In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  What she did feel was a sense of disconnection to this feckless charade because it wasn’t Fitzwilliam’s final resting place. The empty casket housed only red satin while her husband’s unrested soul floated around somewhere, released from the torn flesh decaying at the bottom of Hungry Bay or being picked at, like fish bait, in the ocean. Perhaps, he didn’t mind. After all, he was a Frogman. That image haunted her waking nightmares. The valium took care of her sleeping nightmares.

  She blinked once, twice. Yes, she was still alive. And like a messenger from the floating soul of her lover, a brightly colored Monarch butterfly came into focus as it swam through the air over the grave. A fragile beauty, it gently floated above the mourners and then fluttered back over the flowers along the mound’s perimeter. Finally, it departed for the rose garden flanking the cemetery.

  Like slowly reviving from a coma, she became aware of the gathered crowd surrounding the tombstones of Fitzwilliam’s parents and grandparents. Had they, too, seen the butterfly or was it a sign just for her? It was free, not troubled by the horrors of its past that even her love could not erase. One day, she’d be buried beside this grave, but he wouldn’t be there and she’d still be alone. All but five or six of these 60 or so strangers knew the casket was empty. How does one explain that he was blown to bits? How does one reconcile that even in death they wouldn’t rest together? How could they comprehend the cavernous emptiness she felt?

  “Father, we commit Fitzwilliam Darcy’s body to the earth, from which our bodies were originally created, and we rejoice in the fact that his spirit is even now with You, the Father of spirits,” the minister prayed, holding his hands out over the meaningless mound of dirt.

  A loud nose blow came from his aunt Katherine, as she stood at the head of the grave beside the holy man. Her big black hat and old-fashioned blusher veil hid her pulled-too-tight facelift. Sandwiched between Rick and Sarah, they comforted the officious woman—and in the process kept her far away. She was in no mood for bullshit.

  Starting with dear Gus and Doris Reynolds, her gaze followed the line of mourners, scanning those who loved Fitzwilliam most, finally falling on one of the two women holding her up: her sister-in-law. At her other side Jane, who had been her constant comforting shadow from the minute her plane touched down in Asheville, then back to Virginia. Perhaps Fitzwilliam had been right all along. Her sister was making up for all the mistakes of her past. Further, she felt the grief of losing a brother-in-law and understood there was no place for her bubble-headed levity. Still, Jane was Jane and insisted that a widow should wear a couture black suit and Prada accessories; the cat’s-eye glasses and an up-do were the “absolute must for any funeral.” But she did draw the line at pearls. Only the snake necklace, having been safely protected in the safety deposit box would do today—and every day thereafter. Otherwise, she was too spaced out to give a crap. She could wear burlap and wouldn’t care. In fact, she didn’t even care that her shoe heels were sinking into the ground.

  She turned her head to examine Gigi; though Liz’s vision was impinged by swollen eyelids and dark-tinted lens, she could see Gigi’s gut-wrenching pain written in her blue eyes. The minister’s rambling words became garbled background noise to her resurrected thought process. Poor Gigi portrayed a woman in control today, but Liz knew otherwise considering the trauma she had experienced as a child. Was Fitzwilliam’s accident just another deathly abandonment in the string of many others? The girl had been inconsolable upon hearing the news, and her husband Justin was ill-equipped to deal with such mourning.

  Liz knew that the thoughtful, tender smile upon Gigi’s lips was no doubt a struggle but one made for her benefit. As her sister-in-law slid her arm around her waist she whispered in her ear, “He loved you so much, Liz. You changed his life.”

  Finding her voice, it took every ounce of strength left in her to comfort her sister-in-law. “We both changed his life. No two women could have been luckier to be loved by such an admirable man.”

  A single tear did drop. She must have stored it away for this very moment.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without him,” Gigi said, sniffling.

  “You’ll go on living, and be proud of what your brother stood for and against.”

  “And so will you; you’ll get through this.”

