“Your father actually became quite a prevalent member of the Catholic community here in Port Royal, Coralie. He’s been a regular churchgoer now for, what is it? Seven years? Whew. Amazing how quickly time passes you by when you’re not paying attention.”
I find this shocking. Given that my father would always raise hell whenever Mom took me to church, I always figured he’d run in the opposite direction at a grand ol’ clip. Turns out he was a regular attendee? Perplexing. “Is there anything stopping me from simply cremating him and not holding any sort of ceremony?” I ask. I’d much rather have the old man’s body burned and stuck in a cheap plastic container, so I can then take him home and pour what remains of him down the toilet, but Ezra is already shaking his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Your father was pretty particular in the way he worded his will, in every respect. He donated a large amount of money to St. Regis as well, and so the administration there are well aware of his wishes. There would be some sort of legal ramifications for you if, as legal executor of his will, you did not adhere to his wishes.”
Basically what he’s telling me is that, if I want Mom’s things back, I need to tow the line and play nice. Attend a service for Malcolm at the church, give him a proper burial, and I have to accept his money. Thinking about having to do any of those things makes the bile swell up the back of my throat, but I’ve gone so long without any connection to my mom. I’d probably do anything to get her things.
“Okay, all right. So what happens now? Do I have to sign something, or go and register anything? I just want to get on with this thing. Wrap everything up, so to speak.”
“Yes, yes. You must want to get back to your life, I’m sure. In answer to your question, no, you need do nothing further. Aside from arranging the service and accepting ownership of your father’s accounts, everything else will be handled by myself and by the appropriate authorities. In the interim, if you need access to the money your father left you quickly, then there are—”
“I don’t. Thank you, Ezra. I’ll let you know about the service.” I get up, tug my pencil skirt down, and I shake Ezra’s hand, which is what’s expected of me.
“I know your father was hard on you when you were a child,” he says softly. “But I so wish you’d come back to visit him at least once after you left, Coralie. Something happened to him. He softened, for want of a better word, as he grew older. A single father, trying to raise a young girl into a young woman? That’s no easy task. I’m sure if you’d spent some time with him as an adult—”
“Good bye, Ezra. Thank you for your time.” I’m sure if I’d spent any time with my father as an adult, I would have murdered him myself. I collect up my purse and papers Ezra offers to me, and then I hurry out of his office as fast as possible in a tight skirt. I’m not used to wearing heels. Being a painter is hardly customer facing. I stand behind a canvas all day in my gallery and I barely speak to another soul. I wear jeans and a torn shirt at best. Often I remain in my pajamas, so this dressing up, this pretending, is almost as abhorrent to me as my close proximity to the house where I grew up.
Outside, the midday sun is high overhead, beating down on Port Royal with a furious sense of purpose. Everything smells like ozone and burning rubber. The sidewalk feels gluey underfoot, the points of my heels biting into the softened blacktop. As soon as I’m sitting in the rental, I yank the stupid shoes from my feet and throw them over my shoulder onto the backseat, but that isn’t enough to stem my frustration. I buck up my hips and reach around, unzipping my skirt and dragging it down my legs, tearing it wildly from my body. The skirt goes onto the backseat in a wadded up ball, and I sit in the driver’s seat, panting and angry in my panties and the loose blouse I wore to see Ezra, fighting the urge to hurt someone or something.
Ezra comes out of his office ten minutes after me; he ducks his head down, eyes to the ground, pretending not to have seen me, but I know that he has.
Just like when I was a kid.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CORALIE
Suicide
NOW
I’m much more comfortable in the loose summer dress I throw on back at the hotel. It’s sorely tempting to just climb back into the bed and put the infomercial channel on, but I can’t get out of here until all of these bullshit rules my father set into place have been adhered to. If I just power through today, feasibly the cogs that need to be set into motion could be grinding away by nightfall, and I could be out of here in a couple of days.
Eight missed calls from Ben now. I leave my cellphone on the nightstand by the bed, hoping the battery dies soon.