Chapter 39
As he’d known all along, Aberlour gave in to Oliver and went with him to the five-year anniversary celebration.
Grief wasn’t a coat then. It was just like a choke collar, tight around his neck with the leash in the hands of every child, parent, and widow he had to face.
The collar had tightened unbearably by the time he arrived. But he forced himself to smile at Sabine and everyone he met. He repeated the mantra he’d shared so many times with Oliver. One minute at a time. One minute a time.
Sabine had aged beautifully, as he’d known she would. Aberlour took a mental picture for the one who couldn’t, knowing Marcus would have beamed at the sight of her.
“You look beautiful,” Aberlour complimented her as soon as she walked up to him.
Sabine smiled a beautiful, wide smile of welcome.
She was wearing a short white dress with fluttering sleeves. The colour, a stark contrast to the warm brown of her skin, reminded Aberlour of how she’d looked in her wedding dress. Perhaps it was her intention. To remember her husband as she’d loved him best.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she lied politely.
Aberlour didn’t let her fib bother him. He knew perfectly well what he looked like, and it certainly wasn’t something that would have ever impressed his mother.
But, he had made a real effort by dusting off an old suit that had seen better days and was woefully out of fashion.
Oliver had snorted with laughter when he’d shown up at his door and proceeded to tease him unmercifully about it, but he’d still gotten a kiss for his efforts.
That made it all worthwhile, in his opinion.
“Keep it in your pants,” Oliver scowled teasingly, and Sabine’s smile only grew as she looked down at him.
He couldn’t walk very far anymore, and he’d begrudgingly accepted Aberlour’s help.
The wheelchair was on loan from the hospital.
An ugly greenish-blue thing that didn’t match his suit—Oliver had grumbled quite a bit about that—but Aberlour argued that at least he wouldn’t be out of breath and passing out. Aberlour won that round.
“Thanks for coming,” Sabine told Oliver. He gave a brief nod, the glance between them filled with a level of support and understanding Aberlour steadfastly ignored.
Sabine led them to the backyard where the “event” was being held.
Apparently, the wives had teamed up and, although it was being hosted at Sabine’s house, it was a group effort.
As he wheeled Oliver forward, he hoped that was truly the case because it sure would have been too much work for any one person.
Sabine’s yard was filled with people. Some Aberlour recognized, most he’d never met.
Children ran amuck, screaming, laughing, and running around between bouncy castles and trampolines like they’d entered a free-for-all fair.
Adults milled about with drinks in their hands while chatting with each other and watching the kids play.
A man stood at the BBQ, flipping burgers and hotdogs, while a woman served potato salad, corn on the cob, and other dishes from the long picnic table.
Strings of lights, balloons, and banners had been strung around the yard, along with dozens of bouquets of flowers.
“We didn’t want it to be sad. This is a celebration, not a do over of their funerals,” Sabine said.
Aberlour was impressed with the steadiness of her voice and her ability to project positivity.
“Of course,” Oliver managed to say. Aberlour barely managed to nod.
Sabine kissed Aberlour’s cheek. “I’m going to mingle a little. I’ll let you—” she didn’t finish, simply smiled and left them to their own devices.
Aberlour thanked the gods silently and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said out loud.
Oliver snorted and replied, “That’s my line.”
Aberlour pushed Oliver’s wheelchair around the edge of the crowd so Oliver could say hello and how-are-you-doing to people Aberlour had either never met or didn’t remember.
He spotted a few familiar faces, but as soon as they made eye contact with him, Aberlour looked away quickly.
He wasn’t ready yet to connect with them.
Guilt—which usually sat like an angry hornet’s nest in his stomach—was now everywhere, smothering him under its ever-increasing weight.
His hands tightened on the handles of Oli’s wheelchair, and he struggled to swallow. Even to breathe.
“I need a minute,” Aberlour said.
Oliver turned to look up at him, startled to see his stricken expression.
“Get me close to the hotdogs, I’ll steal them off of Marcus’ dad,” Oliver requested, in an effort to distract Aberlour by giving him something to do.
Aberlour gave a sharp nod and pushed him towards the grill.
Marcus’ dad looked—exactly what Aberlour would have expected Marcus to look like at 65. Greying hair, still fit and athletic, wearing a genuine smile.
