Chapter 4
Betty
Sybil’s backyard was beautiful and fresh, newly planted now that all the debris and ash had been cleared. There were large garden lights crisscrossing overhead, flowers in abundance, and candles—the flameless kind, of course—set on every surface.
Only a handful of people were in attendance for Nash and Sybil’s wedding, exactly how Sybil liked it.
“Hey, Daddy.” I bumped shoulders with my old man, who stood sipping a tequila to the side of the dance floor.
“My little Bee, how are you?” He grinned, cheeks rosy.
Sybil and Nash were dancing with a handful of others, one of them being Dr. Catherine.
Catherine adopted Sybil as a teen and had also served as her therapist for years.
Sybil experienced a rough childhood with parents that sounded like ripe old assholes.
They passed in a plane crash, and as wrong as it felt to be glad about something like that, I was ecstatic.
They were neglectful and abusive toward her.
Good riddance.
Toward the side of the garden stood Nash’s best man, Jackson, one of our consultants for especially tricky art restorations. A part of me was pretty sure he ran an illicit forgery business on the side. Sometimes he was a little too good at touching up the work of masters.
A group stood analyzing the flowerbeds to the left; a few new people Sybil met in her online beekeeping course.
They all seemed as introverted as Sybil, more focused on the bees buzzing around her new hive than on the fact that this was a social gathering requiring interaction with non-insects.
They were pointing out little buzzing orbs that were flitting about the new blooms on the early spring flowers.
Everyone seemed about as thrilled as I was gazing at a plump croissant in a bakery display.
I only hoped that eventually Sybil, or one of her friends, would offer me some fresh honey for my coffee.
Overall, it was a paltry crowd, but they were happy, and that’s all that mattered.
There were probably no more than twenty of us, a quarter of that sporting bee-brain.
No one seemed to match my energy or desire to chat, which immediately brought me down a bit.
As long as Jackson, with his thick-framed glasses and polyester blue pants, didn’t start flirting with me, everything would be fine.
Snapping out of it, I looked my father in the eye and offered a soft, convincing smile that betrayed my melancholy. I’d mustered the energy to lie to him at last.
“I’m doing really well. Feeling great,” I said.
He grinned, and that alone made the lie bearable. “Oh, good,” he crooned, bumping shoulders with me as I had with him. “I guess you’re next in line to wed now, am I right?” He held his glass out toward Sybil and Nash. They kissed, and Sybil giggled, cheeks blushing.
“Of course you’d say that,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“I’m nothing if not predictable, my dear.” He grinned. “I just want all my children to find the kind of love your mother and I shared. I don’t think that’s too much to wish for, is it? Besides, word on the street is you’re my only real bet for grandbabies that aren’t covered in fur with a tail.”
He tugged at my heartstrings with that one.
Sybil was pretty open about her fear of having kids, given her history with anxiety and depression.
I completely understood, reassuring Sybil she’d be more than welcome as aunty-of-the-year at my house one day if the itch ever needed scratching.
I wanted a brood. Give me all the babies, and soon.
The only problem was that all the babies I kept dreaming of looked a lot like a certain blue-eyed Italian.
It was hard to picture them any other way.
I sighed and pushed away the thought.
“Mom would have loved this,” I said.
My mother was shy, like Sybil. She’d have adored this small backyard wedding.
Unfortunately, we’d lost her to breast cancer a long time back.
My parents were the very definition of soulmates.
Losing her crushed my dad in ways he’d never recover.
As a result, he’d fallen headfirst into his art antiquities business.
Dad’s eyes appeared glassy then, and he cleared his throat. “She would have adored it.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder, and we swayed to the music. It was early April now. The weather was perfect—crisp but workable at 65 degrees—with the evening sun falling below the buildings surrounding us. I took a sip of my Sauvignon Blanc and adjusted the shawl over my shoulder.
After the wedding, there was restoration work to do at Beaumont, but a little white wine buzz calmed the thoughts and sharpened my skills.
I was finishing a tune-up on a rare ruby necklace from the Renaissance—absolutely enormous rubies.
