Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Present Day
J ames Bruckson had left elaborate instructions for his funeral.
For Sylvie, this was no surprise because the man had always been a control freak, so much so that he hadn’t even let anyone do his taxes, book his flights, or even butter his bread for him.
He’d needed to know exactly how much saturated fat had bled into the pores of the slice.
What kind of life was that? Sylvie wondered as she mounted the steps of the funeral home and stepped inside.
She’d arranged to meet the funeral director, Mr. Slader, a meeting that felt more for Mr. Slader’s comforts than for herself.
Mr. Slader wanted to know if he was taking care of those “left behind” by the one they’d lost. He wanted to let Sylvie know he was there for her.
In short, he wanted to be able to go home at the end of today and think he’d done a good job. Sylvie decided to give him that.
Sylvie hadn’t been to the Nantucket funeral home since her mother’s funeral.
It was something that only occurred to her when she stepped into the wall-to-wall carpeted foyer, with its deep blue wallpaper covered with elaborate flowers, and remembered herself as a little girl, curled up against that very wall and tracing the patterns with her fingers, feeling both ignored and overwhelmed by too many hugs.
Miraculously, the carpeting, wallpaper, and furniture all looked well-kept and new, making her wonder if they bought the same things, updating the space so that nothing ever felt worn.
To her, it felt like stepping back in time.
“Mrs. Bruckson.” Mr. Slader stepped into the foyer wearing a navy blue sweater and a pair of black slacks. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and regarded her with an air of somber empathy.
“It’s Miss, actually,” she said, thrown off by the use of Mrs. so soon after she’d wanted Mike to propose.
“Oh, Miss Bruckson. I’m terribly sorry.” Mr. Sadler folded his lips. “I should have known.”
“It’s all right.” Sylvie’s cheeks were hot with embarrassment, but she didn’t know why.
Mr. Slader took a moment to fix his nervous face, then said, “Can I offer you something? Tea? Cookies?”
Although she hadn’t managed to choke down anything for breakfast except a cup of black coffee, Sylvie couldn’t imagine eating anything.
Filled with acid, her stomach was gnawing at itself, but it felt distracting.
Like something to focus on that didn’t involve her father’s beyond-the-grave manipulation and the fact that now, she was alone in the world.
“You don’t have to feel bad,” she said suddenly. “My father and I weren’t close. We haven’t spoken in twenty-three years, in fact. We’re basically strangers. Or we were.”
Mr. Slader bent his head. “This must be a complicated time for you.”
Sylvie hadn’t expected that response. She’d half expected him to reprimand her for not reaching out to her father before his death—to remind her that life is all we have.
But she remembered that Mr. Slader wasn’t a priest or a pastor.
He wasn’t here to sit on some moral high ground, judging her.
He was here to make money off people who had died and, hopefully, make the grieving of those they’d left behind easier. He was also, it seemed, pretty kind.
“It is,” Sylvie said.
“Would you like to see him?”
Sylvie couldn’t breathe. But she nodded because she didn’t want to stand around, making small talk with Mr. Slader.
Beyond Mr. Slader was the room where her father lay in his casket, looking gentle and soft and as though he’d recently been told a joke he really liked.
This sort of half smile on James Bruckson’s face had been a rare thing indeed.
Sylvie approached on quaking legs but stopped about five feet away.
From here, she could make out how old he’d gotten in the previous few years—how his hair had become white, and his face had freckled and wrinkled.
He’d been thirty when she was born. That made him seventy now, an age she felt was far too young.
He should have had another ten years, at least. Ten years to do whatever it was he’d gotten up to the past two decades.
Dead at seventy. Cancer. Which meant he’d known it was coming, and he hadn’t reached out.
But would Sylvie have even answered the phone?
There was still so much Sylvie didn’t know.
And last night, she hadn’t dared return to her father’s house or The House on Nantucket.
She’d gotten a little room in a hotel downtown, where she’d called her editor and made notes regarding her upcoming trip to Alabama.
I have to maintain normalcy , she’d told herself as she’d tossed and turned all night.
I have to cling to the life I’ve built, or else I’ll have nothing.
But normal had flown out the window the moment her mother had died. Maybe Sylvie had been chasing normal all her adult life. She’d never found it.
Now, Sylvie twisted away from the casket and put her hand over her mouth, biting her fingers to keep from crying. Mr. Slader was in the doorway, waiting to see if she needed him.
She cleaned herself up as quickly as she could.
“Any idea of how many people are coming?” she asked.
“That’s a good question. But I assume you remember what Nantucket is like,” Mr. Slader said. “Everyone knows everyone else, and absolutely everyone knew your father. He was a pillar of the community. I imagine they’ll want to pay their respects.”
Sylvie’s heart began to pound. What was she doing here?
Maybe she should take this opportunity to leave, to jump in her car and let the money from the sale of her father’s inn go wherever he wanted it to.
But just that morning, she’d read up about another three luxury resort construction sites on Nantucket alone, all with plans to be finished in two years or less.
It made her irate to think of that money lining the pockets of the already wealthy idiots who were eager to destroy the once quaint and glorious island.
Didn’t they see that in boosting tourism, they were destroying the very beauty that brought people to the island in the first place?
What would be left when all the beauty was gone?
It was difficult to know her father’s stance on the big builders. After all, he’d made his money in tourism, profiting from the getaways of moderately wealthy Midwesterners who’d driven fifteen-plus hours to get there, taking photographs and saying it was paradise.
“As you know,” Mr. Slader said, “your father arranged for a party at Hannigan’s after the burial.
Food, drinks, everything. He wanted the islanders to enjoy themselves before the big season began.
And…” Mr. Slader squinted at Sylvie. “I seem to remember him mentioning that you’d be involved in that season.
