Chapter 7
Deep down, she had always known that she would need to plan her mother’s funeral. It was just something you eventually had to do. But she had never really dwelled on it—why would she?
What she hadn’t expected, though, was her mom taking so much of that planning onto herself to “get it out of the way”—as she had put it in the letter she left behind. Maybe that was why Sylvie felt so disconnected from the whole thing.
She had woken up that morning in the wingback chair in the storage room, for the third day in a row.
Femme de Force had replaced the reading part of her tea-and-reading ritual to help her fall asleep.
Was it good for her to sleep sitting up?
Probably not. But sleeping less than two hours a night was definitely worse, so if it helped her get four or five, she figured it was a net positive.
Despite the dread she’d felt the night before, anticipating the funeral, she woke up surprisingly calm.
She dressed in the neat black outfit Juliette had helped her pick out, drove to the church, read her eulogy, and stood at the door for what felt like hours, receiving condolences.
They estimated that a hundred people might attend, but they weren’t prepared for the actual turnout.
Her mom had touched a lot of lives, apparently.
The church seated two hundred and fifty people.
The later arrivals found no room to stand in the side aisles or at the back and ended up outside in the garden.
Sylvie was very grateful that Father Patrick quickly adjusted the sound system to broadcast the service to everyone outside.
Beyond this small sense of gratitude—both to Father Patrick and to everyone who took the time to come—Sylvie felt almost numb.
She knew she should be feeling something. Anything. But mostly, she felt like she was running an event at the inn. Her mind kept insisting she stay calm—for the guests—even though she knew she didn’t have to.
The one benefit to that was being able to focus on comforting Lilly.
The funeral went smoothly. Fiona, of course, took credit for that, but Sylvie didn’t have the energy to argue.
She had spent the past three days arguing with Fiona, mostly about the music.
Fiona insisted on a sad orchestral piece to accompany Annette out of the service.
But as soon as Sylvie found that Femme de Force DVD, she knew it had to be the title music.
She might have been sleep-deprived, but she stayed firm on that.
Now, somehow, she had ended up at the diner counter, still dressed in her full funeral attire. There was a gap between the end of the ceremony and her next meeting with the funeral director. Why had she agreed to meet today? And why did she think the diner was a good place to wait?
The diner was unexpectedly empty. No one approached her. Maybe they were all at the funeral, she thought, chuckling to herself as she looked at the counter, hoping no one would notice her.
A cup of coffee appeared in her line of sight, handed over by a large hand decorated with silver rings and a tattoo. Sylvie looked up cautiously—she managed to hold back a gasp, instead frozen and blinking.
The man behind the counter was…
Well. He must have been the one Juliette had told her about.
She had said he was gorgeous and not wearing a wedding band, and she wasn’t wrong. A quick glance at his left hand confirmed both. Sylvie wasn’t usually so adolescent around good-looking guys, but…wow.
“I didn’t order this,” she said flatly.
“No, but you look like you need it.”
“Gee, thanks,” she replied, quirking an eyebrow.
The guy gave a lopsided smile and laughed. “In the sense that you’ve been silently staring at the counter for ages, and you didn’t even seem to hear Wendy when she greeted you, so I figured coffee was a safe bet.”
Forget hearing Wendy—she didn’t even remember being greeted.
Her heart leapt into gear, racing fast as panic crept in. What if Fiona had gone to the meeting without her? What if—
“Wait. How long have I been here?” she exclaimed, looking at her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there. “What time is it?”
“Ten minutes past one,” he said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, yeah. At two thirty,” she replied, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. “It seemed pointless to go all the way home for less than half an hour before heading out again. So…” She gestured at her clothes.
“Hence you’re here?” he asked, looking slightly confused.
She could feel her cheeks burn. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from explaining, “Yeah. Here. In my funeral clothes.”
“Oh, dang,” he replied. “Sorry. I guess I just don’t register black as ‘funeral’ necessarily.”