Seeing jewels like that seemed unreal, each the size of my thumb.
They reminded me of red Tootsie Roll Pops, something I often popped into the bodega to buy after work.
The song stopped, and Sybil kissed Nash one more time before approaching us with the largest grin I’d ever seen on her face. She wore a long, white, flowing gown and a white faux fur shawl, a rarity for her as black was her favorite color.
Sybil was my little goth queen most days, mounds and mounds of black on black. Walking toward me now, she looked like a completely different person and glowed like moonlight.
“Papa B,” she cooed, hugging my dad.
He puffed up like a blowfish whenever she was around. “You look beautiful, Sybil.”
“Thank you. Dance with me?” she asked, holding out a dainty hand with nails painted black.
There’s my gothic Sybil.
He blushed. “It’d be my absolute pleasure.”
I could tell he’d been waiting for an invitation to dance, but was letting Sybil take the lead.
It was a classic move for him, making sure the confidence was all in her court.
He welcomed her like a daughter, and I was glad to see it brought extra light to his life and soothed something my mother’s loss had taken from him.
I stood alone and watched them for a short while.
Bill came and sat beside me for a bit, licking my hand in solidarity and wagging his tail.
He had this whole emotional support dog thing down to a science.
But what did that say about me? Was I the most pathetic person at the party?
That was saying a lot considering the bee crowd.
The stench of self-loathing and despair was probably rolling off me in waves at this point.
The sky was getting dark, and I started edging toward the patio door, plotting my getaway. Every step I took in that direction elicited a scoot from Bill to follow. He was persistent, I’d give him that.
I glanced at my empty wineglass and pretended I was going inside for a refill. “Sorry, Bill. Time to find someone else to comfort.” Once everyone’s focus was elsewhere, I slipped inside and Bill was forced to move on.
I placed my glass on Sybil’s pristine marble counter and headed for the door.
My stilettos clicked on the polished hardwood floor, drumming a beat toward the entryway where I grabbed my coat.
Though I was thrilled for Nash and Sybil, the moment was churning my stomach.
He deserved this, and I was glad for him, but I’d seen my fill.
Ever since Gray left, this need to run from anything resembling a happy ever after lingered like a smelly sock.
It was pure avoidance, and I had my theories as to why.
Theory number one being my fear of replacing him, but how long could I hold out before my other dreams, particularly those dreams of a house full of kids, would start taking precedence?
I ducked out onto the sidewalk and hailed a cab. It was a quick ride, made shorter by the wine buzzing in my veins.
The cabbie dropped me off around the back of the Beaumont building, near the loading dock. I fumbled only momentarily with the code for the secure elevator, but finally made it inside. It was getting dark, and it always gave me the heebie-jeebies hanging out in the back alley too long.
My heels echoed down the tight, sterile hallways, past coded doors, around corners, and through empty, dim offices.
Security was really tight now. Ever since Gray’s stunt—stealing Sybil’s million-dollar art right from the auction floor—we’d had to make some changes.
Gray made it look too easy and turned us into a target for others like him.
Fortunately, Nash and I were pretty good at keeping the bad guys at bay, and despite a few suspicious types, there hadn’t been any problems since.
The last door clicked shut behind me. It was a satisfying, sterile sound of finality. I let out a long, cleansing breath and slumped over, releasing my perfect posture to the gods of disarray. This was my happy place, and one of the few places and times I could be myself.
I set my purse and coat down on an empty Formica workstation, sagging onto the stool and closing my eyes. I rubbed my temples. A wave of sadness fell over me like a silk curtain, despite my failed efforts to blow it away.
“Don’t think of him, Betty. Don’t do it,” I chided myself. “He doesn’t deserve this much thought, just like Nash said.”
Fuming silently, I planted my feet and stood tall once more, smoothing the skirt of my dress.
Head held high with resolve, I walked toward the small fridge tucked under a desk and retrieved a mini bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
More was better in this situation, and I always had a few hidden here for stressful moments and long nights such as this.
Cold and glistening in my hand, the cap twisted off easily, and I took a long, satisfying gulp.