Though, Corey assuaged his irritation at this seating arrangement by settling into the fact Imogen had been firm about him sitting right at the front. A place of honor.
A member of the family.
Making this more so, before finding her own seat, she’d leaned in and murmured, “Take care of Chloe.”
Which brought to mind…
He looked to his right and saw Chloe sitting beside him.
Pure Chloe, she’d worn a dramatic black hat. A mournful number angled perfectly on her head with a wide brim that sloped theatrically down in a wide bell shape that covered her eyes. Though the black of the hat had an expensive sheen, the brim, also black, was transparent, making it reminiscent of a mourning veil.
There were two people in this world that could pull off that hat.
Chloe.
And Marilyn.
This thought took Corey’s attention to the front of the room, where there was a magnificent funeral spray of ivy, other greenery, blush-colored roses that were so pale, they were nearly cream, and more blush roses tipped with the most vibrant of pinks. All of this was interspersed with blooms that were a bold green peppered with small, fluffy white blooms along the stems. And in the midst of the spray, a massive pale pink satin bow with curling, trailing ends.
Beside it was a large picture of Marilyn Swan.
Imogen’s mother.
Chloe’s grandmother.
Corey’s godsend.
Genny had selected a photo of her mom of which Marilyn would approve.
Not a shot from weeks or months or even a few years ago, when, due to the magic wielded by a stylist, she still had her lustrous dark hair, but regardless of how hard she fought against it, she showed her age.
No.
Genny had picked a picture of when Marilyn was young and beautiful. Smiling candidly, sitting outside in the sun at a table with a coupe glass filled with pink liquid held in her hand. Her lips were her signature perfect red, her lush, seductive eyes that came from her Italian heritage slightly narrowed with laughter. A devil-may-care aura around her that was so strong, it was captured on film.
That was the Marilyn he remembered.
That was the Marilyn who would idle in her car at the curb an hour to midnight on his birthdays while Genny and Duncan would creep up his lawn and free him of the hell that was his home. That was the Marilyn who had a birthday cake waiting for him at her house. Where they sang the song to him and he blew out the candles. And even when the years had passed and it was Duncan who was driving, because he’d gotten old enough to do it, Gen as always at his side, they’d come get him, but it was Marilyn who made sure there was cake.
Candles.
Ice cream.
And presents.
That was just one of the many things she did in the decades Corey had known her that made Marilyn more precious to him than his own mother.
Because his own mother had done none of that.
Not on his birthdays.
Not ever.
Indeed, he had an enormous cache of memories of the woman in that picture. A woman who got more out of life in a small town in Illinois than practically anyone he’d met in all his dealings and travels, outside her daughter, her son-in-law and her grandchildren.
Because she’d taught Imogen right.
Life was meant to be lived.
And along the way, you took care of the people that mattered.
Imogen, like her mother, was a master at both.
He stared at that portrait and then he looked left.
Tom was in the end seat of their row, by the aisle, but Genny had leaned forward to dab her eye with a handkerchief.
Tom didn’t miss it and he turned to his wife, his broad back blocking Corey’s view of Gen but exposing Matt and Sasha on Genny’s other side.
The rest of that row was empty.
A familiar feeling rushed up his throat, filling it, temporarily causing him to experience blind panic that it would suffocate him as he returned his attention to Marilyn’s portrait.
They were one down.
One down.
Someone should be there, and he was not.
He should be there.
Marilyn adored him.
She’d want him there.
Genny needed him there.
Corey needed him there.
But Duncan was not there.
Because of Corey.
The feeling in his throat cleared when he felt a touch on his hand.
He turned to his right to see Chloe gazing at him from under her hat-veil.
“She liked you,” she said, and it was not lost on him what she meant.
She wasn’t being cruel.
As was her way, she was being honest.
In his entire world, only four people had truly liked him.
Genny.
Marilyn Swan.
Robert Swan.
And Duncan Holloway.
Until he made that last person walk away.
And stay away.
“She loved you,” he replied.
It was the wrong thing to say.
If a single look could share the world had just ended, Chloe’s did right then.
He’d forgotten.
He’d forgotten how close those two were.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “of course, you already knew that.”