Sylvie looked up in confusion and saw that he was gesturing at his all-black outfit. “Right,” she said, laughing. “I get that, I suppose. Sorry, I’m…not sleeping great.”
“See? I was right. Coffee,” he said with a wink. “Now, if you’ve been doing funeral stuff all day, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten, either?”
She shook her head. “Well, no. But I don’t have time, and I’m not hungry, and—”
“Your appointment’s at two thirty? You’ve got over an hour,” he said. “And even if you’re not hungry, you should eat something. Grief on an empty stomach is twice as hard.”
“I, uh, I don’t know.” She shook her head. It was hard to look directly at him—he was that good looking.
He held up his hands in a show of surrender. “I won’t push my luck, but if I made a grilled cheese, would you eat it?”
Suddenly, grilled cheese sounded absolutely perfect, and her stomach growled on cue, making them both laugh. “Yes. Thank you. That would be great.”
He winked at her once more and then vanished into the kitchen. She could still see him through the window where they took the orders, and even from a distance, she could tell his eyes were a striking shade of dark blue. His dark hair and pale complexion made them stand out even more.
He really is new in town, she thought, watching him roll up his sleeves to reveal tattoos on his forearms. He hasn’t even picked up a hint of a tan yet.
Her mind wandered. She imagined what he’d look like in one of the old-fashioned suits from Femme de Force.
Maybe not the tuxedo, but the sharp jacket and tie combo?
Oh, definitely. In her mind, she replayed the scene where the main male character rode a motorcycle down the beachfront road and bet good money that this guy would look even better doing that.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, sliding the grilled cheese with a small side of fries onto the counter, making her jump.
“Geez! You’re quick!”
“Well, yes, but you’re also staring into space,” he replied, smiling that half-smile again.
“Ah, well…if you must know, I was thinking about a movie,” she said, feeling a little scandalous. It was technically true—even if she’d been thinking about him playing the main character.
“Which movie?”
“Oh, it’s an old one. No one’s heard of it. Femme de Force?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment before snapping his fingers. “French woman gets stuck—through a plot twist of fate—at a beachside paradise and has to muddle through with too much money and wit while the best-looking duke-turned-explorer you’ve ever seen falls madly in love with her?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve seen it?” Sylvie exclaimed.
“Not in a very long time, but yes.”
“Also, that is such an oversimplified summary. She saves him at the end of the day! She learns that she’s not some damsel in distress.” Sylvie tried to hide her shock that he had actually seen the film.
“I’ll have to watch it again then, if I missed the point. Are you a classic movie buff?”
Sylvie shook her head. “Not really. It was just my mom and I’s favorite. We watched it a thousand times together and always wanted to visit where it was filmed. I’ve been watching it to fall asleep at night. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but—”
“That’s who the funeral was for?” he asked quietly. “Your mom?”
Swallowing hard against the unexpected lump in her throat, she nodded. “Yeah.”
He shrugged. “Then who cares? Do whatever you need to do if it helps. Everyone grieves in their own way, so do what’s good for you. Take up skydiving, shave your head, watch old movies until four in the morning so you can sleep—whatever. You’ve got my vote.”
His tone was light, and she found herself laughing with him toward the end—but there was an undercurrent of sincerity she couldn’t ignore.
She opened her mouth to respond, but the diner door opened and the bell jingled overhead, drawing her attention.
“Hey, Aunt Sylvie,” Lilly said as she approached. “Oh, yum. Can I steal a fry?”
“Of course,” Sylvie answered. “Where’s your mom?”
“On the phone.” Lilly hitched her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing outside. “She’ll be a minute. She just wants to grab a coffee before the meeting thing.”
Nodding, Sylvie glanced back at the guy behind the counter—the one who had made her laugh. “I’m Sylvie, by the way,” she said, offering her hand.
He paused a moment before taking it in his. “Damian. Nice to meet you.”
The bell jingled again, and Fiona swept into the diner looking pinched and demanding. “Is the coffee all right here?”