Mams’ funeral felt like dominos. She’d always been the one left standing, even beating the odds against an illness that should have killed her much sooner. She’d been the center of her family, and she’d been yanked from it. The Vincents were a strong lot, many of them men, sons and sons of sons. Their women stood next to them, tall and proud, because to be married to a Vincent meant being strong, too. Yet, despite that strength, there wasn’t a single dry-eyed Vincent that day except Heathcliff. He didn’t cry because he’d shed all of his tears in the building in the woods.
Other than the service, I remained in the Vincents’ kitchen with Rebecca, heating and cooking. In the kitchen, I could love better. In the kitchen, I could take all of my grief, pour it into a steaming dish, and then lay it on the table. Where I couldn’t nurture their hearts, I could nurture their bodies. In a way, I’d learned that’s how you survived grief. Nurture the body while the heart wore itself out.
Ginger and Brayden were still there, Brayden a comforting presence for Heathcliff. I didn’t know Brayden, but I could tell just by observing the two men together that they shared a history no one would ever be able to understand. Watching them, I smiled despite the circumstances. Age, time, and loss were teaching me something. Early twenties or no, I’d learned through my experiences that it wasn’t possible for one person to be everything to another person. I could love Heathcliff, but he needed people in his life who comprehended parts of him I could soothe but never fully identify with.
“Something’s changed about you,” Rebecca hissed in my ear.
I glanced down at her, at the empty squash casserole dish she held in her hand, and I grinned. “Not changed. Things are just coming together.”
She raised her brows, her gaze flicking from me to where Heathcliff stood across the room. “With him?”
I shook my head. “No. That may never be a full reality.”
She watched me. “You confound me sometimes, Hawthorne.”
“Sometimes,” I replied, “I confound myself.”
Snorting, she left me to run water in the kitchen sink, adding the empty dish to a pile of others we’d have to clean before the end of the day.
From my corner, I watched. It was like attending a play, the mingling people swapping stories and fond memories. There was laughter, and there were tears. In the center of it all was the table, my food spread out across it.
Heathcliff’s mom approached me, a smile lighting her features. “The food is good, Hawthorne,” she complimented.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, she stood with me, her eyes roaming the room. “They’re good people, my family,” she breathed, her voice full of pride.
I smiled. “They are wonderful people.”
Lynn glanced at me. “You’re a part of that, you know. It doesn’t matter what happens with you and Max.” She nodded at the room. “You are always welcome at my table.”
It was the most painful and wonderful thing she could have said.
“And you,” I rasped, “are always welcome at mine.”
Her hand found my shoulder, and she squeezed. “You’ve got the same kind of gumption Mams had.”
Surprised, I glanced at her. “Gumption?”
“She never expected anything from anyone. She just loved people, albeit firmly, but in a way that no matter how stern she seemed, she was never pushy. She guided people but never pushed. It’s like she’d discovered that the best place to be in life was needed. She told me once that she’d felt what love felt like, so maybe she could turn the hurt she felt in losing it into love for those who may never get the chance to feel it otherwise. I see that in you, Hawthorne.”
With those words, she left me. I stared after her, my heart suddenly fuller than it had ever been.
Heathcliff may never want to admit it, but the paper I’d written in high school hadn’t been totally wrong. If I’d never met him, if I’d never known his family, and if I’d never loved them, then I wouldn’t have learned as much about myself as I had. I wouldn’t still be learning.
My gaze rose, moving across the room to where Heathcliff was standing. He was watching me, a glass of iced tea in his hand. Brayden stood next to him, his gaze flicking occasionally to Rebecca as she moved back and forth from the kitchen. There was something about the way he looked at her, a spark of interest. There was nothing unusual about it. Rebecca was a beautiful woman, after all, with a heart bigger than she’d ever admit. She was also a lost soul, her marriages proof that she was desperate for love in a way most people weren’t.
She was doing another pass into the kitchen when I leaned close and whispered, “Maybe you should look at those abs.”
Her gaze followed mine, and she scoffed. “Two marriages remember?”
I shrugged. “Maybe this time look at the abs and don’t expect anything?”
She snorted. “I’m thinking soap operas are safer.” She continued past, and I fought the urge to chuckle. Lost soul or not, she had a place at my table, too.
Maybe in a weird kind of way, losing so much in my youth had taught me that no matter how many pictures of tables I’d collected, it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t have the souls to put at it. The key was collecting people, to making sure there was always happiness and a steaming cup of coffee waiting for the ones I brought in.