lips together. Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and walked past her.
Shaken by Fitz’s reaction, Morgan tried to steel herself as she caught up to Astrid who was pushing open the door to a darkened room at the end of the hall.
‘Astrid?’ A voice called to Astrid from inside the room. Morgan could see that this room had all kinds of beach photos, surfing trophies, and electronic equipment on its custom-made shelves. The plasma-screen TV picture was on, but there was no sound. The far wall was windowed, and overlooked the sea.
Huddled in a club chair in the corner, covered by a Burberry plaid throw, was Dick Bolton, dressed in a gray sweatshirt that seemed to mirror his complexion. A sportsman, an outdoorsman, Dick was normally a robust figure. He had seemingly dwindled in his grief. He looked up at Morgan with empty eyes.
‘This is Claire’s friend, Morgan,’ said Astrid, and her voice had an edge. ‘She wanted to talk to you.’
‘And Lucy, if possible,’ said Morgan. ‘This affects all of you.’
Astrid avoided Morgan’s gaze. ‘Lucy’s not here. She’s . . .’
‘She’s too busy,’ Dick said bitterly. ‘Too busy to be with her family when her brother has just been killed.’
‘Now darling,’ Astrid chided him. ‘She’s terribly upset. This is very difficult for her. She has to deal with this in her own way.’
‘She’s spoiled. And she’s selfish and you’re the one who spoiled her,’ said Dick accusingly. ‘You have babied Lucy ever since you set foot in this house. Fussing over her diet, and her vision problems and her schooling. Thanks to you, she thinks this condition of hers makes her so special she doesn’t have to do the normal, decent things that people do,’ he cried hoarsely.
Astrid’s face was white. ‘I’ve only tried to take care of her,’ Astrid said.
Dick put his hand over his eyes and let out a sob. The room was silent except for his muffled gasps. Then, he reached out with his other hand, groping the air, and Astrid took hold of it. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he whispered. ‘That was unfair. I’m out of my mind. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Astrid soothingly.
‘You’ve been an angel with Lucy. With both of my children.’
Morgan, taken aback by Dick’s outburst, wished she could disappear. Instead, she was rooted to the spot.
Astrid swiped one of her knuckles over her own tears and struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Morgan has something to say to us,’ she said, lifting her small, pointed chin. She nodded at Morgan. ‘Go on.’
‘Mr Bolton,’ said Morgan. ‘Astrid. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ Dick said dully. Then he peered at Morgan. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were at the baptism.’
‘Yes.’ Morgan admitted. ‘I was Drew’s godmother.’
Dick Bolton covered his keen blue eyes with a shaking hand and his voice was a wail. ‘Why? Why did she do this to us?’
Morgan shook her head without replying.
Dick Bolton dropped his forearms heavily to the arms of the chair. He looked dazed. Astrid looked at her husband with sorrowful eyes. She folded her arms over her chest. ‘Well,’ she said to Morgan. ‘What is it you wanted to talk about?’
Morgan looked from one to the other. ‘First I wanted to say how sorry I am. All I can tell you is that the Claire I have always known . . .’
‘What is she talking about?’ Dick asked miserably.
‘Please,’ Astrid said in a warning tone. ‘Just be brief. We’re very upset.’
Morgan drew in a deep breath and plunged. ‘All right. Here’s the thing. I’ve been to see Claire today. She asked me to come here and . . . and ask for your permission . . . She wants to attend the funeral.’
Astrid eyes widened. ‘Oh no, you can’t mean that.’
‘It’s up to you,’ said Morgan. ‘Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do. She wouldn’t be standing or seated . . . with you. She’d
Shaken by Fitz’s reaction, Morgan tried to steel herself as she caught up to Astrid who was pushing open the door to a darkened room at the end of the hall.
‘Astrid?’ A voice called to Astrid from inside the room. Morgan could see that this room had all kinds of beach photos, surfing trophies, and electronic equipment on its custom-made shelves. The plasma-screen TV picture was on, but there was no sound. The far wall was windowed, and overlooked the sea.
Huddled in a club chair in the corner, covered by a Burberry plaid throw, was Dick Bolton, dressed in a gray sweatshirt that seemed to mirror his complexion. A sportsman, an outdoorsman, Dick was normally a robust figure. He had seemingly dwindled in his grief. He looked up at Morgan with empty eyes.
‘This is Claire’s friend, Morgan,’ said Astrid, and her voice had an edge. ‘She wanted to talk to you.’
‘And Lucy, if possible,’ said Morgan. ‘This affects all of you.’
Astrid avoided Morgan’s gaze. ‘Lucy’s not here. She’s . . .’
‘She’s too busy,’ Dick said bitterly. ‘Too busy to be with her family when her brother has just been killed.’
‘Now darling,’ Astrid chided him. ‘She’s terribly upset. This is very difficult for her. She has to deal with this in her own way.’
‘She’s spoiled. And she’s selfish and you’re the one who spoiled her,’ said Dick accusingly. ‘You have babied Lucy ever since you set foot in this house. Fussing over her diet, and her vision problems and her schooling. Thanks to you, she thinks this condition of hers makes her so special she doesn’t have to do the normal, decent things that people do,’ he cried hoarsely.
Astrid’s face was white. ‘I’ve only tried to take care of her,’ Astrid said.
Dick put his hand over his eyes and let out a sob. The room was silent except for his muffled gasps. Then, he reached out with his other hand, groping the air, and Astrid took hold of it. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he whispered. ‘That was unfair. I’m out of my mind. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Astrid soothingly.
‘You’ve been an angel with Lucy. With both of my children.’
Morgan, taken aback by Dick’s outburst, wished she could disappear. Instead, she was rooted to the spot.
Astrid swiped one of her knuckles over her own tears and struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Morgan has something to say to us,’ she said, lifting her small, pointed chin. She nodded at Morgan. ‘Go on.’
‘Mr Bolton,’ said Morgan. ‘Astrid. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ Dick said dully. Then he peered at Morgan. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were at the baptism.’
‘Yes.’ Morgan admitted. ‘I was Drew’s godmother.’
Dick Bolton covered his keen blue eyes with a shaking hand and his voice was a wail. ‘Why? Why did she do this to us?’
Morgan shook her head without replying.
Dick Bolton dropped his forearms heavily to the arms of the chair. He looked dazed. Astrid looked at her husband with sorrowful eyes. She folded her arms over her chest. ‘Well,’ she said to Morgan. ‘What is it you wanted to talk about?’
Morgan looked from one to the other. ‘First I wanted to say how sorry I am. All I can tell you is that the Claire I have always known . . .’
‘What is she talking about?’ Dick asked miserably.
‘Please,’ Astrid said in a warning tone. ‘Just be brief. We’re very upset.’
Morgan drew in a deep breath and plunged. ‘All right. Here’s the thing. I’ve been to see Claire today. She asked me to come here and . . . and ask for your permission . . . She wants to attend the funeral.’
Astrid eyes widened. ‘Oh no, you can’t mean that.’
‘It’s up to you,’ said Morgan. ‘Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do. She wouldn’t be standing or seated . . . with you. She’d
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