Chapter 3
ONE YEAR AFTER THE FIRST MEMORIAL-TWO YEARS AFTER brETT’S DEATH…
Tess
I know I’m spiraling.
All the Beauties have come by, tried to entice me to go out. Promises of shopping, dining, dancing—all things I loved to do… before. I politely decline each invitation.
I can’t help it. I just want to stay in. Avoid seeing people. Drink until I can’t remember the pain.
As the days pass, Brett’s memory becomes cloudier, fuzzier. Now it’s two years since he’s gone and I can’t even remember his face unless I look at a picture. Which only serves to add guilt to grief.
It’s not even that I miss him so much anymore. It’s just that I haven’t been able to figure out how I fit in here in the Village. Husbandless. The lone widow. It’s isolating.
There’s been whispers of enacting the hierarchy again. Not just for a day, this time. For good. Or at least until I’m back on my feet. As far as I know, it would be a first for the Village—having a guardian move in with a widow.
The Bachman men have another think coming if they think for one second I’ll let Rockland take control of me.
Sure, the day of the burial, I needed him here. And the memorial, his guidance, his discipline—he kept me sane.
It makes sense… on paper. But when there’s real people and feelings involved, the hierarchy is nothing but bullshit. In the Bachman family, once you’re a Bachman, you’re a Bachman for life.
And the two of us get along about as well as oil and water. I should have been concerned when I learned of the hierarchy—of what could happen. But I’d never worried about it before, because nothing was ever supposed to happen to Brett.
He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to leave me.
One year ago, the night of Brett’s memorial, Rockland had brought me home.
He’d given me wine, let me take a pill to calm myself.
Then he’d helped me out of my clothes, dressed me for sleep, and tucked me into my bed.
I may have been dreaming but it felt as if he stroked my hair for hours, kissing me gently on the cheek before I felt his weight leave my side.
In the morning, he was gone.
The only evidence of his stay was the blush pink still on my ass.
He left, as he should have. He flew off to his little deserted island to manage his natives.
It must have been a result of my heightened emotional state, but when I walked through my house—strangely absent of him—I found myself missing him.
There was a tugging in my chest, remembering his protective hand weighing on my shoulder.
My bottom was still sore.
And that kiss.
My lips tingle every time that kiss crosses my mind. Which it does more often than appropriate.
But that was a year ago. I’ve got to stop dwelling on it. It’s kind of hard now, though, with the second of the three annual memorials scheduled for this weekend.
He’ll be arriving any day now.
I shake the thought from my mind. It’s been a long day.
I’ve begun to work from home, no longer bothering to go into the office.
It’s strange—without the distraction of people, I can get a month’s worth of numbers accounted for in half the time it used to take me.
Which has resulted in me procrastinating till the last minute and doing all the math in one hardcore session.
That day was today. I’ve just hit send and shot the final tally off to Bronson.
I tidy up the items on my desktop. I push myself back in the rolling desk chair.
I stand, stretching my aching muscles. I putter down the stairs from my office.
Go into my spotless kitchen—I can’t remember the last time I’ve used it to cook.
I’m opening a bottle of wine. There’s a knock on my door.
A heavy sigh escapes me—I’m in no shape to deal with people.
But I must be polite. They are all family, after all. Wine bottle in hand, I putter down the hall, not bothering to smooth down my tangled hair or change out of my sweatpants. Sloshing a bit of the wine on my wrist as I move, I open the door.
Sasha is standing on my stoop, wearing… pink. A shocking change from her usual black spandex workout gear. Her little pearl white teeth are sinking into her bottom lip. Her hand goes to the end of her long, gorgeous dark ponytail and she gives it a nervous tug.
A trembling smile crosses her lips as she says hello. But she looks as if she wants to run in the other direction. Her gaze skates over my ensemble.
Am I that scary?
Is it Sasha’s tepidness—so unusual for her—or maybe her rosy cheeks and blush-colored clothing that are suddenly making me long for the Beauties?
Loneliness tugs at my cold, dark heart—maybe I do need human connection.
I plaster a wide, fake smile on my face and make a large welcoming gesture with my hand, saying, “Come in! Come in!”
She flinches backwards as if I will accidentally clock her with my vessel. Her face is clouded with uncertainty as if she’s not sure it’s safe to enter my home.
Suit yourself.
