She’d have liked that too, but he hadn’t thought to organise it, and Dillon who’d thought of everything else had missed that one thing.
“All these people, Mace. Shit, who’d have guessed she knew so many people.”
She was older than they’d both thought. She must’ve done that thing women do and count backwards. He wished he’d known that before he found her will, her birth certificate. There were a lot of things he wished he’d thought to ask her, tell her, promise her.
He didn’t know how long he should stand by the graveside; until everyone left, or was it all right for him to leave now. He wanted to get out of the sun. He wanted a drink, something hard that burned his throat.
“Mace.” Dillon shook his arm and he looked up to see a man in a dark suit, no tie, and the suit has seen some wear. Maybe a former colleague or someone from the library.
“I’m Don Turnbull. I was a friend of your grandmother’s. You’re her grandson?”
Whoever this was, he hadn’t been in touch for a long time, because everyone here knew Buster well enough to know Mace and Dillon by name.
He put his hand out and they shook, and Dillon introduced himself as Buster’s spare grandson and confused the heck out of Don.
“I wanted to pay my respects. She was a wonderful person.”
“Where did you know her from?” Dillon asked.
“I, ah.” Don stumbled. “It was a long time ago. I’m very sorry.” He turned to go.
There was something about this man. He was different to the other people, male for a start, and inordinately upset for someone who hadn’t been in touch for decades. Mace called after him, “Where did you know Buster?”
Don turned back. “Buster?”
“That was her grandmother name.”
Don smiled. “That suits her. She was always so full of mischief and no one’s fool. I guess she never mentioned me.”
Dillon answered, “No,” for them both.
“We.” Don rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m not sure you want to know.”
There were things about Buster Mace could never know now; this was one thing he could. “I do.”
Don coughed, obviously uncomfortable. “I loved Alicia very much and she loved me too. It was a long time ago.”
Mace took an involuntary step backwards. “Go on.”
“Please,” said Dillon.
Don’s eyes cut sideways. “We had an affair.” He turned his head away. “Your mother was alive then, a teenager, and Alicia was alone.” He made eye contact again. “I fell in love with her and I was going to...” His lips compressed in a thin line, smothering his words but not the wretched look on his face.
Dillon put a hand to Don’s shoulder, briefly. “Going to what?”
“I was married and I was going to leave my wife. We weren’t happy, hadn’t been for a long time, but I was a drinker back then and—well, I crashed the car and my wife,” Don ran a hand over his face, “she was crippled. I couldn’t leave her then, I was responsible. I just couldn’t.
Mace’s chest felt so tight he pressed a hand to his sternum, looking for relief.
“I only saw Alicia twice more after that. She told me I was doing the right thing. But it always felt like the most wretched thing a man could do was not be with the woman he loved.”
“Fuck,” said Dillon
Don gave a weak smile. “I guess it’s a shock, me saying all that.”
Mace took a breath and it hurt. “You said you saw her twice more.”
“Yes, when my wife died, I contacted her. You were in primary school. I hoped we might—”