I stood and walked to the window, slowly raising the blinds so that the streetlight spilled across the floorboards. My pulse thundered in my ears as I prepared myself for what I might see. But while the window opposite glowed, the living room was empty.
The sound of clinking glass rose from the street below. I looked down to investigate and saw a familiar figure standing next to our stoop, her ponytail swinging as she dropped several bottles into the recycling bin.
Next right step forward.
Before I could overthink it, I grabbed the bag of recycling from the kitchen and forced myself out my front door.
Sylvie was about to walk up the stoop when I stepped outside. We stood—me at the top, her at the bottom—watching each other, as if waiting to see who would draw first. I knew it had to be me.
“Hi, Sylvie.”
I’d never seen her look surprised until now. “Oh, hey, Clover.” The exclamation point that usually accompanied her greetings was noticeably absent. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has.” I desperately wanted to break eye contact but forced myself to hold it. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.” Not quite the apology I’d intended, but I could work my way up to it. I lifted the bag in my hand. “Ugh, these cat-food cans really stink.”
I thought I detected a smile in Sylvie’s eyes. “I figured you were busy with work.” She leaned against the banister. “How’s Claudia doing?”
“She actually passed away this afternoon.” It felt too soon to say those words, even though they were true. Death felt oddly temporary at first. It would be a few days before I would feel ready to document her words in the ADVICE notebook.
“Oh, C, I’m sorry.” I’d forgotten how soothing it was to hear her call me that.
I shrugged. “It’s all part of the job.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it easier—I know you cared about her.” Sylvie walked up a step then stopped. “Did you end up finding Hugo?”
It took me a beat to realize she was talking about Claudia’s Hugo—she didn’t even know the other one existed. I hated how much I’d kept from her.
I moved down a step.
“Kind of. It’s a long story.” It was so tempting to weasel out of the apology I owed her, but if Sebastian could do it, so could I. “But first I want to say how sorry I am for the way I acted the last time I saw you.”
Sylvie crossed her arms and grinned. “Yeah, that was kind of weird.”
“It’s none of my business who you kiss and who they’re married to.”
“You’re right,” she said, frank but not unkind. “You know, I mentioned your name to Bridget, and she said she didn’t know you.”
“Oh, she’s right—I don’t really know her.” The sweat of my palms clung to the plastic bag. “I think I’ve seen her at the bodega on the corner a few times. I must’ve confused her with someone else.”
“I guess you did.” A slyness shone in Sylvie’s eyes. “But when I mentioned that you lived upstairs from me, Bridget realized that you must be directly opposite her and Peter, her husband. And she asked me if you watched a lot of nineties romantic comedies.”
A strange giggle escaped my throat.
Sylvie seemed to be enjoying watching me squirm. “Apparently they can see into your apartment from theirs. She said that they’ve never really seen you because you keep your apartment so dark, but they’ve got a pretty good view of your TV screen.”
“Really?” I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or violated. “I guess I’ve seen them a few times too. They must be the ones who watch Game of Thrones.”
Confident that Sylvie wouldn’t buy my lie, I readied myself for the interrogation. But it didn’t come.
“For the record,” she said instead, “Bridget and Peter have an open relationship—I met them on Tinder. And I’ve actually been hanging out—and making out—with both of them these past few weeks. I really like how I feel around them. We’re going away together to the Catskills next weekend.”
“Oh.” God, I was naive. “I’m sorry I implied … otherwise. And I’m glad they make you happy.” I actually meant it.
“I appreciate your apology.” Sylvie moved up so we were standing on the same step. “Now can we go back to being friends?”
“That would be nice.” The world suddenly felt brighter.
“Great—come over for dinner tomorrow night and you can tell me all about Hugo!” It was so nice to hear that exclamation point again.
Sylvie continued up the steps to the front door, then stopped.
“Oh, and Clover, you know what’s funny? Bridget said they’d always joked that they should get binoculars so that they could see into your apartment better.”
As she disappeared into the building, I was pretty sure she winked.
49
Despite Claudia’s assertion that all her friends were dead, the funeral service was packed.
I only attended my client’s funeral if the family requested it, or if no one else was likely to show up. Claudia had made the request in person—and it was hard to turn down an invitation from someone to their own funeral.
“Someone needs to keep an eye on things,” she’d told me.
Still, I preferred to keep a low profile. Navigating the grand front steps outside the Gothic Revival church on Amsterdam Avenue, I spotted Sebastian caught in polite conversation with two elderly women in elaborate hats. From his constant nodding, it was clear that he couldn’t squeeze a word in. Though I felt sad for him, especially today, it was amusing to see he’d met his oratorical matches. I caught his eye and gave a small wave as I claimed a place in the last row of pews.
Claudia’s family had observed at least some of the funeral service wishes we’d noted in the death binder. The vases of hydrangeas along the altar. The lively jazz in place of the usual “perversely depressing” organ refrain. No enormous photograph of her on an easel next to the coffin.
“Those photos are always incredibly disconcerting and rarely well shot,” Claudia had proclaimed when given the option. “I don’t want everybody to feel like I’m looming over them.”
But she did allow for a selection of her favorite photos to be printed in the program. I grinned as I flipped through it. There were a couple of Manhattan street vignettes, but the remaining black-and-white images were all distinctly taken in the South of France. The final image—the only one of Claudia herself—showed her in her mid-twenties sitting on a rock looking out at the Mediterranean, a silk scarf tied around her dark hair. Even in monochrome, her skin had a sun-kissed glow. And tucked in beneath the arch of her knees was a three-legged Jack Russell.
Claudia had made it clear whom she planned to meet in the afterlife.
Mourners slotted in alongside one another like Scrabble tiles on wooden racks. A good portion of the crowd was gray-haired, but there were plenty around my age, likely friends of Sebastian and his sisters. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have so many people willing to come out and support you in your grief.
The service itself definitely did not reflect Claudia’s wishes. Instead of being short and upbeat with very little religious affirmation, it was long, somber, and pious. And also kind of boring. That was the thing about funerals—no matter how much you try to control the run of show, once you’re dead, it’s out of your hands.
The rustle of fidgeting paper programs rippled around the church as Sebastian’s father delivered a dry, self-referential eulogy that didn’t capture any of Claudia’s best qualities. I hoped everyone was silently meditating on those instead, but it was hard to glean people’s emotional states from the backs of their heads.
The eulogy dragged on—Sebastian’s verbosity was obviously an inherited trait. Scanning the front pews, I spotted him wedged between Jennifer and Anne, whose shoulders shook with the rhythm of their sobs.