Chapter Thirty-Six Liverwurst and Love
Chapter Thirty-Six
Liverwurst and Love
Hayes
The funeral was everything Charles would have hated.
Too many flowers. Too many people giving speeches about his “philanthropic legacy” and “commitment to excellence.” My mother orchestrated the whole thing like a goddamn Broadway production.
Frankie sat in the front row, staring straight ahead while senators and CEOs took turns at the podium. She looked like she might shatter if someone breathed on her wrong.
When it was her turn to speak, she walked to the microphone in this simple black dress that made her look impossibly small.
“Charles Winthrop was the best man I ever knew,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. “He taught me that family isn’t about blood. It’s about showing up. Every single day.”
She paused, gripping the podium.
“He showed up for all of us. Even when we didn’t deserve it. Especially when we didn’t deserve it.”
Her eyes found mine across the packed church.
“He’d want us to keep showing up for each other.”
That was it. Thirty seconds that said more about Charles than hours of formal eulogies.
Now we’re back at his apartment—my apartment, I guess, since everything’s mine now. The will reading was yesterday. He left me the business, the properties, more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.
And he left Frankie five million dollars.
She hasn’t touched the check.
“You should eat something.” I set a plate of Chinese takeout in front of her.
She’s been camped out on Charles’s couch for three days, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her hair’s in a messy bun that looks like she twisted it up and forgot about it.
“Not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since the service.”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee’s not food.”
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are red rimmed and hollow. “Why are you still here?”
Good question. I should be back at work, dealing with the dozen crises that piled up while I was playing grief counselor. Instead I’m here, watching Frankie fall apart in slow motion.
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Your penthouse. Your office. Somewhere that isn’t watching me have a mental breakdown.”
I sit down across from her, pushing the take-out container closer. “Charles asked me to take care of you.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe I want it to be.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Frankie’s eyes widen slightly.
“Hayes—”
“I have an idea.” I stand up before she can finish whatever she was going to say. “But you’re going to hate it.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s order liverwurst. We’ll have dinner together in his memory. We can even play Scrabble.”
A short laugh bursts from her lips. The first real sound she’s made in days.
“You’re right. I do hate that idea.” She wipes her eyes. “But let’s do it.”
Two hours later, we’re sitting at Charles’s dining table with a spread that would make him proud. Liverwurst and onions from the German place downtown. Terrible red wine that tastes like it came from a box. Scrabble board between us like a peace treaty.
“He would have loved this,” Frankie says, cutting into her sausage.
“He would have beaten us both at Scrabble.”
“Remember that time in Montana when he got ‘quixotic’ on a triple word score?”
“And then acted like it was no big deal.” I shake my head. “Smug bastard.”
Frankie actually smiles. Small, but real.
We eat in comfortable silence. The kind Charles and I used to share during those late-night phone calls about nothing and everything.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she says eventually.
“Yeah.”
“I keep expecting him to walk in and complain about us eating on his good china.”
I glance at the plates we grabbed from his kitchen. She’s right—these probably cost more than most people’s cars.
“He’d be more upset about the wine.”
“This wine is perfectly fine.”
“Frankie. This wine tastes like someone dissolved cardboard in grape juice.”
“You’re such a snob.”
“I’m discerning.”
“Same thing.”
We’re bickering. Like we used to. Before everything got complicated and I messed it all up.
After dinner, I clear the table while she sets up the Scrabble board. Her fingers shake slightly as she arranges the letter tiles.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” She doesn’t look at me. “Just . . . this was our thing, you know? Mine and Charles’s. Playing games, talking about nothing. Now it’s just . . .”
“Different.”
“Empty.”
I want to tell her it doesn’t have to be empty. That we could fill the silence with our own words, our own games. But that’s not what she needs right now.
“What was your first word with him?” I ask instead.
“‘Muffin.’ I got fourteen points, and he acted like I’d just discovered fire.” She traces the edge of a tile. “He bragged about you constantly, you know. Your tennis matches, your business deals. How smart you were.”
My throat tightens. “He talked about you too. I know you were the daughter he never had.”
Frankie’s face crumples. For a second I think she’s going to start crying again. Instead, she picks up seven tiles and studies them like they hold the secrets of the universe.
“‘Wizard,’” she says, placing the letters down. “Double word score. Twenty-eight points.”
“Show-off.”
I study my own tiles. Nothing good. A bunch of consonants and a single E.
“‘Hex,’” I manage. “Eleven points.”
“Pathetic.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Charles would have destroyed you.”
“Charles cheated.”
“He did not!”
“He absolutely did. I caught him looking up words on his phone.”
Frankie gasps in mock horror. “You take that back.”
“Never.”
She throws a tile at me. It bounces off my chest and clatters to the floor.
“Charles Winthrop was a saint.”
“Charles Winthrop was a competitive old bastard who hated losing.”
“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“I’m speaking truth to the dead.”
Another tile flies in my direction. This one I catch.
“You’re terrible at this,” I tell her.
“At what?”
“Throwing things. Your aim is shit.”
“I wasn’t actually trying to hit you.”
“Good thing. You’d miss.”
She picks up another tile, weighing it in her palm. “Want to test that theory?”
“Bring it.”
She throws the tile. I duck, laughing as it sails over my head.
“Told you.”
“Shut up.”
But she’s laughing too. Actually laughing, for the first time since Charles collapsed.
We play three more games. I win two, she wins one, and we both agree Charles would have kicked our asses.
“I should go,” I say around midnight.
Frankie’s curled up in Charles’s chair, looking smaller than ever in his oversize cardigan. She found it in his closet and hasn’t taken it off since.
“You don’t have to.”
“You need sleep.”
“I won’t sleep anyway.”
I know the feeling. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.
“Want me to stay?”
The question hangs between us. Not romantic. Not sexual. Just . . . present.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I think I do.”