“He had all these pictures, at least six I’d say, and he wanted to know what I knew about the people in them. I’m worried about what he’s trying to do to you.”
“He wants a story.”
“I told him you were psychic.”
Max raised a brow. “Did he laugh?”
“No. So I told him that I could see ghosts and his dead sister was standing right behind him.”
“Did he laugh then?”
“No. So I told him what she was wearing. All black, a long lace skirt with this weird fringed blouse. And she had a ring through her left nostril.”
“You’re bad.” Max put a hand to her mouth. “Was she there?”
“That’s when he ran away.” Answer enough.
Max took a sip of tea, imagining the Greek God scuttling to his car. “He’ll be back.” As evidenced by his nap in front of her place. “I’ll have to figure out what to do about him.”
Sutter leaned forward to pat Max’s knee. “In the meantime, you need some sleep.”
“No. I have go.” She wanted to be waiting for Witt when he returned home. But sandbags weighted her eyes, and her legs didn’t obey her command to stand.
Sutter sighed. “I know about him, too. Your new man. Don’t worry, he’ll be waiting for you. Right now, you need sleep. You look like crap.”
Max smiled ruefully. Sutter hadn’t missed the torn stockings and the skinned knees.
“Plus, you stink.”
Max snorted. “Thanks.”
Sutter lowered her voice, all trace of laughter gone from her face. “You smell like him.”
Max’s stomach seized around the herbal tea. Him. Bud.
“Wash him off, Max. Wash him down the drain.”
Max did.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Max had let Sutter hustle her off to a soft bed in the guest room.
In the morning, Sutter provided a change of clothes, jeans cinched at the waist with a wide black belt, fuchsia sweatshirt covering the baggy pants, and a teal turtleneck next to her skin. She couldn’t even think of Sutter’s full-figured bra. Sutter was voluptuous, with flesh where men liked flesh. Next to her, Max looked like a waif. The only things that fit were the tennis shoes on her feet.
Filled with hot tea and enveloped by Sutter’s bright floral scent, Max took possession of her Miata. She sat for five minutes before starting the engine. An ache prodded the backs of her eyes. Her fingers clenched around the wheel turned white. Then Max knew. She had a pilgrimage to make before she could return to Witt.
Gray clouds covered a blue sky filled with the threat of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Heedless of the early morning hour, the wrought iron gates of Woodland Funeral Park gaped. Beyond them lay a vast expanse of green rolling hills dotted with uniform gray specks and surrounded by woods thick with trees still carrying leaves despite a waning November.
Funeral park. The term sounded better than graveyard. Or cemetery. A gentle euphemism to ease grieving families. It hadn’t eased Max’s suffering two years ago. It didn’t now. She couldn’t remember why she’d chosen this place for Cameron, perhaps because of the fifteen-minute drive from their condo. Not that distance mattered. Maybe she’d chosen it for the view of green trees and blue sky. She’d only come twice, once for his memorial, another for the setting of his headstone. She’d buried an empty casket, having scattered his ashes along a hiking trail in Portola Park. Where his body or his ashes were didn’t make a damn bit of difference. The gravesite had been for her. A place to come and mourn. Until she’d realized he’d never left her at all.
Despite her lack of visitation, she found the spot readily. The mound of earth she remembered was now covered with grass, flattened by time and the elements. The square stone of gray speckled marble bore simple words. His name, his birthday, and the day he died. No tender sentiments. She couldn’t find the words to convey what his loss had done to her.
She knew the words now and said them aloud. “I will always love you.”
“I’ll always love you,” he answered.
“And we did make love. It wasn’t perfect afterwards, and I didn’t always feel the way I wanted to, but when I held you, Cameron, it was making love.” Her eyes throbbed. She clenched her teeth to keep tears from spilling.
“I know, Max.”
She sat on the dewed grass. An earthy wind blew through her hair, molding the sweatshirt to her breasts. “I grew up knowing sex was shameful. And later, when I was older and started to like it...” Picking at the tufts of green, she left the obvious unsaid. “I never wanted to tell you how I felt. I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“You didn’t trust me to understand.”
“No, I didn’t.” She exhaled a long breath. “I should have. Things could have been different between us.”
They sat in a companionable silence. When he asked the question, it neither shocked nor hurt. “Are you going to tell Witt about the baby? About your uncle?”
She gazed up at the clouds, shades of gray stacked one upon the other.