Corinne hugged a few more people from Saybrook’s, and an accessories editor from Vogue. People streamed past her, their faces blending together. Danielle Gilchrist gripped her hand. “I’m so sorry—I can’t believe it,” she murmured. And Danielle’s mother, Julia, stood next to her, her eyes full and sad. Corinne hadn’t seen Julia in years, since she’d divorced her husband, but she looked as though she hadn’t aged a day.
“My condolences,” Julia told her. “Call if you need anything,” murmured Mrs. Delacourte, Poppy’s old nanny, who had to be almost eighty. “Just horrible,” sniffed Jessica, Edith’s personal assistant, before scuttling toward the front of the church, where Edith was sitting.
“Oh, honey,” Deanna said next, squeezing Corinne tight. “If you’re up for it, we should talk afterward,” she whispered into Corinne’s ear. “About some interviews. But only if you feel ready.”
“I don’t,” Corinne said, pulling back. That was Deanna—she was part Jewish mother, part relentless workaholic, always thinking about the media’s reaction. There would be a People special about the family’s curse, and 20/20 would create a story without a single source. But at this point, Corinne didn’t see the point in doing interviews. She’d already given a brief statement that she had no idea why Poppy might have done such a horrible thing. She had nothing else to add.
Then another hand touched Corinne’s back, and she stared into the face of Jonathan York, president of Gemologique Internationale, one of Saybrook’s biggest competitors. He had also once been Corinne’s uncle by marriage, but he and Aunt Grace had divorced years ago. Jonathan was tall and trim in his dark suit, with salt-and-pepper hair and steely blue eyes. His trophy wife, Lauren, wasn’t on his arm—Corinne had heard they’d split recently. It surprised her, actually, that he was here. He was the one person Poppy never quite managed to get along with. They occasionally had to do business, and more than once after a call with Jonathan, Poppy showed up in Corinne’s office flustered and angry.
“Corinne,” Jonathan said now, touching her hand. “I can’t imagine what your family is going through. It’s such a tragedy.”
Corinne smiled tightly. “Thank you for your sympathy.”
She tried to move on, but he gripped her hand. “Healing takes time,” he added, his mouth close to her ear. “The business will always be there. I wish I had been able to tell Poppy that. I know she was struggling.”
He stared at her patiently, as if she was supposed to know what he was talking about. Struggling . . . with what? Her parents’ death? And was he suggesting that Corinne—or Saybrook’s in general—just let business drop? Gemologique would love that. Maybe she should just wrap up their market share with a neat little bow and hand it over.
Corinne moved down the aisle. Most of her family was at the front of the church. Edith, Mason, and Penelope sat in the first pew along with Natasha’s parents, Candace and Patrick, who were sobbing. James sat there too, watching blankly as Briony waddled down the aisle. One of the nannies, Megan, chased after her. Skylar sat politely next to James, a numb look on her face.
Corinne slid into the second pew, her heart physically aching. She pressed a hand to her sternum, understanding where the word heartbreak came from; that those little girls would grow up without their mother, and that she would grow old without her cousin, seemed impossible. Corinne remembered traipsing around Poppy’s family’s farm, renaming all the potbellied pigs and Belted Galloways. Poppy was so diplomatic, allowing each cousin to take turns picking a name, all the way from Natasha up to Rowan, but hers were always the prettiest. Corinne could still remember a lot of them: Briar Rose. Hadley. Elodie. Poppy’s mother had given them poster paints and allowed them to decorate a wall of the barn with all the new names; as far as Corinne knew, they were still there.
Dixon was waiting for her at the end of the bench, his hair slicked back from his face. He wore a black suit and loafers. As she moved next to him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight. “You okay?” he asked softly.
“No,” Corinne said miserably. She looked down at the program. There was a picture of a funereal bouquet of white roses on the cover. Inside was a recent shot of Poppy, a few wisps of her blond hair blowing across her face, and underneath, her birth and death dates. Corinne’s throat felt like it was on fire.
On the other side of Dixon, Natasha leaned over and peered at Corinne. Her eyes were wide, her dark hair was mussed, and her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Melodramatic tears streamed down her cheeks, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept. The same program was in her lap too. “Hey,” she whispered.