Page 88 of Edge of Whispers

It had taken my mother years to get over him. I’d been surprised when she’d finally decided to marry again. But Hank, her second husband, had been an older man. A peach of a guy, mellow, and agreeable.

I had loved Hank, too. I’d learned the trade of carpentry from him, as well as the music, which was a hell of a lot more than I’d gotten from my own dad. Their nine-year marriage had been a good one. I had mourned him like a father when he died.

But there had never been that crackling energy between her and Hank that I remembered between her and Dad. I’d been too young to know what it was, but I’d put a name to it now. That heat. That zing that put a brilliant edge onto things. Made them seem precious and fine.

If I found some nice woman to share my life with, someone who fit my list, it would probably be like it had been with my mother and Hank. Perfectly good. Solid as a rock. Absolutely nothing to complain about.

I rested my aching forehead against my hands. This line of thought made my head hurt. My mom would have liked Nancy. She would’ve appreciated her spirit and sass. She would have liked that she was Irish stock. Memories of my mother crowded my head. I remembered the funeral parlor, that dull ache in my guts. Like the plug had been pulled from the world.

I remembered staring at that bouquet of tiger lilies that my father had sent.

Tiger lilies. Her favorite. That son of a bitch.

I’d been almost grateful for the anger the flowers provoked. It had given me a break from the ache. I was so furious at my old man. Cowardly bastard. Afraid of his former wife even after she was dead. But he remembered her favorite flowers.

I propped my chin on my hands and stared at the trees. They were bending, swaying gracefully in the wind. Flexible, yielding, singing their sweet, shushing song of rustling leaves … and a thought popped into my head.

Did I still have the card that came with the bouquet? I remembered stuffing the tiger lilies into the wastebasket set out for the used tissues of the bereaved. Slamming down the lid while people stared and murmured.

But someone had gathered up the sympathy cards for me. I vaguely remembered someone handing me a bag of them.

Maybe I still had them somewhere.

I got up and headed toward the storage shed out back. I had kept boxes of Mom’s stuff that I hadn’t gotten around to going through. My body hummed with restless urgency.

The stack of boxes was not that large. I hadn’t kept much. Just photo albums, letters, clippings. A few of my mother’s personal things. I rummaged through them and found the bag of sympathy cards in the second to last box.

There was a tremor in my hand. I observed it as if it belonged to someone else.

Dad’s card was there. I hadn’t thrown it away.

The envelope bore the company logo. Knightly, Mitchum & McComber, Inc. The card had clouds and a seagull printed on the front, with Deepest Sympathies in a flowery font. Embossed gold lettering.

I opened it. In my father’s square, graceless block print, it read, Liam, I’m thinking of you. Love, Dad.

Things crumpled and popped beneath my weight as I sank down onto the floor of the shed and stared at those printed words for a long time.

It was full dark by the time I pulled myself up to my feet, stiff, and chilled. I took the card with me to the house, wondering what just happened. This feeling was not unpleasant, just strange. Like a big stick had stirred me up inside, not gently.

I flipped on the kitchen light and stared at the address, which was in San Francisco. So my dad had moved out west. I put on the teakettle and turned on the flame, thinking about the phone number printed beneath the address.

It was three hours earlier in San Francisco. Pacific Standard Time. Still working hours, if he was still working. I did some quick mental arithmetic. Dad would be sixty-nine. No way would he be retired. That tough-as-nails bastard would hang on to control to the bitter end.

The teakettle began to whistle. I made myself a cup of tea with one hand, holding the envelope by the corner with two fingers of my other hand, as if it were a potentially dangerous object. Explosive, or radioactive.

I sipped my tea and pondered the message Dad had written six years ago. The one I’d been too angry and proud, even after nineteen years of silence, even after Mom’s death, to read.

A question took form in my mind. I could keep my foot down, and bargain all the color out of my life. In exchange for what? Pride? Righteous anger?

Anger and pride were looking like very cold company right now.

I put down my tea and grabbed the phone. I had to move fast, or I would psych myself out. I dialed the number.

A woman’s voice answered. “Knightly, Mitchum & McComber. Can I help you?”

“Frank Knightly, please.”

“May I ask what it’s regarding?”

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