  She blankly looked at her. “No. I won’t,” then turned back to face the minister as he made his closing remarks. Right now, she meant what she said. What was the point of living without him? When he died he took with him her breath and heartbeat. Her half-dead brain inhabited a shell now. For the first time in her life, she had true empathy, not just compassion, for her father’s depression.

  She could now understand the depth of despair he felt when all hope was lost for a loved one to return to your embrace. The overwhelming sadness that you’d never hear “I love you,” again, never to joke with or dream beside … never to raise a family or hear a little Fitzwilliam’s baby laughter.

  Here at the minister’s final blessing would have been the moment when she threw herself onto her husband’s grave—if he were in it.

  “After saying our final farewells, let us remember that his spirit and love carry on in our hearts. Go forth in the certain hope of being reunited with Fitzwilliam Darcy at the end of time. Go forth with God’s peace and may the Almighty bless you now and forevermore. Amen.”

  The funeral ended and both girls flanking her turned to their partners, hugging and openly crying. The ever-watchful Dixon and Nick weren’t far behind her as some mourners—like Caroline— lingered feet from the grave with a final good-bye. Most quickly left, but she stood isolated—the unapproachable grieving widow, saying her good-bye—at the end of the grave, looking down at the dirt and the red roses at the head.

  Robotically, she held out her arm and released a stem of “their” Longbourn orchid from her fingers. A symbol of pure love, the Coelogyne ochraceas hit the grave with a delicate thud.

  The pain, the misery of losing her best half, pierced her heart like a knife.

  Her legs gave way and she fell to her knees crushing the colorful flowers. Tears broke through her dam, cascading like raindrops down her cheeks and blurring the image of the three stark white orchids. For just this moment, she and her husband’s wandering spirit shared an embrace without touch and she begged beneath her breath. “Please. I don’t want to wait until the end of time. Find a way, any way … to come back to me … or take me with you, babe. I told you in Moscow, I’d rather die together than to live without you.”

  Closing her eyes, she wept, floating with him above the grave, imagining his face on that blissful night of lovemaking in the moonlight … until gravity accelerated in free-fall when her father broke her from the spell, assisting her pitiful self up from the ground.

  His loving voice was a soothing balm as she struggled to put her emotions back in their box. “Sweetheart, you’ll get through this,” he gently said handing her his old-fashioned handkerchief.

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “You will. You’re a strong girl.”

  She couldn’t help but to notice that despite his obvious concern, he appeared unusually put-together in a black suit. Clean-shaven and clear-eyed, he looked healthy. Had he gained weight?

  She wiped her tears below the glasses and sniffled. “Thank you for being here today.”

  “You’re my kitten. Of course I came.” They hugged, and he softly said, “I’m sorry about Fitzwilliam. He was a good man, and I mean that.”

  “Thanks. I know you two had your differences, so it means a lot that you came. But how were you able to come?—that’s the question.”

  “Ah, well, don’t tell your CIA friends, but I figured out how to adjust the ankle monitor’s GPS tracking system. They think I’m sitting in your greenhouse listening to Chopin.”

  “Very clever and illegal.” The smile slipped from her face as quickly as it came because there was very little feeling behind it.

  Her father touch
ed the necklace, cradling the snake’s head in his fingers. “I recall the first time I saw you wearing this at the airport after my rescue.”

  “Let’s not think of that day.”

  “You’re right. The necklace is a keepsake of your love, I imagine.”

  “It is. It’s very dear to me, but I discovered yesterday when I removed it from the safety deposit box that the clasp is messed up.”

  “I can fix it for you, if you like—just leave it with me and I’ll replace it with something secure.”

  “Oh! Thank you!”

  “You can come pick it up at Longbourn and stay indefinitely. It is still your home, Lizzy; it’s where you belong now.”

  She sighed. “Honestly … I don’t know where I belong. I think I might go … I don’t know. Fitzwilliam’s sister invited me out to California until I decide what to do. I might …” she glanced at Jane talking with Charlie. “Maybe I’ll temporarily move into Jane’s loft since she spends so much time at Charlie’s houseboat.”

