Chapter 15
SIMON’S MEMORIAL SERVICE IS TOMORROW AT A FUNERAL HOME IN Evansport. Sunny came back from Boston this morning, and Alex had a phone interview this afternoon. He’s preoccupied, and Sunny is in a mood because the interviewer brought up Simon’s murder.
At dinnertime, Alex emerges from his office. He sees me standing in front of the fireplace looking at a photo of him and Sunny.
“Is Andrew coming in for the memorial?” I ask. I’ve been wondering about my brother since I first met Sunny, but no one seems to mention him, so I’ve been reluctant to bring him up.
Alex sets his coffee mug on the mantel. “No. Andrew hasn’t been home in quite some time, Emma.
When his mother and I divorced, Sunny wanted to stay with me, but Andrew elected to go to California with her.
Unfortunately, the divorce was acrimonious—as they sometimes are—and Andrew blamed me for it all.
” Alex sighs. “Right now, I don’t really have a relationship with my son. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“These things happen in families, I’m afraid. But you never know how things will go. As he gets older, he may come around and we can reconnect.” Alex picks up his mug, starts for the kitchen, stops, and turns back toward me. “Just as we’ve found each other, Emma. I haven’t given up on my son.”
When Alex leaves the room, I look back at the photo where a teenage Sunny stands with her arm through our father’s. I can’t help but think that Sunny isn’t too upset that Andrew left Alex all for her.
I’d like to meet this long-lost brother and see for myself if we could build a relationship between us. It’s not likely that Sunny and I are ever going to bond as sisters, and it would be nice to have at least one sibling I could maybe become close to.
Sunny has been over at Ruth’s helping make last-minute arrangements for the service and get-together at Spencer House afterward.
I volunteered to stay home, meet the caterer, and set up for when everyone returns from the memorial.
And I’m glad to do it. The last thing I want to do is mingle with a crowd at the funeral home.
The caterer and his assistant have come and gone, and the food is arranged on the dining room table. I only have to remove the cold items from the fridge when people start arriving. The desserts are all Ruth’s. She’s been on a baking tear the last couple of days saying that it relaxes her.
I’m wearing the only dress I kept when I left Albany. It’s a blue silk that’s not exactly a mourning outfit, but it’s all I have. I left my old life with the bare minimum, hoping to start fresh here in Maine. But so far, this new start hasn’t been without obstacles large and small.
I look out the front room windows. No one has arrived yet. The house is still, quiet, and my eyes shift to Alex’s office door. I turn the knob and enter. I haven’t been in here since Alex and Sunny arrived after Simon’s murder.
I’ve been thinking of Mary since Sunny told me about her death and my discussion with Noah.
I wonder if there is a picture of her anywhere.
I’ve seen the portrait in the hall, of course, where Mary must’ve been ten or eleven, but I wonder what she looked like a little older.
I glance at the cabinets under the bookshelves.
I drop to my knees and open the first one.
Nothing but more books, piled one on top of the other in stacks.
Normally, that would have me looking at the titles, pulling volumes from the cabinet and reading, but that’s not what I’m looking for right now.
I close the door and move on to the next one.
Nothing but books. I settle back on my haunches and look over the rest of the room.
And there on a top shelf near the ceiling looks like what might be photo albums.
I drag a stepladder from where it is folded and stored next to the office door.
Reaching on my tiptoes, I pull an album from the shelf.
I page through it quickly and see the same people from the portrait, my grandparents, in their forties maybe.
He’s standing on the dock, hands on his hips; she’s sitting in the little boat, my grandmother with a scarf on her head and sunglasses hiding her eyes.
I look closely. Is that a shadow near the bottom of her sunglasses under her left eye, or is it a bruise?
The idea that it is a bruise gives me pause.
What do I really know about this new family?
A little boy stands next to my grandmother, Alex. His hand is on her shoulder while she cuddles a little dark-haired girl. Mary. I touch the photo as if I could reach through time.