That you might be sticking around for the summertime tourists? ”
Sylvie snorted with surprise.
Mr. Slader’s face was shadowed. “I’m sorry. You just said that you hadn’t spoken in twenty-three years.”
“Right.”
“But before he died, your father mentioned to me,” Mr. Slader said, “that you’d be taking over the family business. I suppose that confused me.”
“I want to sell the inn,” Sylvie said. “I want to get out of here.”
Mr. Slader looked deflated. Sylvie ran her tongue across her teeth and glanced at the clock on the opposite wall.
It was 5:55, and the viewing was set to begin in five minutes.
An hour of viewing followed by an hour of funeral followed by the burial.
All that before unlimited drinks and food at Hannigan’s.
Would this day ever end? The man in the casket looked to be taunting her.
Suddenly, the door to the foyer opened. Mr. Slader turned to say, “Oh, I’m sorry. We still need another few minutes.”
But the man in the foyer, standing there in a dark gray suit, his hair in wild curls and his eyes fiery, was no stranger to Sylvie. Her knees nearly gave out.
It was Graham Ellis. Twenty-three years had gone by since she’d last seen him, but there could be no mistaking it.
“He can stay,” Sylvie said. She hated how small her voice sounded.
Mr. Slader stepped back, perhaps sensing the intensity between them. “Of course, Miss Bruckson.”
He left them alone at the back of the room—twenty feet from her father’s casket.
Graham stepped closer. Sylvie studied his face, the wrinkles, the coiled gray hairs near his temples, the sturdy jawline, and the beard that made him look even more handsome and seasoned.
He removed his hands from his pants pockets, and they were dark and worn.
They were the hands of a man rather than a boy. Sylvie blinked back tears.
It wasn’t hard for her to remember the first time she’d held those hands.
1998. She’d been thirteen years old and out of her mind with the flu. Indiana Jones on VHS. Chocolate chip cookies. The day raced back to her and then receded just as fast. Graham Ellis. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But hadn’t she read somewhere he’d gotten married?
People get divorced all the time, she thought.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said finally.
Graham blinked. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to be.”
“I mean, I didn’t even know you were on the island,” Sylvie stuttered.
“I wasn’t till recently.”
Sylvie’s heart thudded. What he said seemed to contain multitudes. It seemed to suggest an entire backstory, one that hadn’t involved her. But whose fault was that?
“When did you get in?” Graham asked.
“Yesterday,” she said. “I didn’t plan any of this. The funeral, or anything else.”
“I heard about the party at Hannigan’s.”
Sylvie let out a soft laugh. “He’s always a surprise, isn’t he?”
“My mom’s on her way in,” Graham offered, his eyes lowering. There was something softer and more broken about him than Sylvie remembered, but she guessed he’d say the same about her.
On cue, Valerie swooped into the foyer, her hair a wild gray bush behind her.
When she saw Sylvie, she nearly melted. Sylvie found herself tucked into the safe arms of a woman she’d once loved like a mother, a woman she’d missed almost as much as Graham when she’d gone away.
Sylvie began to cry again, but because she didn’t want anyone to accuse her of crying over her father, she hurried to brush her tears aside.
“My darling, look at you!” Valerie cried, stepping back. “You’re just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sylvie knew this was the kind of thing mothers were supposed to say, that they echoed with empathy and love and needed you to feel it.
But even still, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her pretty.
Not even Mike had done that. Not any of her other New York boyfriends, either.
She blushed and tried her hardest not to look at Graham.
“This is not easy for you,” Valerie said, a firm statement of fact that made Sylvie nod, grateful to be taken care of, at least for a moment. “But we’ll be right here the whole time. Won’t we, Graham?”
“Of course,” Graham said. But he looked tentative, as though he half expected Sylvie to tell him to go.
But Sylvie didn’t have time to fall into the chaos of Graham Ellis’s eyes.
Guests were arriving, filling up the foyer, removing spring jackets and walking up to the casket to pay their respects.
Through the speakers, Mr. Slader put on light jazz music, some of her father’s favorite songs, songs he’d played late at night in his study.
People were commenting on James Bruckson’s death party, which was what the flyer called the affair at Hannigan’s.
One after another, her father’s friends, enemies, and acquaintances, people she’d known since she was a girl, approached her, telling her how sorry they were and how much they’d missed her.
It was a surprise for Sylvie to realize she knew everyone’s names. She hadn’t forgotten a thing.
But when the funeral began, when the pastor got up to say a few words about James Bruckson and all he’d done for the community, all he’d done for his daughter, Sylvie couldn’t take it.
Already leaning against the far wall, as far as she could get from James Bruckson, she ducked out of the main room, walked through the foyer, and found herself outside on the sidewalk.
It was spitting a freezing, late-April rain.
She didn’t want to go back in for her jacket.
She stood in quiet misery, tears draining from her eyes. She thought, I have to get out of here.
“Sylvie?”
Sylvie turned around to find Graham. Already, the rain flattened out his curls and made him look sorrowful and cold.
“What a racket, huh?” he said, tilting his head toward the funeral home.
Sylvie snorted with surprise.
“I mean, anyone who knew James Bruckson could tell you that his kindness and community-minded approach weren’t exactly his top attributes,” he said.
Sylvie laughed louder. “I think he might have written the script for the pastor.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Graham’s smile was warm and inviting. “Why don’t we go to Hannigan’s and get a headstart on this death party everyone’s talking about?”
Sylvie admitted that she needed a drink.
But the idea of sitting at a bar across from Graham—at age forty instead of seventeen—made her want to hide herself away. She stumbled over her words, searching for a way out. But Graham touched her shoulder and said, “I won’t take no for an answer.”