“She wants you to be a part of the ceremony,” Heathcliff interrupted.
I stared, silence stretching. “Was it quick and painless?” I finally whispered.
Chris looked away, but Heathcliff’s gaze met mine. “As peaceful as your uncle’s.” His hands slipped into his blue jean pockets, the gesture an old one. “She’s always wanted to be cremated. Like Paps.”
“She always used to say, ‘I don’t want to be tied down to no wooden box,’” Chris added on a chuckle. “She wanted us to spread her ashes in different places around town. There’s still a lot to do, a ceremony and paperwork, but when the time comes …”
Chris paused, and Heathcliff stepped forward. “She wants you to spread a few of her ashes on your uncle Gregor’s grave. She talked to us about it yesterday before … before her mind went. It’s so she can keep an eye on him, she said, for Hawthorne.”
There are moments in life when tears just happen, even when you have no idea they’re coming. My throat never closed up, my face never heated, but I felt the tear that slid down my cheek. It was a single tear, for Mams.
“Can I do anything for any of you?” I asked.
Chris glanced at the kitchen. “We thought maybe you could cater a reception after the ceremony. Something simple, and we’d talk about pa—”
“On me, of course,” I said. “I won’t let you pay me for that.”
He nodded. “Thank you.” His gaze flicked to Heathcliff. “We’ll let you get back to work now. We just felt maybe this was something we should tell you in person.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Chris inclined his head, threw one more glance at the kitchen, and then left. Heathcliff remained.
To fill the silence, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Heathcliff’s gaze went to the floor. “We knew it was coming.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier.”
He glanced up at me. “No, I guess it doesn’t.” He started to step toward me, and then stopped.
Where he hesitated, I didn’t, my feet carrying me to him. Without a second thought, I embraced him, the hug quick but firm.
It wasn’t until I stepped back that I saw Ginger standing in the doorway.
She smiled, but the gesture didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I think everyone is ready,” she said.
Rebecca stepped up next her, her brows raised as she brushed past the blonde. “Well, tour went well,” she said brightly, her concerned gaze swinging to Heathcliff. Mams had been a big part of our town.
“It’s a quaint place,” Ginger added.
Heathcliff moved toward the door, and I followed him, Rebecca behind me. I was just about to pass Ginger when her hand found my wrist, stopping me.
“He’s going to leave. You know that, right?” she asked.
My gaze met hers. “I didn’t ask him to stay.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t, would you?” She laughed. “You really think letting the man make his own decision is going to work in your favor?”
I frowned. “Maybe not, but at least I’ll know it was his choice.”
“I want him, too, you know,” she said suddenly. “You aren’t the only one he’s shared a bed with.”
“Ginger!” Heathcliff’s harsh voice called.
Her head shot up, her eyes widening. I didn’t hate Ginger. If anything, I pitied her. I pitied her because I knew what it was like to love Heathcliff. I also knew what it was like to lose him, and by the look in her eyes, she did, too.
That was another thing about loving Heathcliff. He’d loved people after me, and it was something I was going to have to accept.
“You should pull each other’s hair,” Rebecca said suddenly, watching us intently. “It’s not a cat fight until someone’s lost some hair.”
Without acknowledging anyone, I walked into the foyer, giving Chris and his wife a final sympathetic hug before they left. Heathcliff was the last to leave. He paused at the door, his hand falling to rest next to mine, his fingers reaching for my fingers, something cold and metallic slipping into my palm.
I gripped it before it could fall, my knuckles clenched as I watched them drive away. Dust was flying in their wake when I finally opened my hand. There, in my palm, was the key to Heathcliff’s building in the woods.
Chapter 32
Later that night, I stood in front of Paps’ old building. The padlock dangled from the door, the window dark, but that didn’t deter me.
My hand gripped the key Heathcliff had given me, my feet carrying me toward the cement block we’d always used as a step. My heart pounded as my hand rose. Opening the lock felt ritualistic, as if there should have been candles and music or a group of heralding trumpets.