I take a deep swig straight from the bottle. I turn and head for the kitchen, leaving Sasha in a gaped-mouth, hair-tugging frenzy in my open doorway.
I call over my shoulder, “Want some?”
I plop the bottle on the marble counter, go to the cupboard, and take down two glasses. I pour a generous one for myself—the golden wine reaching almost the lip of the glass—and a normal one for my guest.
Apparently she needs a little courage to be in my presence. Hopefully, the liquid type will do.
I hear her close the door, sashay down my hallway.
She gives me a tight-lipped smile, takes a seat on one of my new leather, high-back, tufted barstools.
Each one had cost me well over a grand but I needed the retail therapy—I’ve had a bit of a spending habit lately, the main evidence being the exotic wine collection I’ve created over the past few months.
Sasha’s spine is ramrod straight as if she’s prepared to bolt if necessary. She thanks me for the wine but instead of partaking, she gives the glass a funny stare.
She hasn’t said a word yet. Strange. Usually you can’t get this chick to shut up.
I sit down, take a drink, and start the small talk.
I’ll prove to them I’m just fine. I’m up to date with the goings-on in the Village—I’m an active member.
I say, “So, when do you and Carter leave for the Hamlet? You two got a bun in the oven yet?”
She gives me a queer look. “You know Bronson vetoed that plan last year, right? We were supposed to go after we’d been married a year, but then Bronson said he needed just a little more time with Carter beneath him in the ranks, you know… since we’d just lost Brett? Remember?”
I might vaguely remember something about that. When Brett died, Mary’s husband John moved up into his place, and Carter moved up to take John’s. I say, “Of course I do. But refresh my memory.”
She gives a sigh. “Well, after we were married, Carter wanted to start a family right away, but with the new job, it looks like we’ll be here until Bronson finds a replacement. But you know how picky he is. No one’s good enough for Bronson.”
I hate when Sasha gets like this. Bronson didn’t approve of her when she first became engaged to Carter—she used to be a real brat—and she’s never gotten over it. I say, “Well, he is our leader and we need to respect that. He works hard for the family.”
“I know. I just get so frustrated. At this rate, we may never get to the Hamlet.”
“What’s the big draw anyway? I could never see why one would give up Village life in the city for Connecticut suburbia.”
“You know that there’s no kids here, Tess.
And we desperately want a family. We’ve visited the Hamlet and it’s just like the Village, only tamer with cute little kids running around.
The houses are gorgeous. Custom built and each one is on an acre.
The families all hang out in the square. There’s movie nights—”
“Sounds lovely.” I yawn. Kids are adorable. Being a mother just isn’t something I think I’d be good at.
She continues, stars in her eyes. “It is. And I hope we get to move there soon. But… ah… that’s not what I came here to talk about.” Her gaze travels from mine to the refrigerator.
“Okay, so spit it out. Why the impromptu visit?” I smile, hoping to calm her nerves. Whatever she has to say sure has her worked up.
She looks at me and says, “Tess, this is serious.”
I give her a curious glance. She swivels in her chair until we are facing one another.
Another tug of her ponytail.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” I say, then take an enormous swig of my wine. My glass is half-empty… the story of my life.
She gives my drink a glance, then meets my eyes. There’s a flash of that Sasha-like determination rising in her. She locks her gaze on mine and says, “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”
I snort. “Lately, I haven’t cared much what anyone says or thinks.” Making my point, I lift my glass to my lips and drain it. I smile, reach for the bottle, and say, “More wine?”
Before I can grasp it, her hand whips out, lightning fast. She’s got my Chardonnay and she’s running over to the other side of the kitchen. What the hell is she doing? She’s got it over the sink and is draining the last of the two hundred dollars of Roseland Winery’s finest down, down, down.
I stand from my stool, too quickly. I wobble a bit, grabbing the counter. I shout, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her gaze is fierce as she stares back at me. “Exactly what I’ve been told to do.” She opens the recycling drawer and drops the bottle within. It lands with a crash. I picture it lying amongst all its dead relatives—the bin is overflowing.
My head is spinning—I’ve drunk too fast. I want to stop her, but now, she’s in my fridge. When she sees the contents, she gasps. It’s full of untouched casseroles. The meals she and the Beauties have been bringing for months.
Moldy casseroles. And white wine. Lots of it.