I flip through the pages, but the photos in this album appear to be from the same general year.
I slip the album back on the shelf and grab the next one.
The first pictures are of a snowstorm and who I believe are my father and Mary.
They’re a little older here, building a snowman in what looks like the backyard.
I flip pages and, near the end of the album, it’s springtime, and a few years later.
Alex and Mary in front of the house, standing side by side in Easter clothes maybe.
My father is tall, a teenager. His hair is long, and he smirks at the camera as if in a hurry to get away to see his friends.
Mary is a young teen, and I catch my breath.
I do resemble her here, this long-lost aunt.
Her smile looks a little forced as if she is also wanting to get away, but her expression is different from Alex’s.
His face is full of fun and happy expectation, his eyes locked firmly on the person behind the camera as if there’s an inside joke between them.
Mary’s eyes look off to the side, a pensive look, one I recognize in myself. A desire to be alone perhaps.
I sigh, thinking about this family that I never knew. And with Mary, will never know. I wonder about my delicate-looking grandmother and wonder if she needed help. Wonder if anyone was there for her.
A car rumbles up into the driveway and I slap the album shut, hastily shove it back into its place on the shelf. I’m dragging the stepladder back to the corner, folding it as I go as the front door swings open and voices echo.
I shut Alex’s office door behind me just as Sunny looks over from the foyer. She frowns but is immediately encircled by the guests who’ve begun arriving.
I hurry into the kitchen, pull platters from the fridge, and uncover deli meats and salads.
Voices erupt in the foyer as people filter into the Spencer home.
Sunny marches into the dining room. She glares at me as if she wants to say something, but a woman appears at her elbow and asks her a question.
Sunny nods, gives the table a cursory look, and walks with the woman back to the front room.
Alex heads to the sideboard and pours a drink. “Everything okay here, Emma?” he asks, sips a glass of wine.
“Yes. How was the service?”
Before he can answer, Larry sidles up beside him and Alex pours him a whiskey. “Fine. A lot of people from town. Simon was a fixture in Evansport.” He sighs.
An elderly couple, whom I’ve never met, head over to the table and I point out the plates and flatware, get them started on the food. Soon, the house is filled with people.
Aubrey and Dale sit in dining room chairs that have been pushed back against the wall to provide more seating.
Aubrey perches on the edge of her seat, her thin legs crossed, her foot jiggling, and she looks like she’s ready to bolt at the slightest sound.
She clutches periodically at a black-and-white checkered scarf twined around her neck.
Dale’s arm is around her shoulders. No one comes over to speak to them, and I remember Alex’s description of them as outsiders, people who’ve come from the big city, looking to profit off the locals.
Still, they’ve done nothing wrong that I can see, but maybe Ruth’s suspicions have made the rounds.
People seem to be cautiously circling, exchanging surreptitious glances, wondering maybe who killed Simon Harwood.
And is the perpetrator present among them?
I glance out the dining room window, where I can see the edge of Noah’s driveway. He said that he would be attending the service, and I wonder if he’ll stop by the house as well.
Ruth sits in an armchair in the front room.
She looks lovely in a black dress with a matching jacket, an onyx brooch pinned on the lapel.
Her eyes are red and damp, but otherwise, she’s as put together as always.
People wander over and whisper a word or two to her, clasp her thin hand.
Sunny moves to her side and hands her a plate of food and a glass of sherry.
As the house becomes warm and noisy, I retreat to the kitchen.
The get-together reminds me of my mother and her death.
People gathered at her little house. Mostly neighbors and her coworkers at the nursery.
A different set of people than the well-heeled ones filling the Spencer home now, but the sentiments were the same.
I glance out the back door, at the tangled woods at the edge of the yard. I turn the knob and step out into the chilly, pine-scented air. My heels sink into the ground as I walk toward the path. Once the woods have closed behind me, I feel a sense of relief to be out amongst the trees.