Chapter 9 Amelia #2
He greets me with a smile when, on Orla’s orders, I take a mug of tea out to him.
He has shaved off the stubble that grew while he hibernated in his study, and his hair is immaculate.
For a moment, it’s as if no time has passed since I climbed out of the chauffeur-driven car and shook his hand, and the butterflies in my chest pick up where they left off when I spent the night in his bed.
The night that Ruairi was killed.
He accepts the hot drink, our fingers brushing on the side of the mug. The touch sends electricity straight to my core, and heat rushes to my face.
“Thank you, Amelia.” His gaze is so intense that I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. “For everything. Eoghan said that he couldn’t have handled the arrangements without you.”
Deep breath. I try to regulate my pulse. “You don’t have to thank me. It was the least I could do.”
I’d have done a whole lot more if only Declan had lowered his barriers and let me in.
“I-I’m so sorry that you’ve had to deal with this.” He holds my gaze, and I try to read between the lines of what he’s saying out loud.
I wish I could hold his hand.
I wish I could stand on tiptoes and kiss his lips.
I wish I could link arms with him, greet the funeral guests as they arrive, and let him know that he doesn’t have to deal with this alone. Any of it. Because I’ve been right here all along.
This is the first time we’ve been alone together since the night I spent in his bed. I could tell him about Ruairi now, get it off my chest, tell him that his son and I had a connection. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
I met Ruairi. It’s all I have to say.
Jeez, why is this so hard?
But then Eoghan joins us on the porch looking every bit as smart and handsome as his father, and the moment is gone.
“There you are,” he says to me. “Are you sure you’ll manage the catering while we’re at the funeral?”
“Yes, of course.”
I don’t tell him that I can’t face the kitchen right now, because even the coffee aroma is making me feel queasy. It’s tension. I’ll be fine once today is over.
With one last glance at Declan who is looking straight ahead, I head back inside, digging my fingernails so hard into the palm of my hand that I draw blood.
Why am I such a coward?
The alternative to telling him the truth is living with the guilt that I fucked his son shortly before he died.
As secrets go, it’s about as big as they get.
And it seems that overnight, my conscience has reared its head and warned me that if I bottle it up, it’ll start to fester.
Become something toxic. Until eventually, it will destroy any relationship that Declan and I might have had.
I don’t see him again until after the funeral when the guests come back to the house for the wake. I’m kept busy serving refreshments and telling Orla that I can manage without her, but my eyes constantly seek out Declan. Every time I look at him, I find his gaze on me, and it warms me inside.
Cups of tea and coffee are soon replaced by brandy and whiskey.
The conversations grow louder. The laughter becomes more raucous.
Someone switches on the sound system and zippy tunes—heavy on the fiddle—that I don’t recognize start to fill the rooms. Guests wander between the living room and the conservatory, spilling out onto the decking to smoke cigars and to vape.
I’m trying to get ice cubes from a plastic tray when I feel warm breath on the back of my neck.
“Here, let me help.”
“Declan? I…”
I peer around to see who else is in the kitchen with us. We’re not alone. I don’t know the names of the guests, but no one is paying any attention to the housekeeper and her boss.
“I’ve missed you,” he keeps his voice low, between us.
I can smell brandy on his breath, but when he looks at me, I see the same gleam in his eyes that he had before his son got killed.
“I’ve missed you too.”
He shakes the ice cubes into a cooler. As he turns away to rejoin the wake, his elbow brushes my breast. I don’t react, but I know that he felt it too from the way his eyes linger on me.
“Declan, I want a word wit’ you.” The voice belongs to a man with thick blond hair turning gray. A relative perhaps.
The two men wander off together in the direction of the foyer, and I don’t see them again.
I get through the day on caffeine and roast potatoes, not the healthiest diet in the world.
My feet are sore by the time the guests start leaving after midnight.
Every room on the ground floor is littered with empty glasses, beer bottles, paper plates, and crumbs.
I start on the decking while people are saying goodbye with hugs and tears and lipstick kisses, picking up glasses and loading a black sack with anything else that I find.
I’m clearing up the mess in the conservatory when Orla joins me.
The neat black dress that she is wearing with a simple silver cross around her neck makes her look older than her years. Her eyes are puffy and raw. There’s a lipstick imprint on her forehead that she is obviously unaware of, and her shoulders are bowed from the weight of her grief.
“Orla,” I say gently. I stop what I’m doing and face her, careful to keep my expression neutral. The last thing she needs is a reminder that she buried her grandson today. “It’s late. Why don’t you go and get some sleep? I’ll clear up.”
Her bottom lip quivers when she looks at me, and tears well in my eyes. Way to go, Amelia. I’m supposed to be the one holding it together.
“If you’re sure…” She peers around the room, and I can almost see her visibly shrinking. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Orla not rise to a task with a pair of rubber gloves and a defiant chin.
That settles it.
“I’m absolutely sure. No arguing.”
I place my hands on her shoulders and steer her towards the stairs.
She feels frail beneath my touch, as if Ruairi’s murder has sucked the life force out of her, and my heart melts as I watch her mount the stairs slowly.
She doesn’t look back, and I don’t move until I hear the bedroom door close behind her.
It will take me hours to get the house back to its usual pristine condition, but as weary as I feel, I know I won’t be able to sleep. Might as well get on with it; at least it will keep me busy.
I’m about to head through the double doors into the conservatory and kitchen when I hear a sound from the living room where I set up the early refreshments and the pictures of Ruairi that Eoghan had selected.
I realize that I haven’t seen Eoghan in hours. He must’ve needed some space and shut himself away in the living room when the guests relocated to the conservatory.
My heart thuds dully as I approach the room. At first, I’d assumed that the TV must be on, but as I get closer, I realize that the sounds are human. They’re real, they’re not coming from a speaker. But they’re making every hair on my body stand on end.
I hesitate outside the room. Frozen. Unsure of whether to turn around and pretend I didn’t hear them or open the door and go inside.
These are the sounds of someone grieving. Someone dying inside from the unbearable knot of loss and sorrow that they now have to live with.
I close my eyes and swallow, wishing I hadn’t drunk so much coffee. I can feel it sitting inside my chest threatening to come back up. I inhale deeply and hold it in my lungs until I feel dizzy. What would my mom do?
I don’t even need to think about it. I can hear her voice in my head.
“This isn’t about you, Mia. Someone needs help. Even if you just sit with them and let them know that you’re there.”
Slowly, afraid to disturb them, I open the door and peer inside the room.
It’s in darkness. The curtains are drawn. The lights are switched off, but the flames in the log burner are throwing a gentle orange glow across the room. I can smell liquor and perfume in the air as I peer around, searching for the source of the sobs.
I find it on the couch that’s facing the TV at the far end of the room. They have their back to me, and don’t know that I’m there. I don’t know if I should cough discreetly or just go and sit with them. I have no experience with things like this, and I really miss my mom right now.
I don’t know how long I stand there, listening to them pouring their heart out onto the floor before I make my legs move. I’m still a few steps away from the couch when I catch a hint of familiar cologne.
It isn’t Eoghan.
It’s Declan.
My indecision instantly evaporates. He needs me. He needs someone to hold him through his heartbreak. So that’s what I do.
I sit beside him on the sofa, pull his head against my chest, and I hold him in my arms until eventually, sleep embraces him and he grows still.