  “I understand. You have a lot of important decisions to make, but if you move home, we can be a real family again.”

  Were they ever? They hadn’t been a family since their mother left, but she wouldn’t pour salt in his never-healing wound, especially today. Things were different now, and as sympathetic as she was to his continual disconsolation, she was a different woman. Lost didn’t mean she’d be slipping back into doormat behavior out of grief or a need to be needed by someone—anyone.

  “I appreciate that, but before I make any decisions, I’m returning to North Carolina. There are things I need to attend to there. The horses, you know. In fact, I’m leaving with the Reynoldses and Gigi and Justin immediately after the luncheon at Aunt Katherine’s.”

  “Of course, and whatever I can do to help, just ask, Lizzy-bear. You can count on me to do the right thing this time.”

  “I’m sure I can. So, maybe you can ship overnight the necklace to me when it’s done? Fitzwilliam has a corporate P.O. box in North Carolina.”

  “That sounds just fine. May I walk you to the limousine? My shoulder is stronger than I look.”

  “Of course. It seems like Jane, and our friends have been carrying me this last week, but I don’t think I can make it by myself. I feel a little weak.”

  “You need to eat something.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “As you have always supported me, let me be here for you for a change.”

  He held out the crook of his elbow and she slid her arm through. Side-by-side, they walked in silence toward John waiting for her at the open car door as her father’s free hand gently patted the one draped in his arm.

  “Liz?” a man called out to her and she turned, recognizing immediately the handsome, once rugged, man stopping two feet from her. Gone was the cowboy hat and blue jeans, replaced by a fine suit.

  Dave Wentworth. Oh Lord. “Dave,” she said with a pensive smile (a measure of guilt that she had ever considered him eye candy) and a nod, unable to say much more.

  “Please accept my condolences,” his smooth southern draw offered.

  “Thank you. You came all the way from Tennessee just for Fitzwilliam’s funeral?”

  “I got an email from Crash and, well, I wanted to pay my respects to you in person.”

  As if his presence alone didn’t make her uncomfortable enough, she heard Jane gasp behind her. Immediately, she recalled Jane’s description of him: “Wet-worth.” The remaining blood in her body drained from her face. She cleared her throat and nervously adjusted her sunglasses.

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Oh! Dave, this is my father, Tom. Dad, Dave visited Pemberley with Charlie in April.”

  The men shook hands with pleasant greeting and condolences, and then the awkward, thick air expanded to near-choking level. Not that anything had happened romantically between Wentworth and her, but it was obvious he had once been interested in hooking up during her husband’s mission to rescue Rick. His attendance at the funeral was perplexing, and she wondered if his intentions, in light of her husband’s death, were opportunistic. Still, she couldn’t be rude given that he traveled so far to pay his respect.

  “Will you be joining us back at my aunt’s home for a memorial lunch? You’re more than welcome, and I’m sure you’d like to catch up with Charlie. He could use a good friend now.”

  “I sure will. Much obliged.”

  Jane murmured something to Charlie behind her but she couldn’t make it out, and John motioned to get in the limo. In fact, he looked a bit annoyed.

  “Um … the limo’s waiting. I’ll see you later, I guess,” she said.

  A minute later, she was seated in the limo with John and Dixon in the back seat.

  “Do you know that fella well, Mrs. D?”

  “Yeah. I was wondering the same thing,” John groused. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you. It’s a funeral for God’s sake and he was undressing you with his eyes.”

  “He wasn’t, John. He’s not like that.”

  “It looked disrespectful, ma’am. I think Knightley and I would feel better knowing who he is.”

  “He’s nobody special, just one of Charlie’s Army buddies who came to help with security at Pemberley when Fitzwilliam was in Peru.”

  “Is that all?” John questioned. She wouldn’t play into his hand; he was just looking out for her—not questioning her faithfulness to Fitzwilliam. Everyone knew that was unshakable and always would be.

  “No, that’s not all. He’s the one who taught me how to knife throw.”

  A tap to the window interrupted them and John rolled down the window.

