no one. Their mom died when they were young. Their dad was never around, and Aidan has this awful live-in job, where they treat him like dirt. He barely gets any time away from work. He promised me on their twenty-fifth birthday that he’d go back to med school within the year. That was more than two years ago. And…” Lily raked her hands through her hair, pinning it back from her face. “I don’t know.”
“I suppose he has to be ready to move on himself,” Patrick said.
“I guess, but when? He just seems so stuck in a rut. And… Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m unloading all of this on you. I’ll let you get on.”
“Oh, no need to apologize, Lily. None at all.”
“You’re very kind, and I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re only the groundskeeper.”
Patrick smiled and shook his head. “No, Lily. I was only the groundskeeper, until yesterday.”
The crease in Lily’s brow deepened and she studied Patrick for a moment, then she smiled too. A knowing smile. “Oh!”
Patrick put his head down and blushed furiously. She’d seen it and now he was wondering if the rest of the world could see it. But he didn’t care if they could, so long as he could keep it hidden from Aidan, until he was ready, because it was clear from all that Lily had said: right now Aidan just needed a friend. And Patrick could do that. He could be Aidan’s friend.
Chapter Nine:
Cruel Marks
Aidan just barely stopped himself from saying something completely idiotic when Patrick picked him up the next night. Thank God his brain seemed to have some sort of fail-safe, or else he’d have greeted the handsome Irishman with the fairly insulting, “You clean up well, don’t you?”
It was true, of course. Except for the time Aidan had run into him at the grocery store (and even then, it was sweats and a t-shirt) he’d never seen Patrick wear anything but his groundskeeper’s uniform of dirty coveralls, dirty boots, and dirty shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Plus, the sweaty brow, of course. Now, showered and dressed in slacks, a button-down shirt (sleeves still rolled) and polish
ed shoes, Patrick looked…well…amazing.
“Something wrong?” Patrick asked.
“No. Why?”
“Are you goin’ to get in?”
“Oh. Sure!” Aidan quickly got in and closed the door. “Nice car,” he said. It was a nice car, but Aidan had only said it to cover his embarrassment at being caught staring.
“Thanks. It’s Maxine’s. I don’t have a car meself.”
Aidan nodded dumbly.
“So where to, m’friend?” Patrick asked jovially. What he really meant was did Aidan get the tickets and was he able to make the reservations or were they headed back to Patrick’s place for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?
“Berringer’s,” Aidan replied proudly, and when Patrick looked at him, green eyes going wide, Aidan shrugged and smiled. “Told you I’d make it happen.”
He didn’t mention he now owed Jill one thousand favors. Those were her exact words.
“I don’t know why you could possibly want to eat at Berringer’s,” she’d told him between phone calls from tenants that morning. “It’s always crowded, the portions are small, I personally think you can get better French at Mon Amie’s on the corner, and you’re going to pay through the nose for it when I’m pretty sure you don’t have any money stuffed up there—”
He’d stared at her, his breath held. He needed the reservations and she was the only one who could make it happen.
“—But if you’re going to be a total idiot, fine. I’ll see if I can get you a table. But you owe me one thousand favors. From now ’til the end of time, if I need something, you’re at my command.”
He’d nodded, and realized that must be how Jill had tied up everyone in the whole city. At one time or another, they’d come to her asking for her help, and then she’d made them each promise her one thousand favors. There it was, her web of connections, and now he was a part of it.
The tickets though… He could tell from the moment he asked her about her stash of tickets in general—not even mentioning the Jay Joseph show—that she was fiercely protective. Jill bristled as he asked if she ever sold extra tickets to The Grand Heights staff.
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