“Oliver,” he said, warmly, as they both approached. The man standing at the grill put a gentle hand down on Oli’s shoulder.
“How are you doing, son?”
It was normally such an inane question but coming from him it felt—different.
“I’ve got a hankering for a hotdog,” he said, and while he sounded sure, Aberlour doubted he’d manage to eat more than one bite.
“I gotcha covered!” Marcus’ father replied happily.
He looked up at Aberlour, but his gaze didn’t hold. He didn’t remember him, perhaps. Or they’d never met. Aberlour didn’t know and couldn’t recall.
“What about you? Would you like a hotdog?” Marcus’ father finally asked Aberlour, as he handed Oliver his hotdog.
It was the same. The same eyes, the same smile. Abe wondered how Sabine could look at this man without crying.
“No, thank you,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Excuse me a moment,” he added, shooting Oliver a desperate look before walking away. He heard Oliver resume their conversation as if nothing had happened and Aberlour was glad.
He found some measure of peace and relief at the edge of the backyard where there were no guests.
He could still hear the celebration—could still watch from afar, but it didn’t feel so—overwhelming.
He sat on an old bench that had seen better days, silently watching children play and adults socializing.
He didn’t stay alone for long, though. They found him. All of them, one after the other. They found him in his quiet corner and approached him with cautious smiles.
The first was Caroline, JD’s wife—widow. She was glowing, like the past five years had gone well for her.
“It’s good to see you,” she said, her brown hair was now streaked with blond, and she’d curled it, so it flowed around her like a shampoo commercial.
She’d changed very little. She was older, wiser, more mature than the brunette Aberlour had met in the bar.
She didn’t sit next to him, she simply hovered nearby, her long dress flowed around her gracefully.
“How have you been?” he asked, politely. He’d seen her at the funeral, but he’d been incapable of meeting her eyes. He tried it now and found her gaze far more welcoming than he deserved.
“Up and down,” she said honestly. She shrugged, and looked away, she didn’t seem sad, just pensive.
She looked out at the crowd of children and smiled as she spotted the one who belonged to her.
Aberlour had never met her child, he’d only heard about the pregnancy.
She’d been only a few months pregnant when—
JD had been over the moon when she’d announced it. He’d have made an amazing father.
“The twins made it easier, and worse—at times, but it’s—I’m carrying on,” she said with confident aplomb.
“Twins?” Aberlour said, surprised.
“Boy and a girl,” she answered, her smile wider, as she nodded towards two children, who, while they were mingling with the others, were obviously related.
JD’s daughter was beautiful. With short black hair cut at chin length and big blue eyes, she looked like a Disney princess.
She was waiting in line for the bouncy castle, twirling from side to side, her white and blue dress fluttering around her.
Her brother was unmistakeably JD’s kid. He was hanging from the swing set upside down, his jet-black hair pointing down in sharp edges, wide eyes full of mischief as he grinned from ear to ear with the same goofy expression his father had always worn.
He was a well-built boy. Large shoulders, and tall for his age.
Aberlour had to blink the tears away from his eyes.
It was like watching JD as a child, except JD was dead, and this was the child he’d never gotten to see.
The unfairness of that hit him like a bolt out of the blue.
“Congratulations,” Aberlour said, voice strained.
“You got any of your own?” Caroline asked, still smiling.
“No.”
“JD used to say you’d be a great dad,” she replied, hugging herself tightly as she fought to keep smiling at him.
Aberlour couldn’t come up with an answer. There was nothing to say to that.
“Guess you were like the dad of the team, so that makes sense.” Maybe she felt like she needed to say that. Maybe it was because she wanted Aberlour to know how much she was hurting.
Aberlour had walked away from all of them that day at the funeral.
It was the last he’d heard or seen of the wives of his brothers.
He was supposed to protect them. They didn’t need his guilt.
Nor his pain. Now, he thought perhaps he’d gone about it the wrong way.
Perhaps they had needed to see his pain.
Perhaps they’d deserved to see him suffer—if only to fulfill their desire for revenge.
“I’m not mad,” she said, after a minute of awkward silence.
Aberlour had to look at her then, to make sure he heard her correctly.
“I was, but I’m not anymore,” she said with an earnest sincerity that made him believe her.
“You should be. You have the right to be. I should have—”
She didn’t let him finish.