anything herself.”
He adjusted his windshield wipers to handle a fresh deluge. “She hates me that much?”
“I wouldn’t call it hate . She’s...moved on.”
The ferry captain approached the car in front of them. “Who’s she dating now?”
“Some guy from Charleston.”
“Is it serious?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked over and found her glaring at him. “Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he muttered and lowered his window to pay the fare.
* * *
Their mother was on a gurney in the back end, where the corpses were weighed and tagged. A sheet covered her from the neck down, but her arms had been taken out from under it and folded beneath her breasts—probably Dean Gillespie’s attempt to make her appear “at peace,” for their sake.
But there was nothing peaceful or consoling about any of this; Josephine’s death felt wrong in so many ways, beginning with the fact that she’d never looked worse. Her hair fell away from her face exactly as it had dried when they’d pulled her from the tub, and dark circles underscored her closed eyes—the eyes that so many people had admired.
As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, her skin was so waxy Keith barely recognized her. He was tempted to check the name on the tag attached to her big toe, just to be sure. His mother didn’t have age spots or wrinkles. His mother didn’t have dull, lackluster hair. But this person did.
Her body wasn’t the same, either. Although Keith had heard his mother described as a bombshell on more than one occasion, she looked frail and insignificant under that sheet, as if she’d never been a singular beauty.
This was what it took to finally get the better of Josephine Lazarow, Keith decided. Age alone wasn’t enough. Age conquered everyone else, but not her. Only death could win.
“She would hate that we’re seeing her like this,” Maisey whispered.
Keith wished he hadn’t come. She might have been his greatest stumbling block, his greatest challenge, but she’d also been a constant he could rely on—someone who stood firm in her convictions, commanded respect, lived by her own rules and made damn sure everyone around her did, too. He’d known that if he ever really needed her she might give him hell, but she’d come through in the end.
“We’ll hire a good makeup artist for the funeral,” he said, but only to comfort his sister. Makeup wouldn’t help now. His mother had lost that vital essence that’d made her so magnificent.
Maisey didn’t respond.
“Her death feels so...premature,” he added.
When Maisey put her hand over his in a show of understanding, he wished he could shrug her off. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted answers. Who had felled their powerful mother? She must not have seen whoever it was. The person who’d killed her had to be someone she would never, in a million years, have expected to do her wrong.
“The various funeral homes usually engage someone who specializes in hair and makeup,” Dean told them. “All you have to do is bring in a picture, and they’ll do their best to make your mother look like you remember.”
“I’ll ask her regular hairdresser to do her hair,” Maisey told him. “And I’ll try to manage her makeup myself.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” Dean said. “Just keep in mind that those services are available if you need them.”
Keith couldn’t imagine being asked to do something like that, but maybe all stylists knew that preparing a client’s hair for his or her funeral was a possibility. The last dead person he’d encountered had been his father, and even though they’d never been particularly close, that loss had hit him hard, since Malcolm was the only calm parent of the two...
Trying to shrug off the feelings any memory of his father—or his past, really—evoked, he studied his mother’s throat. He thought he could discern a faint tinge of blue, where a strong pair of hands might’ve cut off her airflow,
He adjusted his windshield wipers to handle a fresh deluge. “She hates me that much?”
“I wouldn’t call it hate . She’s...moved on.”
The ferry captain approached the car in front of them. “Who’s she dating now?”
“Some guy from Charleston.”
“Is it serious?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked over and found her glaring at him. “Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he muttered and lowered his window to pay the fare.
* * *
Their mother was on a gurney in the back end, where the corpses were weighed and tagged. A sheet covered her from the neck down, but her arms had been taken out from under it and folded beneath her breasts—probably Dean Gillespie’s attempt to make her appear “at peace,” for their sake.
But there was nothing peaceful or consoling about any of this; Josephine’s death felt wrong in so many ways, beginning with the fact that she’d never looked worse. Her hair fell away from her face exactly as it had dried when they’d pulled her from the tub, and dark circles underscored her closed eyes—the eyes that so many people had admired.
As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, her skin was so waxy Keith barely recognized her. He was tempted to check the name on the tag attached to her big toe, just to be sure. His mother didn’t have age spots or wrinkles. His mother didn’t have dull, lackluster hair. But this person did.
Her body wasn’t the same, either. Although Keith had heard his mother described as a bombshell on more than one occasion, she looked frail and insignificant under that sheet, as if she’d never been a singular beauty.
This was what it took to finally get the better of Josephine Lazarow, Keith decided. Age alone wasn’t enough. Age conquered everyone else, but not her. Only death could win.
“She would hate that we’re seeing her like this,” Maisey whispered.
Keith wished he hadn’t come. She might have been his greatest stumbling block, his greatest challenge, but she’d also been a constant he could rely on—someone who stood firm in her convictions, commanded respect, lived by her own rules and made damn sure everyone around her did, too. He’d known that if he ever really needed her she might give him hell, but she’d come through in the end.
“We’ll hire a good makeup artist for the funeral,” he said, but only to comfort his sister. Makeup wouldn’t help now. His mother had lost that vital essence that’d made her so magnificent.
Maisey didn’t respond.
“Her death feels so...premature,” he added.
When Maisey put her hand over his in a show of understanding, he wished he could shrug her off. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted answers. Who had felled their powerful mother? She must not have seen whoever it was. The person who’d killed her had to be someone she would never, in a million years, have expected to do her wrong.
“The various funeral homes usually engage someone who specializes in hair and makeup,” Dean told them. “All you have to do is bring in a picture, and they’ll do their best to make your mother look like you remember.”
“I’ll ask her regular hairdresser to do her hair,” Maisey told him. “And I’ll try to manage her makeup myself.”
“If that’s what you prefer,” Dean said. “Just keep in mind that those services are available if you need them.”
Keith couldn’t imagine being asked to do something like that, but maybe all stylists knew that preparing a client’s hair for his or her funeral was a possibility. The last dead person he’d encountered had been his father, and even though they’d never been particularly close, that loss had hit him hard, since Malcolm was the only calm parent of the two...
Trying to shrug off the feelings any memory of his father—or his past, really—evoked, he studied his mother’s throat. He thought he could discern a faint tinge of blue, where a strong pair of hands might’ve cut off her airflow,
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