46. Olivia
OLIVIA
Remy keepsa protective arm wrapped around my waist as we walk toward Stanley, standing at the open delivery room door to the funeral home.
“Good morning.” My temporary replacement shakes Remy’s hand and squeezes my shoulder in greeting. “Everything is ready as requested.”
“As requested?” I ask.
Stanley shoots a questioning glance to Remy.
“I asked for a few things to be arranged while you were doing your hair.” Remy kisses my brow.
“What things?” I whisper.
“It’s nothing to worry about.” He leads me across the delivery room as Stanley murmurs a farewell, the overhead door closing behind him.
After I posed the cremation question earlier, Remy and I shared a quick breakfast, my stomach appreciating the sustenance for the first time all week. Then we showered together, his roughened hands gently washing my hair and massaging my scalp, the luscious feel of it making me moan… which led to those talented hands doing a range of other things that inspired far louder and more uncontrollable sounds.
This time though, the bliss didn’t end with an encore of blubbering.
Yes, my eyes had watered, and I’d definitely felt the rush of sadness. But not a single tear was shed.
I’m making progress, although through baby steps. And the relief had been clear in Remy’s proud gaze as he’d kissed me back from the brink.
I’m still clinging to that comfort as he leads me through the quiet funeral home, the faint hiss of burning flame carrying from the retort room.
I thought I’d dread this moment. I know I had after Mom died. But there’s something about Remy that gives me strength.
“Do you want to take a minute?” He slows his approach. “There’s no rush.”
His voice soothes me. Everything about him does—his patience, his thoughtfulness.
“No, I’m okay.” I take the lead, approaching the open door to the windowless room that’s usually bathed in darkness but now glows in hues of orange.
I rush the remaining steps, panicked that Stanley left the retort open and unsupervised while heating. But it’s not the open retort that paints the walls in flickering amber. It’s the mass of delicate flames illuminated from hundreds of candles spread throughout the room.
My heart stops.
My eyes heat with that familiar burn.
My father’s casket rests on the feeder platform before the closed door of the retort while a picnic rug adorned with a mass of floor pillows sits in the middle of the room.
I step inside, gratitude clogging my throat as one of my dad’s favorite Phil Collins songs plays quietly from a speaker somewhere in the corner.
“This looks slightly more romantic than I’d anticipated.” Remy stops beside me. “I promise that wasn’t in the design brief.”
I scrunch my nose and turn into him, burying my face in his neck.
I need a second.
Just one.
“I’m sorry.” He strokes my braided hair. “It’s too much.”
“No. It’s beautiful.”
I’m so glad he’s here with me. I don’t even want to think about what this would’ve been like without him.
I pull myself together and turn back to the beauty of a room that has only ever been known for its sterility.
Without a word, Remy helps me load Dad’s casket into the retort.
He’s cuddled in behind me as I hold my breath and increase the rush of flame. Then he takes my hand, leads me to the rug, and holds me in his arms while the body I ran to for comfort, and strength, and the best goddamn hugs, is burned to nothing but bone and ash.
I cry.
I ache.
I listen to my father’s music and fall victim to the memories that awaken.
For more than ninety minutes I endure a gamut of emotions while Remy remains a protective force at my side.
Once it’s over, he takes me for a drive to get lunch while the retort cools.
We’re both quiet. Comfortably reflective in our own ways.
Then we return to the funeral home, hand in hand again, to sweep what’s left of my father from the retort and place him in the cremulator.
“What’s your favorite memory with my dad?” I ask from my perched position on the stainless-steel bench.
A grin pulls at Remy’s lips. “Without a doubt, it was when Carlo took me on my first walk through of the funeral home. It was two in the morning. Pitch black. And I swear he kept most of the lights off on purpose just to fuck with me.” He moves to stand between my legs. “He took me into the cool room—I’m pretty sure as a test to see how tough I was—and pushed one of the trollies out of the way that was carrying an elderly lady. I swear to God, Ollie, that woman groaned loud enough that my soul left my body.”