  Nick’s concerned expression met them. “Who was that guy?”

  For the first time in a week, she chuckled. It was as if over-protective Fitzwilliam hadn’t left at all.

  If she remembered nothing else from today to write in the journal that he gave her, she’d remember this, and sketch the butterfly.

  ***

  Panama

  The green season kept the gringos away, but unfortunately Juan Morales-Sanchez wouldn’t be staying long to enjoy the visit. He’d be leaving his residence (Casa Luz) on the mountain above Cerro Azul for drier weather in four hours. He’d flown in the night before to see to La Muerta Mundial cartel business by meeting privately with his banker. His ever-growing competitor in South America, El Negro cartel, was hitting his finances hard with this most recent stunt on the Bolivia/Brazil border. The latest tip off to Bolivian national drug authorities had led to the seizure of 1,500 kilos of refined cocaine; he’d feel the financial hit for months to come.

  Still angry, he stood at the window of his mountain hacienda gazing out at the lush forest below, lost in perplexing thoughts of El Negro and the millions it has sheltered in Panama.

  It had been a frustrating month, but he’d finally had justice for his father’s murder.

  “I will miss you, mi querido,” his Panamanian lover of eight months stated. Pilar stood behind him and ran her delicate fingers up his ribcage; his lungs filled with her spicy scent.

  He snickered when her full breasts pressed against his back. “You will not. Perhaps you will succeed in seducing Luis to see to your needs while you wait for my return.”

  “I am insulted you think so little of my affections.”

  His hand clasped hers draped across his chest and he tugged her around to him. “You are here at my bidding and paid well for it. Do not be so fooled to think that I do not know of your carnal pursuit of Luis. He, too, is paid well—but for his loyalty to me and only me. All along, he has had my permission to see to your lustful needs, but he has not done so out of respect for me.”

  “It is only to make you jealous, my love. And … I do need the money. Mamma is sick.”

  “Jealous?” he laughed.

  “You do not mind?”

  “Why would I? I do not love you.” He cruelly kissed her plump lips. “I own you.”

  She reached up and touched his brow. “Y
ou own my heart, but what can I do to own yours?”

  Morales turned from her, and her hand dropped from his brow. He walked to his desk, fiddled with his sharp letter opener, and finally looked back up to her. “Pilar, you are a plaything, a diversion when I am away from my home.” Gazing at her sensual body below the white, gauzy dress she wore, he drank in her luscious curves, unable to deny his admitted appetite for her. “As lovely and talented in the dungeon as you are, your only purpose is to satisfy those carnal pleasures. It is the way it is. Love is a delusion.”

  “I do not believe it. What of that spider woman? You loved her.”

  He stared her down, annoyed that she knew of Nadya, yet humored that she believed he had loved the Russian.

  “She is none of your business.”

  “Juan, what if I want more from you? Do you deny me my heart?”

  “Your heart is not what I want from you, just your wet cunt. You would do well to remind yourself that our arrangement is a means to care for your family.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that not why you tease Luis—to add to your purse?”

  Pilar recoiled from his words, but he didn’t care. He could have a harem at his bidding if he so desired. A fresh crop of men and women were trafficked in from all over the world, but he desired local flavor.

  A knock on the door, interrupted her simper.

  “Come.”

  His secretario walked into the room. “Señor, I am sorry to interrupt, but I have word from Claudia in Virginia,” Luis reported. The man avoided Pilar’s stare, and that was rather humorous. Oh, how he loved playing people against each other like chess pieces.

  “That is all, Pilar. I will see you in your suite before my departure. Be ready and wearing red.”

  “Do … you need the camera?”

  “Of course. I enjoy examining our dungeon play when we are apart.” He sat back in the desk chair and chuckled as she walked to the door. “Sit, Luis.”

  As instructed, his lieutenant took the seat on the opposite side of the desk then slid a computer tablet across the wood. “Claudia has done well and has sent us these photographs taken at the funeral today. It is confirmed—Iceman’s woman is alive.”