I burst into laughter.
“And that’s how I learned that dead bodies can sometimes make noise.” He grins at me. “Worst lesson of my life.”
I can imagine my father’s delight. How he would’ve chuckled at Remy’s fear.
“I love that story.” I continue to snicker as a vibration carries from Remy’s jeans pocket.
He doesn’t acknowledge the sound. Instead, he keeps staring at me as if I’ve hung the moon.
“Are you going to answer that?” I ask.
“It can wait.”
“It’s okay.” I reach into his pocket to pull out the cell and hand it over. “We’re almost done here.”
He takes the device and answers the call, his free hand lowering to squeeze my thigh in a silent gesture of appreciation. “Hey, Lorenzo.”
“Figlio,” the voice murmurs in greeting. “Are you with your Olivia?”
I lower my gaze, trying to hide the joy that crosses my face whenever I’m referenced in such an addictively anti-feminist manner.
“Yeah, she’s right here. Why?”
“You might want to kindly ask her to reach out to her friends and let them know she’s all right. I’ve received a call from a local police informant that an Ivy Diaz has attempted to file a missing person’s report and has made mention of our family being responsible for the disappearance.”
“Oh, shit.” I push off the bench.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I left from the wake yesterday without saying goodbye. Ivy and Allison must be in hysterics.
“My phone,” I rasp as I run from the room, trying to remember where I left it. I check Allison’s desk, then my prep room, finally finding it on the kitchen counter in the staff break room.
Eighteen missed calls.
Twenty-six text messages.
Eight insta DMs.
All from Ivy in less than twenty-four hours.
“Oh, God, I’m the worst.” I dial her number, my heart in my throat as the call connects.
“Liv?” she asks in panic.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t handle the wake yesterday so I left, but I didn’t take my cell. I should’ve called?—”
“It’s okay.” Her voice is fragile. “Where are you?”
“At work. I wanted to take care of?—”
“Are you safe?” She cuts me off again.
“Yes. And I’m doing well.” The statement shocks me, but it’s the truth. Remy has salvaged my worst days and turned them into something I can cherish. “Are you okay?”
She’s quiet a moment, the sound of traffic carrying through the speaker. “Yeah. I’m good. I just?—”
“That’s enough.”
I stiffen at the muffled male voice murmuring across the line.
“Ive?” I hedge. “Are you with someone?”
“No one important.” Her voice is off, that uncomfortable edge still present despite the assurances I’m okay.
I turn in search of Remy, finding him walking into the break room. I rush for him and his hands immediately claim my hips, his gaze questioning.
“Something’s wrong,” I mouth, placing the call on speaker. “Ivy?” I ask again. “Tell me who you’re with.”
“She’s with a friend.”
My eyes widen at the male voice that comes through louder this time. Perfectly clear.
Salvatore Costa.
Remy grabs my phone, raising it to his mouth. “What the fuck, Salvo?”
Salvatore’s snicker sinks into my ears, igniting panic. “There’s no need to worry,” he drawls. “She’s in good hands. We just have a few things to discuss, like her fake name, and why someone with her lineage would be stupid enough to frequent Smoke Mirrors.”
“What fake name?” My voice breaks. “What lineage?”
“Those are questions you can ask once I’m done with her. Until then, you two need to stay out of it. I’m handling the situation with mi bella reina, and I won’t tolerate being interrupted.”
The call disconnects.
My stomach free falls. “What is he talking about? Will he hurt her?”
Remy scowls, his teeth clenched tight.
He doesn’t know.
Oh, God, he doesn’t know.
“I’ll call Lorenzo. He’ll shut this down.” He pulls out his cell and navigates to his uncle’s contact.
“Could you decipher what he called her? It wasn’t in English.” My fingers tangle nervously in his shirt. “Bella means beautiful but…”
“Queen,” he growls. “He called Ivy his beautiful queen. But he didn’t say it in Italian. For some reason, that fucker spoke in Spanish.”